hi-hat. She had no clue how he did it all. One hand going one way, while his other did something different, along with both feet working two different pedals on the floor.
Her thug had skills. And when the hell did he become her anything ?
“I don’t know this one.” She shook her head, too confused from his gorgeousness, the way his muscles flexed, and the ease in which he played something that seemed extremely difficult.
He hit the cymbal, then continued to do another loop of what he’d just played. “You sure? Do you want to take a guess?”
Her only guess would be that this game sucked. She was going to lose. “No. I’m done.”
“ Roxanne ,” he sang the word, playing along in time. “ You don’t have to put on the red light .”
Shock consumed her at the voice that almost perfectly matched pitch with the song. He was talented, and on such an intense scale that it took her half a life cycle to respond. “By the Police?” She scowled at him. “Oh, come on. You can’t pick songs that were made before I was born.”
He chuckled, cutting off the beat and leaving the room in silence. She wanted to lick him—his smile, his jawline, his muscles…or maybe just one in particular.
“Fine. I’ll pick something in your era.” He twirled the sticks. “And I’ll start later in the song so you get a better feel.”
Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam crash.
This beat was harsh, dirty, with cymbals and a whole heap of pounding on the drums in front of him. The room vibrated, throbbed. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the heavy lines of concentration on his face. Like her, he became one with the music. He was the beat.
“I’ve got nothing.” She raised her voice over the banging and crashing. “I don’t know it.”
“Oh, come on, Red. Don’t let me down.”
He continued thumping those sticks, making her heart echo the fast tempo. She didn’t want to disappoint him, which was weird because impressing men had never been her thing. They could either take it or leave it. Yet now, she was frustrated with her inability to name the song.
“It sounds like cult music,” she yelled. “I don’t listen to that crap.”
The sound cut off, and her ears rang from the silence.
“Red, you’re killing me.” He clucked his tongue. “It’s Enter Sandman .” Her scrunched expression must’ve said it all because he quickly followed up with an aghast, “You know Metallica, right?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and raised a brow at him.
“You know Metallica, don’t you, pixie girl?” His tone was gruff now, his gaze tracking her.
She waited out the moment, wondering how long she could taunt him. Of course she’d heard of the band, but it wasn’t on her playlist.
“You don’t know Metallica?” he gasped. “Get out.” He pointed his sticks to the door, shaking his head in disgust. “You don’t belong here.”
She pressed her lips together to stop from grinning and shrugged her shoulder. Two could play this game. Turning on her sandal covered toes, she sauntered toward the door, adding an extra swing to her step.
“But if you leave, you lose.” Ba-bang ba-bang ba-bang ba-bang bang bang .
She paused, familiar with the famous beat. “Phil Collins.”
“Can you name the song, sweet cheeks?”
Sweet cheeks? She swung around to face him. “ In the Air Tonight .”
He inclined his head, grinning at her like he’d won a prize. Had he? She was definitely lost to him.
“One more to go.” He began playing, this time watching her instead of the gear surrounding him.
The beat was gentle, slowly growing, building, becoming a heavy sound mixed with cymbals before softening again. It was nice, she supposed, not thuggish, or overbearing. It kind of told a story, even without the words. It wasn’t a song she knew, though.
She shook her head. “I guess you win. I don’t know this song.”
“Sure you do.” He replayed an earlier sequence of beats, ba-bang ba-bang crash,
Her thug had skills. And when the hell did he become her anything ?
“I don’t know this one.” She shook her head, too confused from his gorgeousness, the way his muscles flexed, and the ease in which he played something that seemed extremely difficult.
He hit the cymbal, then continued to do another loop of what he’d just played. “You sure? Do you want to take a guess?”
Her only guess would be that this game sucked. She was going to lose. “No. I’m done.”
“ Roxanne ,” he sang the word, playing along in time. “ You don’t have to put on the red light .”
Shock consumed her at the voice that almost perfectly matched pitch with the song. He was talented, and on such an intense scale that it took her half a life cycle to respond. “By the Police?” She scowled at him. “Oh, come on. You can’t pick songs that were made before I was born.”
He chuckled, cutting off the beat and leaving the room in silence. She wanted to lick him—his smile, his jawline, his muscles…or maybe just one in particular.
“Fine. I’ll pick something in your era.” He twirled the sticks. “And I’ll start later in the song so you get a better feel.”
Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam crash.
This beat was harsh, dirty, with cymbals and a whole heap of pounding on the drums in front of him. The room vibrated, throbbed. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the heavy lines of concentration on his face. Like her, he became one with the music. He was the beat.
“I’ve got nothing.” She raised her voice over the banging and crashing. “I don’t know it.”
“Oh, come on, Red. Don’t let me down.”
He continued thumping those sticks, making her heart echo the fast tempo. She didn’t want to disappoint him, which was weird because impressing men had never been her thing. They could either take it or leave it. Yet now, she was frustrated with her inability to name the song.
“It sounds like cult music,” she yelled. “I don’t listen to that crap.”
The sound cut off, and her ears rang from the silence.
“Red, you’re killing me.” He clucked his tongue. “It’s Enter Sandman .” Her scrunched expression must’ve said it all because he quickly followed up with an aghast, “You know Metallica, right?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and raised a brow at him.
“You know Metallica, don’t you, pixie girl?” His tone was gruff now, his gaze tracking her.
She waited out the moment, wondering how long she could taunt him. Of course she’d heard of the band, but it wasn’t on her playlist.
“You don’t know Metallica?” he gasped. “Get out.” He pointed his sticks to the door, shaking his head in disgust. “You don’t belong here.”
She pressed her lips together to stop from grinning and shrugged her shoulder. Two could play this game. Turning on her sandal covered toes, she sauntered toward the door, adding an extra swing to her step.
“But if you leave, you lose.” Ba-bang ba-bang ba-bang ba-bang bang bang .
She paused, familiar with the famous beat. “Phil Collins.”
“Can you name the song, sweet cheeks?”
Sweet cheeks? She swung around to face him. “ In the Air Tonight .”
He inclined his head, grinning at her like he’d won a prize. Had he? She was definitely lost to him.
“One more to go.” He began playing, this time watching her instead of the gear surrounding him.
The beat was gentle, slowly growing, building, becoming a heavy sound mixed with cymbals before softening again. It was nice, she supposed, not thuggish, or overbearing. It kind of told a story, even without the words. It wasn’t a song she knew, though.
She shook her head. “I guess you win. I don’t know this song.”
“Sure you do.” He replayed an earlier sequence of beats, ba-bang ba-bang crash,
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