Voice Read Free Page A

pressed himself back against the bar.
    “What business you got, Ragman?” Damon stepped toward John, getting right in his face.
    “Just business.”
    Damon shoved him. It was a pathetic, drunken shove, but John staggered back.
    This was going to get very ugly. Damon had sixty pounds or more on John, and John looked like the kind of guy who’d never been in a shouting match in his life, to say nothing of a barroom brawl.
    “That’s enough,” Case said.
    “I’ll say when it’s enough. Steph. ” Damon sneered at her, and then he turned back to John and made his move. He was big, drunk, and slow, and the movement was telegraphed seemingly hours in advance. He stepped forward and dropped his shoulder back. John just stared, with no idea that he was about to get his face caved in.
    Case never explicitly gave the order, but as Damon stepped into the wide, clumsy arc of his swing, her fist moved on its own, flashing out in a blur. Damon’s head snapped back and blood flew through the air. He collapsed to the floor, moaning, with his hands clutching his face.
    “Oww, fuck!”
    Case gave the other guys a threatening look, but they obviously didn’t want any more of this. The drummer leaned down and tried to pull Damon to his feet. “Come on, Damon. We gotta go,” he said. Damon pushed backward, crablike.
    “Hey,” he said as the guys hauled him off. He scratched at the air with one hand. Blood covered the bottom half of his face. “You’re gonna be at practice tomorrow, right?”
    Case just shook her head, amazed.
    She turned back to John, the skinny idiot who needed a guitarist. He stood there, shocked, his mouth hanging open and his eyes even wider than usual. Flecks of blood spattered his forehead.
    “Looks like I need a band,” she said. She crossed her arms and stared at him. “So I’m in. Call me Case. Got a pen?”
    She wrote her name, number, and email address on the back of his band’s mailing-list form, tore off the bottom, and handed it to him. “Your turn.”
    He wrote something on the paper and gave it back. She stared at it. John Tsiboukas. “How the hell do you pronounce that?”
    “John,” he said with a vague smile. 
    “Okay, then, John T. Send me directions to your practice room, and I’ll see you there. If you can also send me some recordings of the songs, that’ll go a long way.” She started to go, then turned around. “Make sure your bass player knows his shit.”
    She left him staring after her and went to pack up her gear.
    ***
     
    “Did I hear that right?”
    John swiveled around on his barstool. Danny stood there, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, looking for all the world as if he were about to lecture a four-year-old. That’s what big brothers were for, John figured.
    “What did you just do?” Danny asked.
    John grinned. “Found us a guitarist.” His voice was hoarse from singing even the short set they’d played.
    “Yeah? You might want to tell Seth that.”
    “Sure, no problem.” John waved it off. “He’ll be upset, but we all know he’s not very good.”
    “He busted his ass to get ready for this show,” Danny protested.
    “I know he did. That’s the sad part.”
    “That’s pretty fucking rude, John.”
    John held up a hand. “I like Seth. He’s a good guy. But we’ve been trying like hell, and—well, you heard him play.”
    Danny deflated, dropped his big hands to his sides. “Yeah. That was bad.”
    “Besides,” John added, “she’s really good.”
    “She’s really angry , if that’s what you mean.”
    “She’s good. You know it.” John tapped the side of his glass thoughtfully. “Kinda hot, too.”
    Danny gave him a serious look. “Careful there, bro. You know Rule Number One.”
    “No worries. I was thinking about presentation. She looks good onstage—should help get us some attention. Besides,” he added, remembering the way she’d laid out the singer of her own band, “she’d probably break me in half.”
    Danny grinned.