The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7) Page 2

  I lifted my hands in a what-the-hell manner. “Wow. Congratulations. Not many people get that right on the first guess. But, yes, I am female. So what?”

  “So, we don’t want a girl in our band. We’re called Non-Castrato for a reason, honey. Because we all have dicks.”

  Like I cared about any of their icky dicks! These days, all dicks sucked. To me, they could go choke on…well, themselves.

  Besides, castrato would’ve meant they didn’t have balls, not dicks. Idiota. Except I didn’t tell Galloway that because I was too confused.

  “But I’m great,” I argued. “I’m freaking amazing.”

  Hart cocked a glance my way, lifting an eyebrow as if surprised to hear such glorious self-praise.

  But Galloway only shrugged, totally not giving a shit. “Then go join an all-girl band.”

  My mouth fell open. This wasn’t happening. It just…it couldn’t be happening. Here was a real, reachable chance to grasp my life’s dream, and some scrawny jerk-off bassist was telling me no because of my ovaries?

  No fucking way.

  “I don’t want to join an all-girl band,” I argued, clenching my teeth as I glowered.

  Actually, if there were any kickass all-girl bands within a two-hundred-mile radius, looking for a drummer, I might’ve been knocking down their doors for a position. But there weren’t. Besides, I wanted to be in Non-Castrato. Their music was my kind of music. Plus they needed a drummer, and I happened to be the best damn drummer I knew. And I wanted to show Fisher my band could out-rock his sucky, limp-dick excuse of a band any day of the week.

  Joining Non-Castrato was the perfect solution for everyone.

  The only solution.

  If only these fools would open their stupid, sexist, pig headed minds to see that.

  “Okay, fine,” Galloway said with a self-righteous, holier-than-thou grin. “Name me one mixed-gender band that hit it big, and maybe we’ll give you a shot.”

  I smirked. Game on.

  “Black Eyed Peas.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered, not impressed as he sniffed derisively. “Those are all singers. They don’t play instruments, princess. They’re not a band.”

  “All right then.” I blew out a breath to flutter the spiky white-blonde wig bangs out of my eyes and began to rattle off a new list. “Fleetwood Mac, Blondie, Jefferson Airplane, The—”

  Galloway gave another snort, cutting me off. “Yeah, and the only things the chicks in those bands did was sing. We got Hart; we don’t need another fucking singer.”

  “Talking Heads,” I lifted my voice to speak over him. “Of which the chick was the bass guitarist, I believe.” I spiked a derogatory glance to the bass guitar strapped over his shoulder. “And so was the bassist in The Smashing Pumpkins and—”

  “None of which were drummers.” Galloway held up a hand when I opened my mouth to argue. “The fact of the matter is, we don’t want a female. And it’s our band. Our decision. So bye-bye now, sweetie. When I need a groupie to go down on me in the bathroom after a gig, I’ll give you a call.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him only to turn toward the other silent members. “Are you two lemmings just going to stand there and let this douche make all your decisions for you? Is he, like, your dictator or something?” Heavy on the dick.

  “Look, I’d listen to you,” Asher Hart finally spoke up. Dark green, penetrating eyes lifted to coast over my outfit before settling back on my face. When I only narrowed my eyes, he lifted his hands self-defensively. “Honest. But we’re picking our drummer by a unanimous vote, and you already don’t have that.” He glanced at Galloway with an irritated scowl. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to get it, either, whether he hears you play or not.”

  “Nope,” Galloway said, popping the p-sound as he sent me a smug wink.

  Tears threatened, but I swallowed them down as I licked my lips. With Galloway, I’d only been pissed by his foul-mouthed rejection. But for some reason, Hart’s sympathetic explanation split me in half and left me bleeding.

  After a deep breath, I tried one last time. “Fine, then, Billy.” I focused all my attention on him since apparently he was the only guy I had to sway. “All I’m asking for is one shot. If you don’t like my work after that, you can tell me to kiss your ass.”

  Galloway snickered. “I’d rather you kiss my dick. And maybe deep throat it a little. Hell, honey, I’m willing to give you a taste now, if you’re thirsty.” He reached for his fly but Hart sharply told him to cut it out.

  Clenching my teeth to hold back my retort, I glared at Galloway, envisioning all the ways I could murder him. None of them were pretty. Or fast.

  “Which brings up another reason we shouldn’t have a girl in the group,” Holden finally put in his two cents worth, his voice soft as he winced. “With Gally around, you’d be suing us within five minutes for sexual harassment.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, I can handle the little goat fucker talking smack.” I glanced at Galloway with disinterest. “As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I don’t give a shit what he says.”

  Wiggling his fingers, Galloway grinned. “Oh, but these hands like to roam, baby. Especially over a landscape like yours.”

  Oh, brother.

  “Galloway,” Asher bit out, his voice a warning. Then he turned to me and shook his head. “I’m sorry; this just isn’t the right place for you. I’m sure you have an amazing talent, but we need to get back to our auditions now. We kind of have a time crunch.”

  My throat went dry and I once again experienced the overwhelming need to sob. But I held it in. Gritting my teeth, I glanced at all three members, who gazed back with three different expressions on each of their faces, waiting for my response.

  “So you all would rather be just another rock band cliché?” I asked. “With your leather pants—” I pointed toward Galloway with a disgusted wrinkle of my nose before targeting Holden. “—tattoos and piercings, and hot lead singer man-whore.” With a scathing glance at Hart, I set my hands on my hips. “Good luck getting anywhere with that.”

  Sniffing my derision, I spun around and marched toward the exit, only to pause at the door and glance back. “Oh, and maybe you should Google Karen Carpenter, Moe Tucker and Honey Lantree. All were female drummers for big time mixed-gender bands. Certainly bigger than you losers will ever be. Chinguen a su madre.”

  I didn’t slam the door as the drummer who’d tried out before me had. But it obviously only took one look at my face for all the others waiting in the hall to know just how badly I had failed.

  Tucking my pink drumsticks back into my hip pocket with all the dignity I could muster, I lifted my head proudly and swallowed down the pain.

  My so-called pal next in line smirked. “Didn’t want a chick, did they?” The gleam in his eyes told me he’d known I wouldn’t make it all along.

  I didn’t honor him with a response. Notching my chin higher, I strolled regally down the hall, out of the studio and into the dismal, cloudy day. I didn’t burst into tears until I’d gotten into my car and was pulling out of the studio’s parking lot, the defeat making me drippier and even more pissed that I had to own ovaries and so many freaking emotions.

  Thirty minutes after the ruin my life had become, I turned down the volume of “I Love It” by Icona Pop on the radio and parked a block away from Castañeda’s Mexican restaurant.

  Face wiped free of the thick black eyeliner and lipstick I’d worn to the audition from hell, I checked my reflection to ensure my eyes were no longer red and puffy. When I saw myself, though, I snorted. Proof of my tear-fest might be gone, but I looked hideous anyway—as virginal and Christianly as a Sunday-school teacher. And yet I knew my uncle still wouldn’t approve. The tyrant preferred me in turtlenecks and cardigans over drab, ankle-length skirts made of sackcloth. But I had compromised as best I could with jeans—the denim ripped out in the knees—and a loose black sweater that liked to dip off one shoulder and revealed the strap of my purple tank top—to ma
tch the purple highlights in my hair.

  My punk-rocker wig gone, I finger combed my dark mane one last time and then grabbed my purse.

  I bypassed the main entrance of Castañeda’s and ducked down the alley beside it, calling a greeting to Mick, the homeless guy who camped out there and waited for stray scraps.

  After unlocking the back door of the restaurant, I slipped inside and hung my jacket on a hook. Behind me, the radio played a familiar Latino tune while a humid heat crawled up the back of my sweater.

  “If you keep coming in late, mi padre’s going to take a strap to you, prima.”

  I yelped and spun around to find my cousin Big T, short for Tomás, mixing dough. Half a dozen raw, already stuffed and sealed empanadas sat on a cookie sheet ready to go into the oven. A hairnet covered his dark head of thick black hair and flour powdered his heavy arms up to his elbows.

  “Cállate,” I muttered as I stashed my purse and found my own hairnet to slip on.

  He belly laughed. “What’s this? I abandon my post at the stoves to take over your oven job for you and all I get is a shut up? In Español, no less. My sweet prima offends me.”

  Realizing I had been bitchy to one of my favorite people on earth, I let out an apologetic sigh. “Plus a great big gracias and kiss on the cheek for my wonderful Big T.” I wrapped my arms around his wide barrel chest from behind and leaned over his shoulder to stamp a big, wet, sloppy one right to his cheek.

  He flushed but grinned his appreciation as he shrugged me off and continued to mix the dough with his beefy hands. “Shoo. Enough of that. Tell me how your audition went. You must’ve done well if you stayed this late. Made the first cut, ¿sí?”

  My smile dropped. “The audition? It was…bien.” I nudged him aside with my hip and took over where he’d left off, since the baking was technically my job. I put all my attention into pounding my palm into the dough that suddenly worked as a nice stress ball. Fold, pound. Flour. Fold, pound. Forget all auditions, sexy lead singers, and the tears it had brought. Flour. Fold, pound—

  Tomás grasped my elbow. “Hijo de puta, it’s dead already. Stop torturing the poor dough.”

  I scowled at him but obeyed, yanking up the rolling pin and flattening it into a disc. Crossing his arms over his chest, my perceptive cousin leaned his back against the table beside me as he studied my face.

  “They’re not the only band around, you know.”

  I ground my teeth, trying to ignore him as I snagged a knife, then a nearby plate to use as a stencil and cut the dough into perfect circles. “But they’re the best band.”

  He snorted. “Matter of opinion.”

  A die-hard Los Horóscopos de Durango fan, he didn’t get my fascination with all things pop, rock, or punk.

  “Hey, wipe the glum off your face. Abuela’s here tonight, working the cash register. Seeing her is always reason to smile. Plus, she’ll know as soon as she gets a look at you that something’s wrong. You don’t want to upset our fragile, aging grandmother, do you?”

  After he arched a censorious eyebrow at me, I sighed and let my shoulders deflate. “No. You’re right. I’ll stop being a drama queen.”

  “Bien. Because it makes you a total pain in the ass to be around.” Then he picked up a handful of flour and flicked it at me…as if that would help cheer me up or something.

  “Tomás Emmanuel Fernando Castañeda!” I screeched in outrage and tore off my hairnet, frantically brushing flour from my locks. “How could you? Pendejo.”

  “Elisa!” The sharp crack of my uncle’s voice instantly had me snapping to attention and lifting my shoulders until my back was military straight.

  Fuck. Even though I felt like I was at home in this building where I’d spent most of my childhood, I never failed to flinch at that voice. But I hated getting caught spouting expletives in front of Tío Alonso. It reminded me too much of when I was little and he’d smack my knuckles with a spatula every time he heard me curse.

  He no longer verbally censored my language or took a spatula after me, but he sure as hell sent me the ultimate scowl of disapproval as he plowed into the room.

  Drawing in a short, bracing breath before turning around, I looked up at him and said, “¿Sí?”

  “Llegas tarde.”

  I shifted my weight uneasily from one foot to the other as I stared at the patriarch of my family. Though I had lived with and been raised by my grandmother, Tío Alonso—my grandmother’s oldest son as well as Big T’s dad—had been the only father figure in my life since I was two. So, despite the fact I didn’t care for his autocratic attitude, he still knew how to make me behave…and rebel.

  After lifting my chin, I gave him a tight nod. “Yeah, I know I’m late. I’m sorry, but I…” I paused, trying to come up with a plausible reason for my tardiness that wouldn’t get me an overly long lecture—since he abhorred my love for his least-favorite kind of music—but he obviously didn’t want to hear excuses today.

  “Carmen didn’t come in tonight. We need you up front, pronto.”

  I bit back an immediate curse. But…damn it. I hated waitressing more than anything. Fingering the hem of my sweater, I said, “I’m not dressed to work out front.”

  “Solo hazlo,” he muttered his command.

  “Sí, tío querido.” My answer made him scowl, because it reminded him how much of a tyrant I’d repeatedly told him he was. He hated it when I called him uncle dearest in my sweet angelic voice, like some kind of meek servant—since he knew I was anything but meek or sweet—about as much as I hated how he refused to call me by my first name.

  Tío Alonso was the only person on earth who addressed me as Elisa, my middle name, because he thought Remy was much too masculine and not nearly Latin enough for his taste.

  “And Elisa?” he grumbled, his accent thickening with his irritation.

  I sighed, wondering what he was going to pick on now. “¿Sí?”

  “Limpia tu camisa.” He waved his pointer finger at my sweater.

  I glanced down to see flour spotting the cloth. Muttering under my breath, I beat at it, to clean it off as best I could while Tío Alonso pushed his way back through the doorway and left us.

  Behind me, Big T chuckled softly at my scolding.

  “Idiota,” I hissed at him, using the much more kosher word this time, just in case Tío Alonso could still hear us. “Look what you did to me.”

  He only smirked harder. “Hey, I didn’t know you were going to be forced to waitress tonight.”

  “How about you wait tables then, and I’ll finish up these empanadas,” I begged, fluttering my lashes at him. But I must’ve tried that trick one too many times; he totally wasn’t swayed.

  “Not on your life, prima. Get out there.”

  “Asshole.” I flipped him off before hurrying my way through the doorway and finding myself behind the front counter facing the dining area where dozens of tables were already full. Ugh! I so did not have the disposition to be a good server tonight, and since it was a Monday, more of the family scene would be present, including obnoxious bratty kids and irritable fed-up parents.

  The joy.

  Wherever the hell Carmen was, I hoped her absence from here was worth it, because I was going to kill her for making me go through this today of all days. If I hadn’t been forced to work right now, I’d be at home, slaughtering Nazis or zombies on my Call of Duty game…because I was in the perfect mood to draw some virtual blood.

  I was fishing a spare waitressing apron out from under the counter along with an extra order pad when a soft voice called my name from the cash register. I glanced over and caught sight of my tiny, gray-headed grandmother perched on a stool watching me.

  I’d totally forgotten Big T had said she was here tonight…if that didn’t tell you how scattered my brain was after my auditions.

  “Abuela.” I hurried to her to give her the dutiful granddaughterly hug. “Te extrañé.”

  Abuela had been my legal guardian since I was nine, when enough
drugs had fried my mother’s brain to the point she’d been put away in a mental institution. But since Abuela had lived with Tío Alonso ever since they’d come to the US on work visas two years before I was born, I’d been raised pretty much under his roof…and his rule. And even though my grandmother could be sassy when you crossed her, she was still the sweetest soul and usually compliant to her eldest son’s authority.

  “Mi linda nieta,” she murmured, cupping my face and looking into my eyes. “Te ves triste.”

  I forced a smile and shook my head. “I’m not sad,” I tried to reassure her in Spanish, all the while biting the inside of my lip and hating that she could always see so much in me. I couldn’t tell her about my failed audition either; she loathed my kind of music just as much as Tío Alonso did. “Just…upset about having to wait tables.”

  Shaking her head, she swatted me away, telling me to get to work before commanding me to stop by more often to visit her. With a quick kiss to her cheek, I was off and catching a table of waiting customers that my younger cousin Luis didn’t seem to have gotten to yet, since he looked busy trying to clean up a drink spill across the room at another table.

  “Hola. Buenas noches,” I greeted with a smile to the family of three I approached. “Have you guys gotten your drinks ordered yet?”

  Castañeda’s boasted authentic Mexican food, despite the fact that the crunchy tacos here were nothing like a true taco back in México, where my family had migrated from. Tío Alonso called the tacos we served the locals chingaderas, aka pieces of shit, but they were one of our most popular orders, so we continued to supply them.

  Other than that, everything else we served was a true Latino dish. And everyone who worked here was of true Latino descent. I was nearly the exception, since my blood was diluted. My father had been American with German-Irish ancestors, and he’d stuck around long enough to marry my mom and get me the Curran surname before he’d taken off to parts unknown. But I looked Mexican enough and my mother had been a Castañeda, so I guess that gave me my “in” to work at the family restaurant.

  And gave me the enjoyment of having the kid at the table in front of me spray my pant leg with queso-gooped snot as he sneezed on me.