stiletto-boot-wearing chick squatting in the weight-lifter pose with a huge barbell over her head. Snatch.”
Derek smiled. “Ha.”
“I can see her as just a sketch in bold black marker, you know?” she said. “Give her a slash of red for her mouth.”
“I’m getting wood,” Ben said.
“Hey, you want pretty boy here to get tatted up?” Pete said, elbowing Slater. “Grow out his hair so he looks like a baller.” He ruffled Slater’s all-American haircut.
“Not at all.” How to say the next bit without hurting feelings? “Nobody has to change his physical appearance . . . much. I mean, Pete could trim his hair.” She hoped she didn’t hurt him, but his big bush of frizzy strawberry-blond hair should probably go. “And you and Ben could probably lose the chains. It wouldn’t be that big a deal. The thing is, you don’t have to dress the same. You just have to all fit one image. So, if you choose to be, like, alt/indie rockers, which in my opinion is your sound, then you each decide how to dress within that concept. Whatever feels comfortable to you . . . within the image.”
“So we all have to look like Slater?” Ben asked, not looking happy about it.
“Well, at least we’ll get laid more,” Pete said.
“You don’t have to look like Slater.” They couldn’t look like him if they tried. They didn’t have his soulful eyes, his insanely sexy mouth . . . No, no, that wasn’t it at all. They didn’t have his sexuality. Oh, God. It just struck her—he was her polar opposite. She had zero sex appeal, and he was pure sex.
Derek leaned back, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “So. Take turns working the merch table. New logo.” He pointed the pencil at Slater. “You on that?”
Slater nodded, like he couldn’t care less.
“Unified look. What else you got?”
She smiled, so freaking relieved he’d opened up to her ideas. Although she doubted her next comment would be well received. “Maybe that’s enough for tonight. I’m starved.”
“Emmie,” Slater warned.
“Right. Okay, well, the thing is, and again, this is just a recommendation, but you guys might want to consider not drinking on performance nights.”
“Okay, time to get laid.” Pete got up and brought his dish to the sink.
Well, she hadn’t expected that one to go over well.
Ben and Cooper got up, too, but left their plates on the table.
“We’re not drunks,” Slater said.
“We’re totally professional,” Derek said.
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You said we have to stop drinking,” Slater said.
“Is that what you heard? ’Cause it’s not what I said.”
“Explain.” Slater urged her on, but when she kept looking at the three who’d gotten up, who’d had enough of her ideas, he said, “No one’s going anywhere.”
They stayed right where they were. Pete leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his skinny chest.
She really wished she’d kept her mouth shut on this one, even if she knew she was right. “Your live show is great, tons of energy, well-rehearsed.”
“Damn straight,” Derek said. “We rehearse four or five times a week. Most bands can’t do that.”
“So what’s the problem?” Slater asked.
“I could be wrong—”
“You’re not wrong,” Slater said. “What?”
“It’s just . . . there’re times when you falter. Ben loses the beat, or you guys start one song but quit and start another. Most people won’t notice it because you’re so charming. You make everything fun. So, I think what you’re doing is fine for where you are right now, but if you want to jump to the next level, you’ve got to be just that much sharper, more professional.” She looked to Slater. “You have to know nothing dries out the vocal chords like alcohol.”
His mouth flattened into a grim line. “I don’t get drunk before a performance.”
“Not until after.” Oh, she really shouldn’t have said that. She actually
Derek smiled. “Ha.”
“I can see her as just a sketch in bold black marker, you know?” she said. “Give her a slash of red for her mouth.”
“I’m getting wood,” Ben said.
“Hey, you want pretty boy here to get tatted up?” Pete said, elbowing Slater. “Grow out his hair so he looks like a baller.” He ruffled Slater’s all-American haircut.
“Not at all.” How to say the next bit without hurting feelings? “Nobody has to change his physical appearance . . . much. I mean, Pete could trim his hair.” She hoped she didn’t hurt him, but his big bush of frizzy strawberry-blond hair should probably go. “And you and Ben could probably lose the chains. It wouldn’t be that big a deal. The thing is, you don’t have to dress the same. You just have to all fit one image. So, if you choose to be, like, alt/indie rockers, which in my opinion is your sound, then you each decide how to dress within that concept. Whatever feels comfortable to you . . . within the image.”
“So we all have to look like Slater?” Ben asked, not looking happy about it.
“Well, at least we’ll get laid more,” Pete said.
“You don’t have to look like Slater.” They couldn’t look like him if they tried. They didn’t have his soulful eyes, his insanely sexy mouth . . . No, no, that wasn’t it at all. They didn’t have his sexuality. Oh, God. It just struck her—he was her polar opposite. She had zero sex appeal, and he was pure sex.
Derek leaned back, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “So. Take turns working the merch table. New logo.” He pointed the pencil at Slater. “You on that?”
Slater nodded, like he couldn’t care less.
“Unified look. What else you got?”
She smiled, so freaking relieved he’d opened up to her ideas. Although she doubted her next comment would be well received. “Maybe that’s enough for tonight. I’m starved.”
“Emmie,” Slater warned.
“Right. Okay, well, the thing is, and again, this is just a recommendation, but you guys might want to consider not drinking on performance nights.”
“Okay, time to get laid.” Pete got up and brought his dish to the sink.
Well, she hadn’t expected that one to go over well.
Ben and Cooper got up, too, but left their plates on the table.
“We’re not drunks,” Slater said.
“We’re totally professional,” Derek said.
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You said we have to stop drinking,” Slater said.
“Is that what you heard? ’Cause it’s not what I said.”
“Explain.” Slater urged her on, but when she kept looking at the three who’d gotten up, who’d had enough of her ideas, he said, “No one’s going anywhere.”
They stayed right where they were. Pete leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his skinny chest.
She really wished she’d kept her mouth shut on this one, even if she knew she was right. “Your live show is great, tons of energy, well-rehearsed.”
“Damn straight,” Derek said. “We rehearse four or five times a week. Most bands can’t do that.”
“So what’s the problem?” Slater asked.
“I could be wrong—”
“You’re not wrong,” Slater said. “What?”
“It’s just . . . there’re times when you falter. Ben loses the beat, or you guys start one song but quit and start another. Most people won’t notice it because you’re so charming. You make everything fun. So, I think what you’re doing is fine for where you are right now, but if you want to jump to the next level, you’ve got to be just that much sharper, more professional.” She looked to Slater. “You have to know nothing dries out the vocal chords like alcohol.”
His mouth flattened into a grim line. “I don’t get drunk before a performance.”
“Not until after.” Oh, she really shouldn’t have said that. She actually
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