Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (Nova #3)(52)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“A little cocky, aren’t we?” he asks in a snide tone as he arches a brow at me.

“Only because you’re being a douche bag.” I feel like a terrible person as soon as I say it. “I’m sorry.”

“Braxton, knock it off,” Brody interrupts, still holding on to Lea. There’s lipstick all over his mouth and jaw and Lea’s is smeared. “Nova’s helping us out here and you don’t need to be an ass**le.”

“Sorry,” Braxton mutters, and then Lea and Brody go back to making out. Braxton scratches at the back of his neck, looking over at the bar. “So do you want a drink? I could go get us a couple of shots and maybe we could try to chill out.” He sounds doubtful.

“No thanks. I’m not a big drinker and I don’t do shots at all.”

“Okay, I guess that’s cool.” He pauses and I can tell he’s struggling for something else to say. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “So how long have you been playing the drums?”

“A few years,” I say, and he nods with vague interest, staring over at the tables, where a waitress is bent over, her dress so short she’s flashing the entire room.

Things get quiet after that. I think about leaving, but I’m worried that the moment I step away, we’ll be called to go on. Finally, after a very painful twenty minutes, Stella comes back and tells us to “Get your asses up there.”

“Wait, we need to decide what song we’re going to open up with,” Lea says as Brody picks his guitar up off the floor and starts heading for the stage area.

“You guys haven’t picked out your lineup?” I ask, ready to get this show on the road, ready for a break that only my drums can give me. I just need to clear my head for a moment. Think about music. Forget about all the crap that just hit the fan. Braxton shakes his head and then the three of them start arguing about what cover would be the best one to start with. I try to stay calm as I lean back against the wall and watch Stella get impatient with their lack of organization. I know she might very likely kick them out of the lineup and so I finally step forward and offer what I think would be a good song to start out with.

“How about ‘Tears Don’t Fall,’ by Bullet for My Valentine?” I suggest, because I want to really beat my drums up at the moment.

“That’s a dude’s song and Lea’s a girl.” Braxton gives me the hardest look I’ve ever seen.

“I’m sure she can handle it.” I look to Lea for help. “Can’t you?”

She gives me a smile. “I think that’s the perfect song. Great choice, Nova.”

Braxton utters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like “Stupid bitch.” I take a deep breath and brush it off because it doesn’t really matter. Not when so much other stuff is going down. Then Lea and I go up onto the stage and set the pieces of the drums down at the back, so they’re organized perfectly just behind the microphone, while Braxton and Brody plug their guitars into the amp.

The lights shine down on us and the people sitting at the tables below, and over at the bar, are barely paying attention to us, but there are still enough people that it gives me butterflies. But I like the feeling. In fact, I welcome it. That’s what drums are to me. A distraction. From everything going on around me. All my problems. The aching inside. The confusion. My thoughts.

“Braxton hates me,” I say to Lea, setting the last piece of my kit down on the floor.

She shakes her head, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. “He’s just upset because Spike isn’t here to play with us.”

“Spike?” I ask, rearranging the drum pieces to get them exactly where I want them.

“Yeah, our old drummer.” She adjusts the height of the microphone stand.

“Your old drummer was named after a character from Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”

She snorts a laugh. “Well, it wasn’t his real name. Just a nickname he gave himself because he hated his real name.”

“What was his real name?” I ask, picking up my drumsticks and twirling them through my fingers.

The corners of her lips tug upward. “Larry.”

I stop twirling the drumsticks. “Okay, I get the name change now.”

She starts to laugh again, but her laughter quickly turns to nervousness as Stella yells that we’re up. Seconds later we’re all ready to go, moments away from playing. Lea looks nervous as she stands under the lights, drumming her fingers on the side of her leg, and I feel the same way, but at the same time I crave the different feeling inside me, because it wipes out all the other stuff stirring within me.

“You’ll do fine, babe,” Brody says to Lea, giving her an encouraging kiss that seems to settle her down.

I think it’s then that I realize two things: one, Brody’s not so bad, and two, I really, really want to see Quinton. More than I ever have. I want to get lost in him. Hold on to him. Be held by him and just know that he’s there. Maybe if he kissed me, it could relax me. Or maybe it’s not necessarily him that I crave, so much as the need to just get out of here. Run away. Take a break.

I try to shake the thought out of my head the best I can and focus on playing. As soon as I raise my drumsticks, I sort of zone out as the bright lights wash over me. This is solitude. My peace. Nothing exists here but the music, and part of me wishes I could exist in this moment forever.

Seconds later the guitar and bass start playing, and the first notes of the intro blast through the amps. I get ready, waiting for the right moment to connect, waiting until I get swept away in the music. It gets closer and closer and I bring my sticks over my head. When I slam them down, Lea’s voice and the banging of my drums collide and flow out over the room.

I slam my foot against the pedal, pouring my heart and soul out with the rhythm, putting enough energy into it that I can barely breathe. I drown in the music as the sticks and drums collide. Beats. Notes. Vibrations. It overtakes me. Nothing exists in this moment but the music. Not Tristan. Not Delilah. Not even Quinton. This is just about me.

As the song picks up, so does my energy. I’m sweating, panting, fueling the song with every part of me. My foot slams on the pedal, in sync with my hands. Over and over again. The song ends, but another one picks right back up, “I Miss the Misery” by Halestorm. I keep going, draining all my energy, hoping it’s enough that when I stop, I’ll be too tired to think. Too tired to focus on my problems.