Not With Those Teeth, Mate (Maylor/Froger/Deacury)

Chapter 11

First up was a band called Led Zeppelin, their unique raw and powerful sound with "Communication Breakdown" furrowing Freddie's brows and pressing Deaky's lips together in confusion. After the band finished their first chorus, Miami flashed them a small grin, saying, "Yes, thank you. Next!"

"Hey," the dark-haired singer in the audience muttered as the next musician—an amateur bassist by the name of Joe Mazzello—appeared onstage. He nudged Deaky in the arm and leaned in. "Doesn't he look a bit like you?"

The frizzy-haired companion stared at the boy for a bit before shaking his head no. "Not really."

"Well I hate it," Freddie grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't aware of it in the moment, but his statement extended from the bassist's look to his playing as well—the poor musician struggling to play just a few, simple riffs.

"Joe, I admire your—" Miami tried to cut in, but the boy appeared to be in a world of his own, determined to get the riff right if it meant the death of him. "As for your playing—" He plucked a few more notes. "What a wonderful shirt you're wearing." The bassist snapped out of it and looked down at his outfit with a small grin. "Next!"

The flamboyant singer's eyes narrowed when he saw that the next person auditioning was none other than George Michael—the second gayest person in town. His home label was Columbia, and had this not been an open audition, he wouldn't have been allowed to perform, let alone inside the building. However, Mott the Hoople insisted they explore any and all possibilities in the greater London area, so George took the stage with a confidence that gradually rubbed Miami the wrong way—his constant winking and pointing quickly getting on the manager's nerves, so much so that he had to beg him to stop.

Next up was Susanna Hoffs, backed by her band, the Bangles. Her voice soared to levels Freddie could only dream of reaching. If there were windows in the recording studio, they surely would've shattered. Luckily, the separation between the live room and the control room was made of plexiglass.

"Ah, Miss Hoffs," Miami murmured as the highest note she hit lost its resonance, yet still rang in everyone's ears. "I didn't even know it was possible to hit such a note. Bravo! Brava!" The bubbly singer rested her hand on her chest in appreciation, the smile on her face fading as the manager suggested, while sticking his finger in his ear and trying to get the ringing to stop, "Perhaps a different tour, though."

Susanna tutted and marched out of the room with her girls in tow, replaced by an act very unlike the rest. Performed by Andy Summers, the man simply leapt across the room—grande jeté-ing, plié-ing, and pirouette-ing right into the wings, where he collided with a few of the amps and brought everyone to the edge of their seats.

It seemed impossible to follow such a jaw-dropping act, but one group dared to do it. They called themselves the Eurythmics, and their eccentric performance—complete with Annie Lennox's short, bright orange hair and baton—certainly left an impression on Miami and everyone else in the room. However, it wasn't the impression they'd hoped for.

"Well that was just..." the manager started, looking down at his notes and shaking his head, "...very disturbing. Go see someone, would you?" He shivered as the offended duo sulked off the stage and right out the door, where Roger had been hiding the entire time—watching each and every audition and wishing it was him up there. He was so caught up in his own fantasy that he neglected to recognize the new presence standing beside him, peering through the same, narrow sliver of glass in the door—just as intrigued as he.

"Thinking of auditioning?" an unexpected voice sounded in the blonde's ear, startling him into the adjacent wall.

"Jesus Christ!" he shouted—his lacquered hand clutching his pounding chest and his previously distracted gaze finding its way to Brian's. The blush in his cheeks seemed to take on a new hue as he stared at the tall guitarist with wide eyes, the curly-haired brunette gradually mirroring his facial expression as he saw through the blonde's disguise.

"Roger?" Brian murmured in disbelief. "What on earth are you doing wearing makeup and a skirt?" The drummer remained silent, pressing his darkened lips together and hanging his head in shame in avoidance of the judgment he was sure to receive. It shocked him when the guitarist smirked and guessed, "No one knows you're here, do they?"

"No," Roger sighed, pulling away from the wall and returning to his post—brushing arms with the guitarist. The two watched as Miami dismissed yet another performer, the manager shaking his head in frustration as they walked away. "He hasn't liked a single audition yet. There's no way I can go in there."

Brian chuckled. "Well, not dressed like that, you can't." The blonde glanced up at his new friend with a look that wiped the smile right off his face. Brian cleared his throat in an attempt to alleviate the tension that suddenly manifested between them and took another crack at his response. "Sorry. Is it because you're nervous?"

The blonde scoffed. "No, I'm not nervous." He returned his attention to the empty stage, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. It was silly, the feeling he had about performing. It was one thing writing and recording songs—not that he'd had much luck with either of those as of late—but going up on stage with a thousand or a million pairs of eyes staring back at you, all by yourself, that was an entirely different story.

It wasn't that Roger hadn't had experience playing gigs before; he'd done plenty of them, but the audiences he was accustomed to were incomparable in size to the one that Mott the Hoople was anticipating. Not to mention that, if by some off chance he were to land the opening slot on the tour, he wouldn't be able to do it alone. Dominique, Mary, and Debbie were more than just a trio of pretty faces—they made Roger who he was. If John Reid was right about one thing, it was that all four of them were Roger Taylor, and success wouldn't come about unless each of them worked as a team. The problem was, he was afraid he couldn't convince them to join him—leaving him with the biggest concern of all: How was he going to do this without them?

"Me either...most of the time," Brian admitted sheepishly in response to the blonde's confession.

Roger glanced over at the guitarist with a small grin, finding comfort in their shared, unspoken fear and remembering the story Brian had told him about the lousy gig where he fainted before he even got on stage. The drummer was tempted to bring the tale up in hopes of learning more about it—about him—but before he could even part his lips to speak, it was Freddie and Deaky's turn to audition, and they'd be damned if they didn't put on a show.