“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 was that?” another asked. “No, really, I’m asking-you, lead singer guy, where the hell did you get that?”
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:
I don’t know where you are,
but I’m there with you.
Your lips, your tongue, your fire
It’s all I wanna do…
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.”
Hilarious, Beth thought. Somebody get this guy on Letterman.
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 déjà 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 she knew he was amazing, no matter what anyone else thought.
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-”
“Yeah,” Star la interrupted. “It happens. But the song’s not bad-ever think about switching it up in the bridge, have your drummer shift to 4/4 and then maybe jumping a key?”
To Beth, it all sounded like a foreign language. But Reed suddenly brightened up. “That’s not bad,” he mused. “Fish, you get that?”
“Yeah, I heard. Could work.”
“And I was thinking, maybe in that first verse…”
Beth tuned out. She stared at the floor. Counted the lights in the ceiling. Tried not to notice that Reed and Star la looked like a matching pair in their vintage tees and black denim, while Beth looked like a refugee from a J. Crew clearance sale. She’d always thought that belly button piercings looked kind of slutty, but on Star la… well, slutty, yes. But she couldn’t help notice that Reed’s eyes kept dropping down to the glint of silver that poked out above her low-riding jeans. Stop worrying, she told herself. Reed isn’t Adam. He would never…
She didn’t even want to put it into words, because that might make it real.
“Beth, sound okay to you?”
“What?” He was looking at her again, waiting for an answer. But to what?
“Star la’s done here and she says she can show us some bar downtown where all the locals hang out. You want to?” Reed had never expected anything from her before, but now it was clear: He expected an answer, and he expected it to be a yes.
“I don’t have my ID on me,” she said hesitantly, thankful that it was true.
“No problem.” Star la grinned. “This isn’t an ID kind of place. You’ll see.”
“Beth?” Reed curled his arm around her waist and tugged her toward him. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to, but…”
“No. Sounds great,” she said, hoping she seemed sincere. She’d wanted to help him, and if this is what it took to cheer him up-if Starla cheered him up, with her stupid piercings and her tattoos and her oh-so-happening bar scene-then that’s what it took. Tonight wasn’t about Beth; it was about Reed. She had no reason to feel threatened, she reminded herself. And even if she did, she wasn’t going to let that stand in his way.