“Really?” Jackson’s eyes widened, and he held out his palm for Kane to slap.
“Not really,” Kane said wryly. “So do we have a deal?”
“I don’t know.” Jackson laced his fingers together and stretched his arms out in front of him, a yawn contorting his face. “I was really counting on Barbie to sweeten the pot. Now, I don’t know…”
“Wait. You say you like bitter, argumentative girls?” He was getting an idea. He didn’t much like it, but that didn’t keep him from recognizing its genius.
“You know it,” Jackson said eagerly, leaning forward. “You got someone else?”
“How do you feel about sarcasm?”
“Love it.”
“How about pessimism?” Kane continued.
“Hot.”
“Insults? Arguments? The burning need to always get the last word?”
Jackson rubbed his palms together. “Bring it on. So what’s she look like?”
Kane wasn’t the type to grapple with indecision. He usually knocked it out in a single punch and vaulted right over it. But this time, something made him pause, at least for a moment.
But it was no more than that.
“Well, let me ask you this,” he finally said, a plan coalescing. “How do you feel about redheads?”
“Excrement.”
“Simply awful.”
“The worst I’ve ever seen.”
“You should sue your guitar teacher for criminal incompetence.”
Beth cringed at every word out of the judges’ mouths. Reed, Fish, and Hale, on the other hand, stood lined up at the edge of the stage, taking it all without a single change in facial expression. Beth knew that, were she up there, listening to a panel of so-called experts bash her talent and smash her dreams, she’d be a wreck. In tears, inconsolable; but Reed looked as if he was barely listening, and the other two followed his cue.
The All-American Band Battle had introduced a new judging tactic this year-if you could call a total rip-off of a played-out reality TV show “new.” The organizers had assembled a team of experts-the Gee Whiz Kids, a pop foursome with pseudo-indie cred and a cult following, in town to open for the Crash Burners- and given them free reign to bash the bands in front of the audience. Beth had been watching for an hour and she had yet to see the panel give anyone a thumbs up. That said, she’d also not seen a single band come in for the beating that the Blind Monkeys were taking. Not even close.
“Can you even call that music?” asked one of the Gee Whiz Kids who-certainly to the delight of the organizers-had a possibly authentic British accent. “Because I call it noise, plain and simple.”
“And the song? What
Reed leaned into the mic. “I wrote it,” he said, looking out into the audience and meeting Beth’s eyes. She knew the lyrics by heart:
She’d often wondered whether he had written it about her-for her-but she’d never had the nerve to ask. Still, the song was one of her favorites.
“It’s rubbish,” the vaguely British guy snapped, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Pointless lyrics, bad rhymes, sappy sentiment. This isn’t nursery school.”
“And it’s not a karaoke bar!” one of the other judges chimed in; he’d used the same line on almost every band. Apparently, he thought it quite clever. So did Beth… or at least she had, the first time she’d heard it, back before Simon Cowell had stopped recycling put-downs. A million times later, with the phrase spilling from the mouth of an already washed-up wannabe, and aimed at her boyfriend, she was less than amused.
“Judges?” British guy asked, turning to face the panel. “What do you say?” By the rules of the competition, the four of them would now vote on whether to pass the Blind Monkeys on to the next round or eject them from the competition. Beth wasn’t waiting on the edge of her seat.
Judge #1: “They’re out.”
Judge #2: “So far out, they’re almost in again… but, not.”
Judge #3: “Out. Go find a karaoke bar and leave us alone.”
Judge #4, with a smart British lilt that gave Beth a serious case of deja vu: “Out. Best of luck, fellows. You’re going to need it.”
As the guys filed offstage, Beth rushed out of the auditorium and hurried to meet them at the stage door. Her heart ached for Reed. She just wanted to find him, comfort him, fix him. Strong as he was, he couldn’t have escaped something like that without breaking. He had comforted her so many times, mostly without even knowing why, and without asking. He would just let her cry in his arms, clinging to him, unable to tell him the reason for fear it would drive him away.
He never seemed to need her, not the way she needed him. But maybe now she could pay him back.
Not that she was glad, she told herself. Not that she would ever want him to fail. She just wanted her chance to prove how much she cared about him-and this was it. She would reassure him that
And they would both remember that he needed her too.
“I’m so sorry!” she cried, as soon as he emerged from backstage. Fish and Hale followed behind, laughing-Beth wasn’t surprised. They had no ambition; there was nothing to be crushed. But Reed looked even paler than usual, drawn into himself. “You were so amazing. I don’t know what they were talking about.”
She tried to hug him, but he neatly sidestepped her. “They were right,” he said in a hollow, wooden voice. “We played like ass. And the song-”
“I love that song,” she assured him, compromising by stepping behind him and putting her arms around his waist, pressing her head against his shoulder blades.
“It’s crap.”
“No-”
“Beth. Just-” He pulled her arms apart and stepped away. “Just let it go. It’s fine. They were right. I’m over it.”
“Reed…” She wanted to touch him again, to remind him that she was there-that he wanted her there-but forced herself not to push. “It’s just one opinion.”
“Actually, it’s four.” His laugh was short and off-key.
“Maybe it was just-”
“Yo, tough break.” Star la rounded the corner and gave Reed a sympathetic punch on the shoulder. She waved at the guys, but didn’t acknowledge Beth.
“You were watching?” Reed’s voice shot to a higher octave and, though it might have been Beth’s imagination, he seemed to stand slightly straighter. Taller. “We were playing like shit today.”
Beth put her hand on his shoulder. “No you-”
