“Hey, Sweetie, wanna dance?”

Duncan turned on his bar stool and skimmed the girl with a glance. “I’m workin’.”

“Not at the moment, you’re not.”

“No. At the moment, I am tryin’ t’ cool off a bit. Then I am goin’ back t’ work.” Pulling the rolled-up bandana from underneath the damp hair falling over his forehead, Duncan untied it, wiped sweat from his face and neck, again rolled it into a band, and returned it to where it had been mostly preventing salt from running into his eyes. The knotted end also helped to keep his hair off his neck, allowing the breeze of the fans around the band’s pit to dry the bit of skin between his nape and T-shirt. Accepting a frosted mug from across the bar, he took a large swallow, enjoying the coolness of the wet glass against his hand and the stream of liquid refreshing his throat.

The girl cuddled into his shoulder. “Are you ever here when you’re not working?”

Ignoring a snigger from the bartender, he again raised the mug to his lips, allowing time to consider an answer, to let the weak American beer quench the dryness of his throat. “Now and then.” The chill of the drink distracted him from the girl’s flesh pushing against his.

She broke through, sliding both hands around his fingers and the heavy mug, pulling it from him. “So maybe you’ll dance with me another night?”

Looking up to question her, he watched as she sipped his beer, keeping her eyes on his. Narrow eyes. Lashes painted longer than natural matching thick black lines extending from the corners; the brushed-on green of her lids attempting to extend the brownish-green of her pupils. It didn’t work well.

She rubbed a finger around the edge of the mug. Offering. She wasn’t bad-looking. Fake, but not snobbish. And who was he to be too particular? “Maybe.”

She grinned, pushing the drink back toward him.

“Keep it.”

He watched her move away, flaunting the beer to her table of friends, most likely repeating, and embellishing, the conversation. Duncan never understood the infatuation girls had with guys in local bands. Hell, this wasn’t even a good local band. His mates were okay guys, as far as it went, but barely third-rate musicians. It didn’t seem to matter. They were just background noise for the pick-up lines and the attempts at relaxation by intoxication in the dark out-of-the-way bar.

A movement from the table of Thiel College students caught his attention; one of them actually rose to retrieve his drink from the bar instead of barking an order at the waitress. The only male at the table without a cigarette hanging from his mouth or fingers. Worst part of playing in bars; the damn cloud of nicotine.

The guy was heading in his direction. Duncan turned back, waiting to catch the bartender. “Another draft.”

“Make that two. And a wine spritzer. After his, of course."

Wine spritzer. For the girl at the table sitting sideways in the chair with her legs crossed and her shoulders straight, Duncan guessed.

“How long have you been playing?”

Glancing up to make sure the college guy was talking to him, he an-swered … barely. “A while.” He looked away again.

“Obviously. I meant, how many years?”

“Why?” Duncan raised his hands in a questioning gesture at the new bartender. He would have to go back and play before he ever got it, at this pace.

The intruder took advantage of the stool next to him being vacated, and planted himself as if he actually belonged in the bar, raising his voice to talk over the recorded music played between sets. “You’re wasting your talent here. You’re a hell of a guitarist.”

Duncan looked over, unable to completely dismiss the compliment, since it wasn’t from a girl this time. He sincerely doubted this guy was hitting on him. “You play?”

“Not much since I started school, but when I can.”

He nodded and turned away. Another beginner looking for pointers, and he had better things to do than waste time on a college student who wanted to learn just enough to pick up girls.

“So, why are you here?”

Duncan’s back straightened. What made this guy think it was any of his business? Holding his thoughts, he stood. He would rather hang with the band than be harrassed by some stranger.

The college student stood up beside him and Duncan swung around. “Man, wha’ do you want?”

The guy shrugged. “Just to talk. I don’t get to meet many guitarists of your caliber.” He chuckled. “Actually, I’ve never met anyone who can play like that. I have to wonder why you’re wasting your time here. I mean, with that accent, you’re obviously not from Pennsylvania.”

Hell, the damn accent. How long was it going to take to get rid of it? Anyway, the conversation was done. “I ‘m busy.”

“Your friends aren’t ready to play yet.”

“Look, ge’ lost. I ‘m no’ a guitar teacher, alright?” Starting to move away, Duncan felt a hand grasp his shoulder and he spun, seizing the guy’s arm and twisting it behind his back. “Do no’ push me, man.”

Duncan cursed himself for giving in to his instincts and began judg-ing the group of guys who pushed in toward them – Thiel students coming to the rescue, Duncan’s band mates ready to join in, and regulars jeering for a fight. He wasn’t concerned about the other college kids. They wouldn’t be any trouble to take out, but the guy he was so far still holding was taller, and built bigger, and didn’t seem naïve enough to start something he couldn’t finish.

“I’m Evan Scott. Nice to meet you, too.”

The whole prologue as printable html:
Rehearsal: A Different Drummer Prologue

The excerpt may be printed and shared as long as it stays intact with its cover sheet.