This time he was sure he’d nailed it.

Every once in a while he’d feel the weight of their eyes on him, scouring him in that appraising way that made him hyperaware he was under the most intense kind of scrutiny, and he’d stop, wondering if this was the time they’d tell him he was in.

This was the third time he was auditioning for them. His third time to stand on this stage, or one like it, and lay his soul bare as he played for them.

He knew what was holding them back, why they hadn’t chosen him before. They were afraid, worried he would outshine them all. And they were right, he would. So this time he’d played it down a little. This time he’d played a little more clumsily, and he’d pulled back on his obvious charm, giving them just enough reason to think he wouldn’t steal their spotlight.

Sure, they’d taken on other guys in the meantime—other guitarists, during those other two auditions—but they’d never lasted.

The first guy had been a bad fit, almost from the get-go, and there were rumors in the venues they played in of backstage bickering and out-of-control egos. One night, a fistfight had broken out onstage between the new guy and the bass player. It was unprofessional, but had made for a great show. He’d been there in the audience, watching every second of the brawl.

He’d never seen that guy again. That had been his last night with the band.

So they’d held auditions again. And again he’d been turned away, only to have the spot he so desperately craved filled by someone else.

And that guy had been a good match for the band, fitting in seamlessly. And, man, oh man, could he shred.

As much as he hated to admit it, the new guy had kicked ass up there, with the lights flashing and the girls screaming and the rest of the band at his back.

Only problem was, that was where he should’ve been standing. That was his glory being stolen.

And this guy didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

He’d had to force the situation.

Dude never even saw it coming. Never saw him coming . . . until it was too late.

Rumors flew after the new guy up and vanished. No one knew where he’d gone to. As far as they knew, he’d just left one night after a show and never come back. Maybe he’d gotten a better offer. Maybe he’d OD’d in a ditch somewhere.

Or maybe . . . just maybe he’d been stabbed thirty-three times and bled out in a storm drain in the middle of nowhere. Maybe the guy had screamed and cried, begging to be spared.

Maybe his body had never been discovered.

A sly smile touched his lips. And so what if it was? There was nothing to tie it back to him anyway. Nothing to make anyone think he might be the one responsible. He didn’t know the guy, other than he’d been in the band—something he and about a thousand other people knew. Besides, he’d tossed the knife and his clothes. No one could ever link him to the body.

So here he was again, one hand resting on his axe, the other in his mouth as he chewed nervously at his ragged fingernail.

They had to choose him. They just had to.

This was his time.

This was his stage.

When they called his name he almost didn’t realize they were talking to him at first. He blinked when he heard it again, louder this time.

“Yeah, yeah . . .” he said, dropping his hands and stepping forward, back into the glare of the spotlight.

There was no postulating this time, no awkward explanations or excuses. He knew their answer when he caught that one simple phrase coming up from below him. “Dude, I’m sorry.”

The words hit him hard, like someone had just bashed a hammer through the side of his skull.

For a moment he just stood there, not sure what to say or do. He was stunned, he’d been so sure this time, convinced that all his practice would pay off. His fingertips were still raw.

“Did ya hear me?” There was a soft round of laughter, and he wanted to tell them all where they could go.

They were the ones he’d followed from place to place to place. Their songs were the songs he’d memorized, note for note, and played over and over and over again.

They were his idols. There must be some mistake.

“What? But . . . why?”

The wooden chairs banged against the hollow wooden floor. “Man, I’m sorry. I hate to be so blunt, but you’re just not good enough.”

And then he heard another voice, not directed at him, filled with hostility, or maybe it was disgust. “Dude, he’s just standing there.”

He turned away then, unable to listen as their laughter reached up onto the stage and circled him. It ringed around him like the voices of schoolchildren, taunting and pointing and laughing some more.

He wasn’t good enough.

He’d heard that before. From his father.

Rage burned the backs of his eyes, blinding him and making his shoulders shake all the way down to his fingertips. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he felt the heavy weight of the amp leaving his hands, as he hurled it off the stage and toward the place they were sitting.

From somewhere—above him or behind, or maybe from inside his own head—there was a loud electric popping sound, as the cord came tearing free from the wall and then the amp went silent, right before it crashed down on the table where they’d just been sitting.

Suddenly, all eyes were on him again, as he stood there above them, on the stage where he belonged.

He towered over them, still quaking. Still seething.

“It’s a mistake,” he finally muttered, his teeth gritted together. “You’re making the biggest f**king mistake.”