***

“Yo, Jamie,” Mitch the Voice called, waving an arm. “It’s going to be a full house tonight, so I hope you’re ready.”

“For this, I was born ready,” Jamie said with a smile and high-fived the leader of the group.

The backline rental was already in place on the small stage, waiting for him to add the snare and cymbals, which were the only things he could travel with to all the corners of the country, whenever a gig was on.

He quickly got to work as there were already people gathering in the small venue where their show would take place. For once in their lives since they had started this band, the going rate offered by the venue owner covered their expenses and even allowed for something they could call a profit. As much as he loved playing with the guys, Jamie felt that they were lacking something indefinable to make it big. It was just a vague sensation, so he wouldn’t bring it up without offering a solution, because it would only make him sound like a whiner with nothing to do on his hands.

A man in a good suit – made to order, not bought off the rack – sat in front and observed Jamie as he was setting up his drums. He seemed to be in his forties, with nice hair, and overall seemed to be fit under his tailored clothes.

“How you doing?” Jamie asked with a short nod as he went about his work, while the Mitches of the band were somewhere else, probably getting ready, too.

“It’s all fine,” the man drawled while giving him a long once-over.

Jamie frowned slightly, but his lips quirked in a smile. He knew that look. He usually didn’t get it from guys in that age bracket, not because he thought he wouldn’t be attractive to them, but because he didn’t hang with that crowd, as his hunting grounds were mainly the Sunny Hill campus.

“I have a feeling I know you from somewhere,” the man said, crossing his arms and leaning back, as his shrewd eyes examined Jamie from head to toe in the same shameless manner.

“We go to gigs all over the country,” Jamie said. “Maybe you’ve been to one of our shows before.”

“Maybe,” the man conceded, although it was obvious he wasn’t thinking of the same thing. “What’s this style of yours called?”

“Punk slash art slash progressive rock slash you name it,” Jamie said with a smile. “We’re experimenting with everything under the sun. Don’t tell everyone, but I believe we’re still searching for our voice.”

He sat on his drum chair like a king on the throne of his small country. From that position, he looked at the stranger.

“I’d like to hear your voice.”

“My voice? Well, you’ll have to wait. Not long, because we’re going to start soon.”

“No, before the other guys get here. Come on, give me a little private show.”

Jamie stared at the man, hoping that the sharpness in his look was self-explanatory. Was this dude someone who knew him from his side hustle as an adult entertainer? He was about to tell the guy to fuck off – he didn’t want to mix those areas of his life – when the stranger moved and took a business card out of his breast pocket.

“A&R?” he asked and stared at the man with newfound respect. The texture of the business card and the embossed golden letters said that the record label this guy represented wasn’t run-of-the-mill. “Mr. Kallis,” he said slowly, “I’ll be happy to perform for you.”

“Call me Arthur, please,” the man said with a big smile.

Jamie nodded and grabbed his drumsticks. While he hadn’t shared it with the group, he had his own variations of their songs he had come up with while on the road and during slow times at the coffee shop. Since Mitch the voice didn’t like them very much, Jamie had learned to keep them to himself.

So, all in all, it was great to have an audience. The Artists & Repertoire agent steepled his fingers in front of himself and looked at him attentively. Jamie rolled one of the drumsticks on his one hand like a veritable rock star and began.

One thing he loved about music was that he could immerse himself in it and forget about everything else. In less than a minute, the venue was gone, even the A&R guy, and there was nothing left but himself and the music. The rhythm of the drums became hypnotic, while he charmed the hi-hats and kept the pace with the bass drum, his entire body transformed into a well-oiled machine, each part knowing exactly where to go, the beat fluid and flowing from all of his limbs.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The angry shout brought his performance to a halt, and it took him a moment to realize that Mitch the voice must have been screaming at him for a while now.

“What?” he asked and threw his arms wide, trying to hide his annoyance. There was a degree of embarrassment, too, in his reaction, although he wouldn’t admit it. If anyone caught him in the middle of fucking, he wouldn’t feel that way. Playing music felt more intimate than that to him.

“We have to start, and you’re giving your own show,” Mitch the voice said pointedly and hopped up on the stage, not without giving Jamie a long ugly stare first before grabbing the mike.

“I was--” Jamie started and then reconsidered. Arthur was on his feet, buttoning his suit jacket, and seeming ready to go. Too bad. It looked like his performance hadn’t managed to impress the talent scout. “I was just warming up,” he said and shrugged his shoulders, like he couldn’t figure out why Mitch was so damn pissed.

“Next time, wait for us,” Mitch threw at him, setting his chin up, like the arrogant bastard he was.

“Whatever,” Jamie said. “Yeah, yeah, next time.”

A sudden and stark realization struck him. Over the few minutes he had performed for that one guy, he had felt freer and happier with making music than the last dozen times he had done the same with his band. Maybe he just didn’t fit with The Wicked Mitches of the West. But that was a thought that quickly flew out of his mind the moment the show began. Drummers didn’t go solo anyway, did they?

***