The Rosewoods Rock & Roll Box Set

by Katrina Abbott

  Subject: THANK YOU

  Message: I’m so glad you’re on board with the gig this weekend! My dad’s going to need to get in touch with you about details, so he needs a phone number. Can you send, please?

  He responded right away with his number along with a request for me to call him first. Instead of heading to the dining room for dinner, I went up the stairs to my dorm room for privacy and quiet.

  He answered on the second ring. “Vanessa?”

  “Yeah,” I said, realizing he wouldn’t already have my number which would have come up as private.

  “So...” he said, not sounding anywhere near as excited as I would have expected. In fact...

  My heart plunged into my stomach. “Please tell me you haven’t changed your mind.”

  “No,” he said immediately, sounding surprised that I’d even ask. “I’m into it. I’m just...this is a big deal, isn’t it? Your dad’s...”

  “Tony Capri,” I said, because in any music circle, that was enough to get across just how much of a big deal it was. But this had the potential to be more than one gig at a private high school—albeit one dripping with high-dollar celebrity kids. I thought about Chris and how he was going to be out of commission for a while. They were probably going to need another guitarist to at least start the tour. If Dave could impress my dad... But it was too early to go there, so all I said was, “As for it being a big deal? It might be.”

  He was silent for a long moment, maybe processing my words and what it could mean before saying, “It’s only three days away.” There was worry in his voice. He was clearly nervous he wasn’t going to measure up. There was a chance he wouldn’t—the guys had been amazing last time I’d heard them, and they’d had even more time to practice since. And who knew if Dave would mesh with the band? Still, I couldn’t help but think back to the talent show and how I’d known then from almost the first note that he was something special. He definitely had a chance. A good one.

  “You’re good enough,” I said.

  The second the words were out of my mouth I laughed because how hilarious was it that I was reassuring a musician.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked in an almost hurt tone, obviously not a mind-reader.

  “Not you,” I said quickly. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. I...just that I’ve known a lot of musicians and they never need reassurance.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Really? That requires explanation? “Let’s just say their egos rarely need stroking.”

  “Right, well, I’m not much of a musician,” he said, and I could almost hear the air quotes around the words. “More of an enthusiast. Maybe even a committed hobbyist, but I definitely wouldn’t call myself a musician.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to correct him or maybe tell him that could all change hinging on this performance, but I didn’t—he was already feeling enough pressure as it was. Plus, it wasn’t like I had the authority to promise anything.

  “Anyway,” I said. “I’m happy you’ve been given this chance. Let me know what I can do, okay?” I don’t know what I might have been offering, but it had slipped out. Maybe because he seemed so unsure.

  He chuckled. “You’ve done a lot already. I guess I should thank you for even thinking of me.”

  I’d heard the false humility thing a million times, but right now, he seemed really sincere. Don’t believe it, my cynical, musician-hating side said. It’s all an act.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, deciding to take his thanks at face value, but still keeping my guard up. “Now let me get your number to my dad; he’s probably chomping at the bit to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m really doing this, huh?”

  “You’d better,” I said. “Because if you back out, I will hunt you down.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, amusement in his voice.

  I was about to end the call when he said my name.

  “Yeah?”

  “I owe you one.”

  I snorted. If this went the way I was sort of hoping it would, he’d owe me more than one. All I said was, “Let’s get through this weekend and then we’ll see exactly what you owe me.”

  After all, I knew more than anyone just how brutal the music industry could be and how it could ruin lives.

  He proved again that he wasn’t a mind-reader when he said, in a cluelessly happy voice, “Deal.”

  Dad FedExed Dave the sheet music and the just-finished album, telling him not to worry about the lyrics since Graeme would be lead on their set (something I wasn’t sure Andres would be happy about) and the other guys would take up the slack on backing vocals.

  He was coming on Friday morning with the band so they could all rehearse together but had told Dave to get as much practice in as he could before then.

  Which led to Dave calling me Thursday afternoon in a panic. I was in the library, pretending to study while all my thoughts were really on the band and if they were going to be able to pull this off. Maybe he could read my mind, even from one campus to another and my worry had made him call me.

  “I can’t do this,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Yes, you can,” I responded automatically. “You totally got this, just think of how great you were at the talent show and I bet you’ve been practicing like crazy.”

  He chuckled a little. “You sound like Abe.”

  “Huh?”

  “My roommate keeps telling me the same thing. Speaking of, he’s coming over to visit Chelly. I...”

  He seemed to stall out, the silence stretching between us and I thought maybe his phone had dropped the call. “You there? Dave?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Sorry.” He paused and then blurted out, “Can I come over and play for you? Abe’s great and all, but I don’t think he has a good ear.”

  “You’re assuming a lot if you think I do.”

  He snorted. “You’re the one who heard me at the talent show and decided I should be in Tony Capri’s boy band. I can’t think that was completely based on my good looks.”

  I was hugely thankful that he couldn’t see me blushing because while, no, it wasn’t all about his good looks, that was definitely part of it. Something I wouldn’t admit in a million years. Somehow I was able to keep relatively cool as I clucked my tongue and managed, “Uh, no.”

  “So then obviously you have a good ear if you heard me and thought I was good.”

  “Uh, full of yourself much?” fell out of my mouth.

  He paused and then said, in a clipped voice. “Not really, just stating a fact.” I could hardly blame him for being irritated—why was I cutting him down? Rhetorical question, of course, because I knew the answer: I was treating him like a musician.

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’re right. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not a big fan of musicians.”

  “I gathered from that other conversation,” he said wryly.

  I had to stop and think what he was talking about, but just as I did, he reminded me anyway. “The one where you said—very clearly—that you don’t date musicians.”

  “Right,” I said. “That one. Well, I...yeah, I don’t want to get into it, just trust me that I’ve been around a lot and have seen pretty much everything. I don’t need to go down that road again.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “But I haven’t asked you out, Vanessa. That’s not what this is about.”

  I swallowed, trying to think of how to respond to that, but before I could come up with something, he moved on.

  “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Right. Can I listen to you play.”

  “That’s the one.”

  I owed it to my dad to help him. Plus, I was curious to hear him play. Those two facts alone, got me to say yes.

  A half hour later, I went down the main stairs and met Dave and
his roommate at the desk where they were signing in. Chelly was there, hanging off Abe already, but the way he was looking at her with adoration in his eyes told me he was more than okay with the way she was clinging to him.

  “Okay, so, meet you back here at eight?” Abe said to Dave as they finished signing in. He dropped his voice so Liz at the desk couldn’t hear (not that she appeared the least bit interested), “Chelly wants to show me something by the stables.”

  I rolled my eyes. Everyone knew the back of the stables was a make-out spot. I was going to suggest they might even have to kick out another couple or work out a system of shifts, but I kept my mouth shut. I glanced at Dave and wondered why he was blushing about his friend going off to fool around. Whatever, it was cute. Though if he was that easily embarrassed, he was going to get a very rude awakening when it came time to perform in front of a throng of obsessed fans. Girl fans who were very often quite shameless in their attempts to get the attention of musicians.

  Ah well, one thing at a time.

  I glanced down at the guitar case in Dave’s hand. “Ready?” I asked. He nodded, so I started down the hall toward the back door of the main building.

  “There should be a room open in the library,” I said.

  “The Somerville Library?” he asked, his tone weird enough that I looked at him.

  I clued in and wanted to smack myself for not thinking of it earlier. “Is that weird? I know you and Emmie used to go out. Do you want to go somewhere else?”

  He shrugged. “It’s fine. It’s just a building.”

  I thought about how quickly she’d texted him to ask if he’d play with the band. “You’re still friends?”

  He glanced over at me and shrugged again. “I guess. It’s complicated.”

  I didn’t think it was that complicated: He obviously still had feelings for her, but she had a new boyfriend. I wondered if she knew Dave was still into her. Not that I imagined it mattered.

  No point rubbing his nose in it, so I just nodded and left it, changing the subject. “So what do you think of the band’s music?” I asked as it occurred to me that he’d agreed to the gig without having heard even one of Wiretap’s songs.

  He reached for the door, even though he was carrying his guitar, and held it open for me.

  So sweet. I thanked him as I went through.

  “You know,” he said as he came next to me on the short path out to the library building. “I thought it would be simple melodies—sugary, catchy tunes, syrupy tween love ballads. But they’re all really great songs. I’m impressed.”

  I nodded. “My dad really wanted the band to be talented in their own right. He says that will give them more crossover appeal, and people will respect them and know they will have earned it. Plus,” I paused as I rushed over to grab the door to the library to hold it for him this time. “He loves launching careers.” I meant it, too. The launching careers part was what my dad loved best about the business and was what made him such a great producer, especially for young musicians. He loved finding the raw talent and coaching them to be amazing, giving them opportunities to shine. His guidance came at a price, and not just a monetary one, but for those who signed on, they were pretty much guaranteed stardom if not superstardom.

  Dave smiled at me as he made his way into the library named for his ex’s family.

  “Let’s try the music practice rooms first,” I said, hoping to get one of those so as not to disturb any studying students since the music rooms were soundproof. Luckily, there were two free, so we went into the first one, and I took one of the chairs in the corner. I sat waiting for him to get out his guitar, cursing my racing heart, telling it that there was no reason to be pounding; I was just doing him a favor.

  Of course, I was lying to myself, eager and at the same time nervous to hear him play, but I pushed all that away and pulled out my phone as a distraction. There were no new messages, so I slipped it back into my pocket, figuring it wouldn’t take him long to get ready, and I didn’t want to insult him.

  Before he pulled out his guitar, he handed me a set of on-ear headphones. I looked at him in question as I took them, wondering what I was supposed to plug them into.

  “I’ve got a headphone amp,” he explained. He took the guitar from the case and pointed at the small device plugged into it. “Easier than bringing over a big box amp. You’re going to have to get a bit closer, though, the cord isn’t super long.”

  I shifted my chair over, thinking that it would be slightly less awkward to sit beside him rather than in front of him, but I probably needed to watch him in case he needed some pointers on his stage presence. So, after I handed him the connector end of the cord so he could plug it in, reminding myself I was acting as an objective agent of my father, I sat facing him, as far away as the cord would allow without it being obvious.

  He smelled nice, a hint of cologne or maybe aftershave (living with and sometimes shopping for my dad meant I knew the difference)—something spicy and warm. Thinking of aftershave caused my eyes to drift up to his face as he took out his own set of headphones and plugged them in. I couldn’t tell if he’d shaved recently, not that it mattered, I told myself, dropping my eyes again, watching as he then connected his phone to the little amp, too.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “I’ll keep the recording fairly low so you can hear me above it,” he said, obviously unaware I was wondering what made him smell so nice. Not like it mattered; I was only here to critique his performance, not his scent.

  Swallowing, I nodded at what he’d said, barely remembering what it was.

  He scrolled through his phone. “Okay, I’m going to start with Pieces of You. That one is the most complex, musically, and I want to make sure I’ve got it down.”

  It was also the band’s big love ballad, a fact I wasn’t about to bring up.

  I put the headphones on and looked down at my fingers fidgeting in my lap, waiting for the song to begin. When it did, I looked up to watch his hands as he played.

  Within a few seconds, it was obvious he was as good as I remembered. Relief washed over me, making me realize how worried I’d been about his skills, hoping I hadn’t exaggerated them in my own head (and to my dad). But as I listened to the opening bars of the song, it was clear that he was even better than I’d remembered. Or maybe he’d improved since, but either way, he was good. No, not just good: amazing.

  And he’d learned this song practically overnight by ear—there was no sheet music in front of him. That spoke to how good a musician (even if he didn’t consider himself one) he really was.

  With my semi-trained ear, I followed along as he nailed the music, incredibly impressed that his technical skills were nearly flawless.

  I looked up into his face and was thankful that his eyes were closed as he played, the headphones snug on his ears. He was absolutely adorable, and I had to resist the urge to get out my phone and take a picture, worried about being caught.

  He swayed a little as he played, hunched over the guitar, his facial expressions moving with the music like he was inside it, or—probably more accurately—it was inside him.

  In the recording, Graeme (I’m pretty sure) began to sing, and I admit, I got caught up in the song, mesmerized by what I was hearing, even catching myself with my eyes closed as I focused on the music. Dave was right—the music was good. I had no doubt this song about love lost and found again was going to be a huge hit. Tween and teen girls were definitely going to cry, squeal, and sigh over the Wiretap posters taped to their walls, imagining them as their boyfriends. Dave would definitely fit in with the other guys. He’d look great on a poster, too.

  I tried not to think about that, refocusing on the music and letting it drag me down into the melody. Pride in what my dad had created washed over me, making my chest feel tight with emotion.

  But then I remembered I was there to critique Dave, not get all weepy about my dad. I forced my eyes open. />
  He was staring at me, a lopsided smile on his face while he played automatically, like his hands weren’t even a part of him. I felt a hot blush creep up my neck to my cheeks.

  This guy is going to break hearts, I thought, knowing with every fiber of my being that if he wanted the gig filling in for Chris, my dad was going to give it to him. He had that special something that Dad said was one in a million.

  He was going to be a star.

  If he decided he wanted to be one, that is.

  First Impressions

  The next morning, my father texted when they were about a half an hour away from Rosewood. That gave me just enough time to finish getting dressed, run down to the dining room for a Danish and a double espresso, and head toward the main doors to greet him, the band, and Linda.

  Sandy tailed me down to the dining room, moaning on about how she wished she could join me, but had to get to biology (her worst class), sparing the band from her fangirling while they were trying to rehearse. She was going to join us for lunch to reacquaint herself with the guys, now that she’d gotten the okay to do her vlog series, so she couldn’t complain too much.

  I’d gotten special permission from the dean to skip my morning classes (which were mostly review at this point in the year anyway) to give them something of a tour and help get them set up in the gym.

  On the way from the dining room, I got out my phone to text Dave to let him know they were on their way, but as I got to the big marbled foyer, I saw him standing at the desk with his guitar case on the floor at his feet, signing in. I slid my phone back into my pocket, and as soon as he put down the pen, I said his name to get his attention.

  He turned toward me and gave me a relieved smile. He was out of school uniform, wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, looking starched and scared with slightly messy hair—which translated to adorable.

  Nope, do not think about how cute he is. He’s a musician who is hung up on his ex, I told myself. Plus, my love life was currently non-existent, just the way I liked it, and it was going to stay that way. I mean, maybe I would meet a boy in the Hamptons and have a summer fling with no future and zero complications, but right now, romance was definitely not on my to-do list.