Page 17 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
This is the flip side of fame. Four years ago we went from nobodies to having our faces on telly, splattered across the music rags, and all over everyone’s feeds. Ollie and Christian brought ride-or-die fans from the reality showStar Power. Getting bounced in the semis didn’t dent their loyalty one bit. Add me and Garrett, a few good songs and we were an overnight success. I can’t complain. Famous looks good on me. But days like this, I wish I could wander through a small village like a normal bloke, maybe hold Rachel’s hand, buy a toffee apple and not trigger a stampede of fans with the press materialising the second they get a whiff.
We split the cargo: two gingerbread creations into Tommy’s Range Rover, two into Loreena’s—the mirror image, same model, different colour.
“No heavy braking. No heroics on the bends,” Tommy promises.
The girls pile into Rachel’s sleek AMG; she throws me one last, confident wave, like we’ve already won.
The moment she’s gone, it feels like someone dimmed the lights. I’m the last to trudge back inside. Yesterday, working on the songs for our next album consumed me. Today, I barely care as I drop in behind my kit.
“Fuck’s sake, man. What’s wrong with you?” Ollie glares as I stuff up the intro to the new song again.
I need to pull my head out of my arse and get this right. If I can’t even hit a rhythm I wrote myself, what hope is there of convincing the guys to take a risk on one of my songs? If I ever work up the courage to show them. Sure, I’ve hinted once or twice, then slunk back into my corner when Ollie talks up Christian’s form.
He’s not wrong. Christian’s hit his stride this year; love looks good on him, and the melodies and words just fall out. Ollie’s skills took Stellar Riot to the top, and Christian’s will keep us there. The band already has a winning formula. They’d never sideline me—on drums I’m solid—but I was the last invite to the band, and somehow my ideas are always the last stop. Not on purpose; it just shakes out that way. For the bloke who writes at 3am, that stings.
“Sorry, man.” I can’t play when I’m drunk on Rachel MacDonald. I snatch the water bottle at my feet, take a quick swig. The trail of cool liquid down my throat snaps me back into reality. “Got up too early, I think. Should have had a lie-in. Tomorrow, yeah.”
“Like that’s going to happen.” Garrett fixes me with a knowing grin. The observant bastard sees everything. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always watching. “A certain blonde bridesmaid will only have to suggest you go riding again and you’ll be out of bed at the crack of dawn.”
“It was nice.” My fingers fidget with the drumstick, betraying my attempt to sound casual. “Fresh air. Being on a horse again.”
“A horse who tossed you off, I hear.” Christian pins me with a shit-eating grin. Little does he know I’m grateful he’s steered the conversation to the horse and not the woman who really unbalanced me this morning.
“Yep, exactly why I need to get out there again,” I say, unleashing the rhythm Ollie was looking for seconds ago. “Can’t let the little shit think she’s won. Anyway, are we doing this or what?” I repeat the opening flurry on the drums, the signal for them to fall into line, and they snap back into the song. The winding up about my riding skills—or lack of—is forgotten. The sly taunts about Rachel buriedtoo. Thank god. The last thing I need is these bastards giving me a hard time about her. It hits too close to the truth.
There’s something about Rachel—more than the swimsuit model curves, the movie star hair and those eyes, an incredible blue like a Siamese cat, studying me like she’s about to hook me with one claw and reel me in. Maybe it’s how this smart, confident woman can also be playful and even a little vulnerable when we’re alone together. I dunno—it might be my imagination—but I feel something with her that I’ve never felt before, as if it’s not just lust rearing up after a dry spell.
It takes all my willpower to stay focused, but I make it through the session. Ollie calls time a little after three, and we saunter out to the kitchen to raid the enormous fridge.
“Even the leftovers are classy.” Christian piles cold roast lamb into a bread roll.
I grab one for myself. I’ve no appetite, but may as well fuel up.
“Looks damn good to me.” Ollie snatches the roll from my hand and takes a bite.
“Oi, get your own,” I say, grabbing it back. I look in disgust at the chewed end. “You’re a bloody animal, Templeton.”
He just laughs as Garrett hands him a fresh roll.
“Thanks, Dad,” he says. Garrett scowls at him, but it’s half-hearted. He secretly likes looking after us all.
We pull up chairs at the kitchen table and sit chomping our much-needed food. We should have stopped for lunch when the girls left, but there was an unspoken unanimous decision—work on the album was our number one priority.
“Feels like it’s coming together—almost there, don’t you think?” Ollie says, a notch of anxiety in his voice. The record company neverlets up; one hit album only tightens the screws on the next. As frontman and natural leader, he shoulders it more than we do.
We all nod, mouths too stuffed with food to reply.
“But you know…” Garrett pauses, carefully placing his roll on the plate in front of him—our resident rich boy has beautiful manners—while the rest of us scoff our food. “We’re still missing a song, I reckon. Don’t get me wrong, these songs are our strongest yet.”
A quick flash of pride crosses Christian’s face. He’s been more prolific than ever since Haley. Of the eight we’ve banked, four are his solo, two he co-wrote with Ollie. Two more are Ollie’s alone. Garrett’s right, though. We’re close, but one or two tracks that change the shade a little would help.
“Yeah,” Ollie says, wiping crumbs from his stubble. “We’re missing something. I’m hearing a couple with more quiet power. A simmer rather than a shout.”
I know exactly what he means. I also know the perfect song. Mine. One of the many I’ve slaved over in the quiet of my own house when no one else is around to hear—my attempts to move from being just the drummer to something more. After all, Dave Grohl did it. Who imagines the Foo Fighters with him back behind the drums? Phil Collins managed it as well, songwriter and singing from the kit. I swallow; the mouthful of lamb roll a rock in my throat.
“How about—”
Tyres crunch on the gravel; we all know what that means. Tomorrow then. Next time we’re together, I’ll tell them about my song. I had the courage today. I’ll find it again.
