Santana Lopez fired her thirteenth drummer a week before the start of her tour. The hapless drummer didn't even know what hit him before he found himself cowering under a withering onslaught of invective punctuated by a cymbal smashing into the back wall of the studio. But that was Santana: her mood could turn on a note, and it often did.

Puck showed up half an hour later to find the drummer gone, Santana at her usual place by the piano, and the rest of the band milling about in disarray. "Where's Tim?" he demanded, head jerking toward the empty spot on the floor where the drum kit used to be.

"I fired his stupid ass," Santana said.

"What the fuck, Lopez?" Puck only called her Lopez when he was pissed. "The tour starts next week. Where the fuck am I supposed to find you a drummer?"

"Hopefully someplace other than under the rock where you found the rest of those imbeciles."

"Those imbeciles are the only ones who would put up with your shit for more than a minute," Puck said, his words clipped short. "Remember the tour? The one I kissed Will Schuester's ass for weeks to get him to even consider promoting? The one that'll make or break your career?"

And then everyone's eyes were on Santana, wondering how they could find themselves in the same situation so many times, all caused by the same person, but then again they all knew the reason why: Santana Lopez could wring people inside out when she sang, rip them down and then build them back up into something different, leave them feeling like they were more than they were before. And she could do it night after night with ease.

"Jesus, Santana." Puck looked at the band: Brad at his piano, Tina on bass, and Sam with his guitar. "Start thinking about someone other than yourself for once." Then he turned and left.

After a moment, Tina settled her bass down into its case, shouldered it, and walked out of the room without a word, and Sam smiled a sad smile, packed up his guitar, and followed her.

Then it was just Santana and Brad. Brad, who'd played piano for her since the beginning; steady, steady Brad, who never spoke unless he had something important to say.

Santana sighed. "What the fuck am I supposed to do now?"

Brad reached out and rested his hand on her arm and said, "I think I know someone who can help."

Brittany Pierce's suitcase wasn't even unpacked before the email showed up in her inbox.

Brittany,

I know you just got back from a long gig, but I'm in a bind and I need a damn good drummer on short notice. I've attached a few tracks so you can hear what you'd be getting into.

If you're interested, let me know and we'll work out the details.

When she put on her headphones and that voice began to sing in her ears she no longer cared that she'd just gotten home from 12 months on the road or that she had a million things to do and a suitcase to unpack and no clean underwear. The voice slipped inside and cut her to pieces and then it turned, softened, lapped at her ears softly, whispering I'm sorry like a lover, grew wide and rich with sultry heat, over and over again.

It wasn't until the playlist ended that Brittany realized that she'd listened to the whole thing like a civilian. She couldn't remember the drums, or if there had even been a backing band. So she listened again, forced herself to ignore the vocals, listened until her wrists and ankles twitched, and by then the playlist was on repeat and she'd let the music crawl so far inside her that she knew exactly where her next phone call would be and what it would be about.

This wasn't the way she usually worked, accepting invites to play for no-name artists as if this were a pickup basketball game at the playground, but the music was too far in for her to care about that, or about the postscript that closed the email: I gotta warn you, she's a handful.

Santana didn't know what to expect. Sure, the very first thing she did after Brad mentioned the name "Brittany Pierce" was run to Google, her eyes widening at the 13 million results, the Wikipedia article with the mile-long discography, the feature stories in Modern Drummer and DRUM! Magazine. Even the grainy phone cam concert videos posted on YouTube were surprising. Not that Brittany Pierce could play, dios mío she could play, that wasn't the question at all. What was surprising to Santana was that Brittany Pierce was hot. And that was going to be trouble.

The rest of the band was so star-struck that Brittany's name had become "Brittany-fucking-Pierce", as in, "Brittany-fucking-Pierce is gonna be here tomorrow. Did you know she toured with Florence + the Machine for six months and then turned around and toured with Brandi Carlile for another six? Did you know that Jon Brion and T Bone Burnett have her on speed dial? Did you know? Did you know?" Guess they'd all read the same Wikipedia article.

Puck, unflappable, cocky Puck, was taken aback by the news. "Brittany Pierce. She's seriously out of our league," he'd said on the phone. "We'll never be able to pay her." A pause. "Santana. You cannot fuck this up." Then: "Which way does she swing? Maybe if you and Sam show off some skin she'll cut us a discount."

"Fuck off, Puck."

"Hey baby, just looking out for your bottom line."

She could feel his leer through the phone as he hung up. Santana didn't much care for the gushing. All she wanted was someone who would shut up and keep time.

Everyone showed up an hour early for rehearsal that morning. Even Tina, who'd grown up in a Korean household for God's sake and knew a thing or two about performing under pressure, was off chattering excitedly with Sam as he arranged and re-arranged his effects pedals just so, both of them over-caffeinated and jittery with nervous energy.

Only Brad seemed unfazed by the situation. That's why he was Santana's rock. She leaned up against the piano and eyed Sam and Tina. "You two need to get a grip. She's just a drummer."

Any retort was cut off by a knock at the door. Sam and Tina looked at each other with goofy Oh, shit expressions.

Santana rolled her eyes, then she walked over and opened the door and got her first eyeful of Brittany Pierce that wasn't through a computer screen. She was taller than Santana, with a dancer's body, sleek and lean, and blue eyes that widened with a look of surprise before settling down into one more cool and professional. She had a stick bag slung over one shoulder, a long, rolled up mat tucked under one arm, and a bright pink box stamped with the words VOODOO DOUGHNUT cradled in the other.

"Hi. I'm Brittany." She smiled. "I'd shake your hand, but—" she shrugged her arms and their full payload.

Santana opened her mouth and realized she'd been holding her breath. She cleared her throat, then said, "Santana."

They traded appraising looks until the moment threatened to stretch into something uncomfortable, until Brittany smiled again and asked, "Can I come in?"

"Ahh, yes. Of course." Santana stepped out of the way, kept her face full of nothing, pulled her insides back together.

"My kit's in my truck. Let me grab it real quick. It won't take me long to set up."

Sam must have been lurking nearby. "I'll help!" he volunteered, barreling his way out the door.

That decision to fire Tim was looking worse by the minute.

Of all the things Brittany was expecting, she didn't expect Santana Lopez to be beautiful. Yes, she'd worked with loads of singers, and they were all beautiful of course because they had to be to survive in this business. But Santana had something else, something rare. She wore the music, wrapped herself up in it, inside deep currents threaded with tension. And denial. Of what Brittany had no idea, but it was intriguing.

All it took was a box of doughnuts and a few self-deprecating jokes for her to break the ice, and after introductions were made all around, and Brad had stood up from his piano bench and she'd greeted him with a great big Hey, it's been a long time hug, the guitar and bass players — Sam and Tina — finally settled down and relaxed. Brittany had those two pegged from the beginning. Sam would be the sponge, hovering around the edges, ready to soak up anything she deigned to offer, from road trip stories to tips on interpretation. Tina would be the one who didn't yet know the full extent of her powers. This might actually turn out to be fun.

Brittany could set up her kit in a handful of minutes in the dark and even faster when the lighting was good. She raised an eyebrow at the gouge in the wall suspiciously shaped like the edge of a cymbal, hung the crash and the ride in their suspension mounts, and set the hi-hat into place. Then she took a seat, ready to begin.

Santana continued to wear that expression of careful composure, though the music still flowed behind her eyes from a place that was hard to hide. "Did Brad send over our EP?"

Brittany nodded. "He did." She didn't mention that she'd had that EP on repeat for the past two days, including the three and a half hours it took for her to drive down to Portland from her place in Seattle.

"What did you think?" Santana asked.

"I think it's good." She took a breath because she already liked them and hated to hurt people's feelings, but music demanded the truth. "But you play like you're scared." She caught Tina eying Santana sideways. "And your previous drummer played to a click track, right?" Heads nodded. "Nothing wrong with that, but right now, you're all so focused on the click that it makes you sound cold. Artificial. And your stuff isn't about that at all."

Sam and Tina shifted around anxiously. And Santana — those dark eyes narrowed, until the anger inside them blotted out the music.

Oh. Interesting. Brittany held steady. "So show me what you can do."

That provoked a flurry of movement. "What do you want to start with, Santana?" Sam asked.

"'Call You Off.'" Her voice held a challenge.

Santana was nothing if not bold. Brittany picked up her sticks, nodded she was ready, and Santana stepped up to the mic, counted down the beat, and sang.

Don't make me call you off
'cause I like your danger
but you're no good for me

Brittany laid out a stripped-down shuffle with the bass drum and hi-hat, saving the snare for the build and the chorus. Her beats were the frame that everyone else would ride on, and they did, Tina's bassline matching hers while the piano and guitar walked the tightrope between them. It was a song built out of heat, and Santana's voice turned to flame. She played with distance, drawing close enough to scorch, pulling away so that it felt like a balm despite the burn, and the tension stretched and grew.

I want to call you off
'cause I'm your danger
and you're no good for you

Santana took the twist in the last chorus and sold it hard, and everyone rode the release with her, through the wind-down to the very end.

Then it was over, and Santana was staring at her with that Was it good for you? way of looking for approval that singers have had since time began. "Well?" she asked.

"You're amazing." And that's not the way Brittany meant to say it at all.

They practiced for hours, first a straight run-through of the repertoire, then the hard part of reworking the rough edges. Santana had to admit that Brittany lived up to the hype. That she picked up the repertoire so quickly or played it as well as she did wasn't what caught Santana's interest; it was her lack of ego, the way she offered suggestions about the sound or about the interpretation that put everything aside but the music. It was always about the music.

They all agreed to call it a night after Sam gave up trying to stifle his yawns and Santana kept catching herself staring at Brittany as Brittany demonstrated a beat pattern to Tina.

Santana was reluctant to talk business with everyone still riding the high of a good rehearsal, even as they packed away their gear and got ready to leave, but Brittany saved her from having to bring up the subject. "Let's hash things out over coffee tomorrow?"

Santana breathed out in relief. "Yes, definitely." They worked out the details, and then Brittany left for her hotel and everyone stood around looking at each other, but mostly at Santana.

Sam got to her first. "Just a drummer, huh?"

"Shut it, Sam."

No, she was anything but.