Page 47 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
I stop short. Saying‘us at a disadvantage’makes it sound like I’ve been lumped with the dud. Like he’s just the drummer. The least valuable member of the band.
“Which leaves you stuck with me,” he finishes.
Only there’s no hurt in his eyes. Just a quiet, infuriating smugness.
The hours between the challenge announcement and our 4pm rehearsal time inch by with painful slowness. We girls are meant to be enjoying a day of pampering in between run-throughs with our challenge partners. Haley’s brought in a full team from a local day spa—nail techs, massage therapists, someone offering facials in a guest bedroom. It should feel indulgent.
I should feel indulgent.
Instead, I keep looping the same thoughts: how completely unfair this challenge is—and how utterly unbothered Teddy seems. Sure, we scored first pick for the Christmas song and claimed ‘Little Drummer Boy’, but that also shoved us to the bottom of the pile for choosing the Stellar Riot number. And that’s the one I’m really worried about. Teddy’s a drummer—how’s he supposed to compete with three guys who sing and play guitar every time they step on stage?
The nail tech keeps telling me to relax my hands as she dips my nails into a pot of red acrylic powder, but my pinkie betrays me—I crook it awkwardly and knock the pot. A fine cloud of powder drifts onto the table. The tech masks a flicker of irritation, but I don’t blame her.
On the other side of the room, Liv lets out a contented sigh as someone massages her temples. Sam’s got cooling eye patches on and a flute of bubbly resting on her chest. Haley’s gone off with Christian, probably already working on a winning performance. I shift in my seat for the third time in two minutes.
Later, I try lying face-down for a massage, but the therapist’s hands might as well be working granite. My shoulders won’t drop. I keep lifting my head to sneak a look at my smartwatch, willing the minutes to hurry, trying to ignore the work emails pinging on the screen.
Miranda is bombarding me with questions about Hong Kong. She knows she’ll get no sense out of Marcus. Right now he’ll be in bed, probably sleeping off another Kowloon night on the town, while I’m here picking up his slack. My boss always comes to mefirst; no matter the hour, no matter that I’m not even in the same city as the client.
Asleep or awake, Marcus is next to useless, which makes his bid for the partner’s seat laughable—and if the old boys’ network has its way, sickeningly possible. That’s how he’s made it this far, while I’ve worked my arse off and earned the right to be in the running.
The door swings wide, and Sam strides in from her rehearsal time with Ollie, cheeks pink, her shoulder-length hair coiling in damp corkscrews. Her mouth is a thin line, equal parts tired and tetchy. “Tag—you’re up,” she tells Liv. “Garrett wants you in the rehearsal room. Ollie and I are taking a cooling-off break before I cross him off my Christmas list.”
“Perfect.” Liv closes her book as the therapist gives her neck a final sweep. She swings her legs off the sofa and stretches. “Wish me luck. We haven’t shared a rehearsal room since school panto days.” She winks, slides into her sandals, and glides out in a faint trail of lavender oil.
The door hushes shut behind her as Sam slumps into the chair beside me with a groan. “He’s infuriating,” she mutters, then softens despite herself. “And brilliant. It’s exhausting. A bit like you.”
I drag my eyes off the latest message and meet her disapproving stare.
“Can’t you just enjoy this for a moment? Even an hour?”
“Not really,” I mumble, pressing my face back into the cradle to avoid the disappointment in her eyes.
“What was that?” Haley sounds drowsy while the nail tech paints her toes, but her ever-watchful ears miss nothing.
Sam flips my wrist, watch face-down on the towel. “Nothing you’re fixing today,” she says, then lifts her voice, bright. “Newgame.” I swivel my head toward her, caught by brown eyes sparking with mischief. I know that look, and I have no escape route.
“Let’s play ‘Tell Me Your Type’. Drummers definitely count as a type.”
I huff. “Pass.”
“Pass accepted,” Sam says sweetly, “if you answer one yes/no: do you like Teddy’s smile?”
Haley’s eyes flick open, bright. “I’ll take Teddy’s worst scowl over Pierre’s best smile any day. Tearing up his place card was…honestly, therapeutic. Sorry, Sam. Your calligraphy deserved a kinder end.”
Sam waves a tragic hand. “No apology needed. That guy didn’t deserve the ink.”
Haley grins. “Shame I tossed it. We could have had a ceremonial burning.”
A giggle bubbles up inside me. It feels safe to laugh. For once, Pierre is just a name on a scrap of card, and they can see I’m moving on. Something loosens low in my chest.
Sam leans in. “Back to important matters. Hypothetically, if a certain drummer smiled at you in the corridor, did you, hypothetically, melt?”
“I was perfectly composed,” I say, far too quickly.
“Mm.” Haley’s smile turns knowing. “Your ears are pink.”
Sam waggles her brows. “Blink twice if dimples are a problem.”
