Havoc:Mayhem Series #4(27)

I stare up at Mike, and the corner of his mouth kicks up. "Alright,  Hailey Harper, how about a game of horse? All you have to do is match  what I do, that way you don't embarrass me too much."

I thrust the drumsticks at him and slide off the stool like it's about  to catch fire. "Let's do it," I agree, thinking, How hard can it be to  copy what he does?

Mike smiles as he takes the drumsticks, settling on the stool like I'd  settle at a desk-like it's the most natural thing in the world. The  drumsticks look at home in his hands, and he looks at me with an easy  smile on his face. "Are you ready?"

I nod, and Mike starts tapping one of the cymbal things with his right  hand. Just tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap . . . eight taps in an  even rhythm. When he hands me the drumsticks, I lift an eyebrow at him,  and he chuckles as he slides off the stool.

My grasp on the drumsticks this time isn't as white-knuckled, and I  easily keep the beat Mike set: tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

"Nice," he praises, taking the drumsticks I hand him and sliding back  onto the stool I vacate. He takes his next turn, doing the same tapping  beat with his right hand, but adding in one of the big foot pedal drums.  Tap/thump, tap, tap, tap, tap/thump, tap, tap, tap. He repeats this a  few times, then looks up at me. "Got it?"

I nod, and he hands me the drumsticks. He lowers the stool for me before  I slide back onto it, and I carefully rest my foot on one of the pedals  before taking a deep breath. Mike gives me a reassuring smile, and I  try to mimic what he did: tap/thump, tap, tap, tap, tap/thump, tap, tap,  tap. When I do it twice without messing up, I beam up at him.

"You're a natural," he praises, and I laugh as I slide off the stool,  because he is so full of crap. But my insides feel all fuzzy anyway, and  my cheeks ache from smiling when he slides back onto the stool.

"I'm going to add the snare to the bass and hi-hat this time," he  coaches, and I catalog these new terms in my mind, studying him  carefully. "Ready?"

I nod, hoping I can get this new beat right, and Mike plays it out for  me: tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap, tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap. He  plays it a few more times, giving me time to memorize it, and my fingers  start itching to take the sticks from him so I can give it a try. "Got  all that?"

"We'll see," I say, and he chuckles as he relinquishes the stool. I  slide back onto it and chew on my lip, my confidence fading as I replay  the beat in my head and doubt my coordination.

"You've got this," Mike promises, and the assuring look in his big brown  eyes makes me loosen my death grip on the sticks. His hand squeezes my  shoulder, and his thumb taps a beat against my skin: tap, tap, tap, tap,  tap, tap, tap, tap.

"I can't concentrate with you doing that," I confess, and his thumb  stops tapping, but he doesn't pull it away. It starts rubbing back and  forth across my shoulder, and my thoughts turn into strings of yarn that  tangle around and around and around themselves as my toes curl in my  tennis shoes.

I stare up at him, and he stares down at me. No one speaks, and my heart  sets its own beat: BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

"You're cheating," I breathe, and Mike's mouth curves into a sly smile.                       
       
           



       

"How am I cheating?"

"If you keep that up," I warn with my heart hammering in my throat, "you're getting the H in horse."

Mike laughs and lets his hand fall away, and I struggle to breathe  evenly enough to keep a steady beat on the drums. Was he flirting with  me just now? Was he only teasing? Does he know I like him?

Oh God. Does he know I like him?

When my toes curl inside my shoes, the foot pedal hammer whacks the bass  drum and makes me jump. "That doesn't count!" I squeal, and Mike laughs  again. I poke him in the stomach with a drumstick. "That was an  accident! It doesn't count."

"Fine," he agrees with a chuckle, grabbing the end of my stick so I  can't poke him again. "It doesn't count." Holding the stick, he leans in  closer, a playful smile on his face. "You're still going to lose."

When he lets go and crosses his arms over his chest, I turn back toward  the drums and prepare to prove him wrong. My right stick taps the  hi-hat, my foot pedal smacks the bass. Tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap,  tap/thump, tap, tap/bang, tap. I continue playing, laughing when I don't  make any mistakes. I grin at Mike, in awe of the fact that I'm actually  drumming. Ten minutes ago, I didn't even know what a hi-hat was, and  now I'm sitting here setting a beat like a legit drummer. "This is  awesome," I marvel with a laugh, and Mike's smile brightens as he  watches me.

"Told you you're a natural."

"Am I better than you yet?"

Mike tries to hide a smile and holds his hands out for the sticks. When I  hand them over, he takes my seat and flashes me a playful smirk. "Let's  see."

He starts by beating on the snare drums, and I try to memorize the  order. But then, his hands start moving too fast for me to keep track  of. His sticks dance over snares and cymbals while his feet pound on the  two bass drums, setting a fast, loud, impossible beat. I stand there  watching, in awe of him, in wonder of how many hours and how many nights  and how many years it must have taken him to get to this level. He  plays this wild beat like it's easy, like it's as simple as thinking, as  breathing.

Eventually, my eyes stop concentrating so hard on his hands. They move  to his arms, his chest, his face. I admire the curve of his lips, the  shadow of his jaw, the shade of his eyes. Those butterflies start  stirring inside me again, and by the time Mike finally takes one final  hard swing at his drums, I'm no different than any of the dozens of  weak-kneed girls who watch him from the front row of his shows.

"Your turn," he says while I stand there breathless, and I finally come back down to Earth.

"Huh?"

He hands me the sticks and teases, "Let's see what you've got."

I sit down at the drums in a daze, and then I can't help laughing.  Because yeah, freaking, right. "How about I do something better?" I ask,  and Mike's eyebrow lifts in question.

"Like what?"

I spin toward him and hold the drumsticks up for him to see. Then, when I  have his full attention, I start spinning them between my fingers. Five  years of baton twirling has prepared me for this moment, and I twirl my  freaking heart out. The sticks pick up speed, blurring as they spin  between my fingers. I stand up and walk to the center of the garage  studio, where I throw the sticks up, spin around while they're in the  air, catch them in my fingers and immediately start spinning them again.  "Got it?" I ask, echoing what Mike asked me earlier, and he laughs.

"No way. You win."

I grin and show off by tossing the sticks into the air again, planning  to catch them behind my back this time, but when my phone rings in my  pocket, they both clatter to the ground.





Chapter 20




It's difficult keeping up with Dee and Rowan on a regular basis, but on a three-way call after the day I've had?

Dee: "You're going to fuck his brains out tonight, right?"

Rowan: "Dee-"

Dee: "He's single!"

Rowan: "She doesn't want to be a rebound!"

Dee: "Who's a rebound? He's in love with her!"                       
       
           



       



I step outside into the freezing air, because I would rather die a slow  death of frostbite or hypothermia than have Mike hear any of this  ridiculous conversation.

"Hailey," Rowan counsels, "you know you can take turns staying with me and Dee to finish out the semester, right?"

I don't get a chance to answer before Dee scolds, "Don't tell her that! She's living with Mike now!"

"Guys-" I start, but in their bickering, they don't hear me.

"Dee, that's too fast!"

"You did it!"

"Guys-" I try again.

"That was different! I-"

"How was it different? You-"

"GUYS." Dead silence stretches on the line, and I take a deep breath. "I  appreciate the offer, but I'm going home to Indiana tomorrow."

More silence.

"Guys?"

After a moment, Dee: "Why would you do something so stupid?"

And this time, Rowan doesn't rush to my defense.

"What choice do I have?" I ask as a night breeze nips at the tops of my  ears. I'm standing outside Mike's front door, illuminated by his porch  light and a sky of October stars. "I can't afford to stay here."

"I can probably get you a job waitressing at the restaurant where I used  to work," Dee suggests. "The job sucked major ass, but-"