Never Say Never by Kailin Gow Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kailin Gow
“Hopefully
we'll get enough good people,” I bit my lip anxiously. Would anyone be as good
as Geoff?
Our
first option wasn't too promising. When we let “Farmer, John Farmer” through
the door, he trudged in wearing a dirty white T-shirt that looked like it had
never seen bleach in its lifetime and sneakers that had evidently been tracked
through several fields' worth of mud. His shoelaces were untied and from the
smell it seemed reasonably apparent that he hadn't showered for days.
Maybe
he's just a Kurt Cobain type, I thought to myself, trying to force myself
to be more optimistic than I felt.
“So,
why do you want to play with us, man?” Steve was trying to be as friendly as
possible, but “Farmer, John Farmer's,” surly demeanor wasn't making it easy for
him. Good old Steve, I thought. Always trying to be friendly – always trying to
put the others at ease.
“I
just think it's time for my big break,” John said. “You know, I just need that
one break-out gig so I can get famous, move into the big leagues – get my solo
deal, you know?”
Luc
and I exchanged looks. This guy was a textbook example of what we didn't want
in a band member.
“I
hope he's not good,” Luc whispered into my ear. “Then we'd have to put up with
him.”
Luckily
for us, he was utterly mediocre, and we felt no guilt when the door slammed
behind him and we put a firm X next to his name on the audition list.
“Let's
hope the others aren't all like him,” said Kyle, “or else we're pretty
screwed.”
The
next few were better – and among the mediocrity we picked out two or three
players that we particularly liked – talented guitarists that could do more
than hold a pick. A few even jammed with Steve and Kyle – and our spirits
started to pick up. But the nagging feeling hadn't quite gone away. None of
these guys is as talented as Geoff – even if they are easier to work with...
By
the time the clock struck midnight, we'd all but decided on Eric Southey – a
well-meaning USC senior with floppy surfer-blonde hair and a gravelly voice. We
didn't feel amazing about him – he didn't quite have the “it” that Geoff
managed to manifest when rocking out onstage on a Sunday night – but he was
talented and solid and seemed like a hard worker.
And
then the doorbell rang.
“My
friend in The Taxi Cabs texted me this guy's number,” said Steve. “Said we had
to give him a chance. I know it's last-minute, guys, but do you mind if we see
one more?”
“Sure,”
Luc shrugged. “Neve, what do you think?”
I
shrugged too. “Can't hurt.”
But
no sooner had our final candidate walked in through the door than I turned
bright scarlet. There he was again, Danny Blue, looking sexier than ever in a
black T-shirt that clung to his ripped, muscular body, leaving little of the
chiseled contours of his painfully perfect abs to the imagination. He was
wearing leather pants and black combat boots, his hair shining in the
moonlight. I could feel myself trembling as I put down my head, hoping he
wouldn't recognize me.
He
still has to be good, Neve. We don't pick on looks – you know that. It's about
the talent.
“Never
Ever?” Danny Blue caught my eye. “I thought you looked familiar – why didn't
you say you were from the Never Knights?”
My
mouth opened involuntarily. So that's how he knew me.
“You
know our work!”
“'Course
I do. I caught your show at the Veridium last week. Pretty solid, if I do say
so myself. That's why I figured I'd come
we'll get enough good people,” I bit my lip anxiously. Would anyone be as good
as Geoff?
Our
first option wasn't too promising. When we let “Farmer, John Farmer” through
the door, he trudged in wearing a dirty white T-shirt that looked like it had
never seen bleach in its lifetime and sneakers that had evidently been tracked
through several fields' worth of mud. His shoelaces were untied and from the
smell it seemed reasonably apparent that he hadn't showered for days.
Maybe
he's just a Kurt Cobain type, I thought to myself, trying to force myself
to be more optimistic than I felt.
“So,
why do you want to play with us, man?” Steve was trying to be as friendly as
possible, but “Farmer, John Farmer's,” surly demeanor wasn't making it easy for
him. Good old Steve, I thought. Always trying to be friendly – always trying to
put the others at ease.
“I
just think it's time for my big break,” John said. “You know, I just need that
one break-out gig so I can get famous, move into the big leagues – get my solo
deal, you know?”
Luc
and I exchanged looks. This guy was a textbook example of what we didn't want
in a band member.
“I
hope he's not good,” Luc whispered into my ear. “Then we'd have to put up with
him.”
Luckily
for us, he was utterly mediocre, and we felt no guilt when the door slammed
behind him and we put a firm X next to his name on the audition list.
“Let's
hope the others aren't all like him,” said Kyle, “or else we're pretty
screwed.”
The
next few were better – and among the mediocrity we picked out two or three
players that we particularly liked – talented guitarists that could do more
than hold a pick. A few even jammed with Steve and Kyle – and our spirits
started to pick up. But the nagging feeling hadn't quite gone away. None of
these guys is as talented as Geoff – even if they are easier to work with...
By
the time the clock struck midnight, we'd all but decided on Eric Southey – a
well-meaning USC senior with floppy surfer-blonde hair and a gravelly voice. We
didn't feel amazing about him – he didn't quite have the “it” that Geoff
managed to manifest when rocking out onstage on a Sunday night – but he was
talented and solid and seemed like a hard worker.
And
then the doorbell rang.
“My
friend in The Taxi Cabs texted me this guy's number,” said Steve. “Said we had
to give him a chance. I know it's last-minute, guys, but do you mind if we see
one more?”
“Sure,”
Luc shrugged. “Neve, what do you think?”
I
shrugged too. “Can't hurt.”
But
no sooner had our final candidate walked in through the door than I turned
bright scarlet. There he was again, Danny Blue, looking sexier than ever in a
black T-shirt that clung to his ripped, muscular body, leaving little of the
chiseled contours of his painfully perfect abs to the imagination. He was
wearing leather pants and black combat boots, his hair shining in the
moonlight. I could feel myself trembling as I put down my head, hoping he
wouldn't recognize me.
He
still has to be good, Neve. We don't pick on looks – you know that. It's about
the talent.
“Never
Ever?” Danny Blue caught my eye. “I thought you looked familiar – why didn't
you say you were from the Never Knights?”
My
mouth opened involuntarily. So that's how he knew me.
“You
know our work!”
“'Course
I do. I caught your show at the Veridium last week. Pretty solid, if I do say
so myself. That's why I figured I'd come