Page 13 of Banging the Drummer

I’m about to ask her to come back to the hotel with me so we can spend more time together, but some big motherfucker steps behind her, putting his giant man paws on her shoulders.

“This is Max,” she says, pointing to the guy.

It’s like a record scratch.

Everything stops, shifting all the things I thought I knew about her and this thing building between us. But it appears I was wrong. She never said anything about having a boyfriend. I never asked.

I’d asked early in our communication if she was married, but I never inquired about a boyfriend.

He holds his hand out to shake. “Nice to meet you, man. Big fan. The show was great.”

He’s a friendly enough bloke, but I can’t do this right now.

“Shelby can show you to the room in the back where the rest of the guys are.” I can’t meet Luna’s gaze. “I’ve got to hit the shower. The car will be ready for you whenever you want to leave. Thanks for coming.”

I turn and walk away.

Every exchange and conversation we’ve had over the last several months run through my mind. It’s not the first time in my life I’ve missed social cues and misread a situation. It wouldn’t be the last either. But fuck if this isn’t the most painful.

I had assumed we’d been mutually flirting the last few months. Had she had a boyfriend the entire time? Or was this more of me not understanding how neurotypical people work? Acknowledging the fact that my brain works differently that most people was not something I was raised believing.

It wasn’t until I had been with the band for a couple of years that I saw a doctor and got a diagnosis. I’m fairly certain my entire family is on the spectrum, but when I approached my parents with that information, they shut me down quickly.

They didn’t want to be labeled music savants if it came under the umbrella of autism. Whatever. I can’t change who I am and how my brain works. So I’ve learned ways to work around my differences.

I’ve barely breached the large dressing room when Crue runs up behind me, grabbing my arm.

“What the fuck was that? That was her, wasn’t it?” he barks.

I pull my drumsticks out of my back pocket and twirl them. No one has to point out that it’s a nervous habit. I’m well aware.

“Yes, that was Luna.”

“So you spend all this time talking to her online, and then when you finally meet her, you’re a complete and utter dick to her? What is wrong with you?”

I swallow the threats that rise in my throat. Crue would know more than anyone that they’d be empty words. Though the anger surging through my blood does feel hot and heavy enough to urge me to throw a punch. Crue and I are about the same height, but he’s got me by several pounds. No doubt he’d be able to break my leaner frame. Not that he would actually hit me.

“Mason,” he says.

“She had a guy with her,” I bite out.

He opens his mouth, then thinks better of whatever he was going to say. His nostrils flair.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “You have to ask her about him. What exactly did she say?”

“This is Max.”

“That’s it?”

“What else did she need to say? Enormous fucker came and stood behind her. Put his hands on her. Clearly staking his claim.”

Crue’s eyes narrow. “Maybe.”

“Really? Wanna try that with Ireland?”

“That’s not even fucking funny.” Crue nods to Shelby who’s standing next to some of the roadies with a tablet. “Shelby, got a minute?”