The Rosewoods Rock & Roll Box Set

by Katrina Abbott

  “I’ll go get them,” I said, popping out of my chair before he had a chance to ask me to. While I was reluctant to leave, wanting to hear the rest of the set, it was more important that Dad stay and listen. Plus, I’d have lot of opportunities to hear the guys over the next couple of days.

  As I made my way to the front of the main Rosewood building, I took out my phone and saw several texts from Sandy (no wonder she was flunking biology) mostly asking about the guys: had they arrived, how did they sound, was Dave fitting in, were they as hot as she remembered? I stopped and quickly sent a note back to the effect of: yes, great, yes, and of course, yes. I put the device away as I rounded a corner and saw the Range Rover idling in the drive.

  I went right up to it and as I did, Kiki—Dad’s hair and makeup stylist—jumped out of the front passenger seat and gave me a big hug. I laughed as I got a mouthful of her long electric blue hair that had been electric pink last time I’d seen her (and electric purple the time before that). “Good to see you, too, Kiki!” I said as she muttered a greeting into the side of my head.

  She pulled out of the hug and held me at arm’s length, giving me the once-over. “You look great, Nessa. It’s been a long time. What, like two years?”

  I nodded, smiling at her because it really was good to see her. She wore a faded pair of boyfriend jeans with rips at the knees and a cute plaid sleeveless top, showing off her fully tattooed arms. “At least two years.”

  “All grown up. Where does the time go?” she said with a cluck of her tongue and a big shake of her head. I knew for a fact she was barely thirty but was suddenly sounding like a grandmother—though she hardly looked like one. Or acted like one, for that matter; she reached up and grabbed a lock of my hair. “Who butchered this?” she demanded, letting out a string of curses while I rolled my eyes.

  “I’ve missed you, Kiki,” I said, laughing.

  Ginny, the image stylist, was more subdued in both demeanor and clothing, wearing a very businessy beige pantsuit and low heels to match. I guess it was her job to look put-together, but I’d always wanted to see her cut loose a little. Still, I was happy to see her. She’d worked for my dad before but wasn’t a full-time staffer, only coming on as needed when Dad was launching a new act. Only Linda and Cliff were full-time on the payroll.

  Ginny gave me a hug, too, but it was less of a bear hug and more of a polite greeting. “How are you doing?” she asked. While her hug was less exuberant than Kiki’s, her expression was of genuine interest, which made sense, since she’d known me pretty much forever.

  “I’m great,” I said, turning away from her searching eyes that were asking more than a polite question. She really wanted to know how I was related to stuff that had happened in the past. But I took her question at face value, ignoring the deeper inquiry behind it. “Let me take you to where they are.”

  Ginny turned back toward the SUV, and I followed her gaze to see what could only be the photographer emerge. He was handsome in a middle-aged kind of way with salt and pepper hair and smiling eyes. He also had a big camera bag that he was slinging over his shoulder.

  “Rex,” Ginny said. “This is Vanessa Capri, Tony’s daughter.”

  He smiled at me and stuck out his hand. “Rex Kensington. Good to meet you.”

  I’d heard of him before; he did a lot of music photography for things like album covers, tour posters, and merch as well as shoots for big magazines. If I wasn’t my father’s daughter, I probably would have been nervous about meeting him. But since I’d met plenty of the people he’d photographed, I was sort of immune to his celebrity.

  “Likewise,” I said. “Why don’t I take you to where they’re rehearsing and then I can do a coffee run for everyone?”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Kiki said, draping an arm across my shoulders as we started toward the rec center.

  “Does this mean you’re working for him this summer?” Ginny asked, meaning my dad. “He hasn’t mentioned you going on tour.”

  Kiki looked at me, her eyes lighting up. “Are you? That would be great. Linda and me—that’s not enough girls on the crew, not to mention all that testosterone with the band. Although if Ginny would come to help offset some of it...” She looked wistfully over at Ginny.

  Ginny sighed. “Kik, you know I can’t go on tour. I have thirteen-month-old twins at home. My husband would kill me. It’s amazing he gave me an overnight pass just to be here.”

  Kiki looked at me. “They are the cutest, by the way—the twins, I mean. Have you seen them?”

  I shook my head. “Not in person, but Dad sent me pictures of them at Christmas opening presents. Adorable.”

  Ginny beamed. “Thanks, Nessa. They are adorable, but also the reason I get no sleep. Well, them and working for your father.”

  Speaking of, I looked back toward the SUV. “Where’s all the clothes?”

  “Ken is taking them to the hotel. We can go through everything tonight and decide what the look will be for tomorrow’s performance.” I wasn’t at all surprised that they were paying this much attention to details like the boys’ look; boy bands were all about choreography on and off the stage.

  “What about Dave?” I asked.

  Ginny frowned. “Who?”

  I shook my head, having forgotten. “Sorry, I mean Willmont—the guy filling in. He goes by Dave.”

  “Oh right,” she said, nodding. “He already sent me his sizes and a couple of photos, so we have clothes for him, too. I can nip and tuck whatever needs altering.”

  “I can’t wait to get my hands on his hair,” Kiki said.

  I looked over at her. “What are you going to do with it?” I asked, realizing too late that my tone was a bit more alarmed than called for. I mean, he had good hair, so I just didn’t want her to mess with it too much.

  Kiki just raised her eyebrows slightly before saying, “Just a trim, maybe a few comb-in highlights. There’s not a lot of time to do anything else, but he’s cute as is, so he doesn’t need much.”

  “It’s just a school gig,” I said with a shrug.

  She gave me a withering look. “It’s a gig like any other. You know your father—they need to look great at all times. Anyway, with Rex here, the boys need to look their best. It’ll be great to get some action shots that aren’t posed. You can’t stage the energy that comes with a real performance.”

  I wondered if Rex was going to take pictures of the band and then Photoshop Dave out and Chris in later, but we were at the door to the rec building, so I didn’t have a chance to ask.

  Potato Betrayal. It’s a Thing.

  When I’d first learned Dad was bringing the band to Rosewood early to rehearse, I’d tried to order lunch for everyone via the school’s kitchen, knowing they sometimes catered events, but I realized quickly that they were already overwhelmed with preparations for the weekend’s parties.

  Being the resourceful person I am, I ordered in from a local deli (which I knew would be a hit, since deli was practically my father’s favorite food group) and had it delivered. Ten minutes before it was to arrive, I texted Sandy (who was still in her English class) and told her to meet me out in front so we could bring the food in.

  She must have bailed early on class because within moments, she came bounding down the front stairs to where I was sitting on the curb, enjoying the sunshine, thinking I should have put on some sunscreen.

  “Hey, girl,” she said, dropping down next to me. “Where are they?”

  “Back in the gym, practicing.”

  “I can’t wait,” she said. “How’s Dave fitting in?”

  I stood up and brushed off my butt when I saw the catering van pull in and stop at the security booth. “Perfectly. It’s going to be such a great show.”

  She smiled at me. “You don’t hate musicians as much as you let on.”

  I snorted so hard it actually hurt. “Oh yes, I do.”

  She rolled her eyes.
“You just say you do. But really, you secretly love them. That’s why you say you hate them.”

  “No,” I said as the van pulled up to the curb. “I really do hate them.”

  “Oh yeah?” She asked, a challenge in her voice. “Why do you hate them so much? You can’t have a good reason, or you’d have told me by now.”

  As I looked at my best friend and roommate, there was more than defiance in her eyes. I saw hurt. She knew I was holding something back. I looked away, ashamed that I’d lied to her all this time. But I couldn’t tell her the truth. Certainly not about everything.

  I sighed as the catering guy got out of the van. “Two words,” I whispered to her. “Andres Castillo.”

  She looked at me sideways. “That only happened last summer.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to say anything more, so I pretended I didn’t hear her and approached the catering guy like I didn’t know she was onto me.

  “It’s not that you hooked up with him that’s surprising...” Sandy whispered to me out of the side of her mouth.

  We were in the gym, filling up our paper plates from the spread Kiki and I had arranged while the boys had finished up their practice. (Sandy took the opportunity to shoot some preliminary video.) We’d hung back until my father and the guys had loaded their plates, eager to eat and get back to work.

  I glanced over at Sandy, waiting for her to finish.

  She rolled her eyes. “No, okay, fine. That’s totally surprising. You’ve always told me you hated musicians, so I can’t believe you even got close enough to him that a hookup could occur.”

  By always, she meant in the past two school years that we’d known each other. Technically, I hadn’t always hated musicians. It wasn’t like I was born full of contempt for them—they’d earned it.

  “Can we please have this conversation later?” I practically begged. I mean, seriously, the guys—including Andres, the guy we were talking about—were just a few yards away, chowing down on their much-deserved lunch while Dad coached them on their practice.

  “Oh, we are absolutely having this conversation later,” Sandy promised as she squirted a glob of mustard on her sandwich. It make a loud sucking noise, and we both giggled like toddlers.

  Thankful that she was done with the discussion for now, I turned to the potato salad and scooped some out, quickly realizing it was too much. I scraped some off back into the container and then went to put the rest on my plate. It wasn’t budging. “Hmm,” I said with a grunt, trying in vain to shake the sticky mass off the spoon. Without warning, the physics of shaking the spoon worked, and the food gave way. Although instead of landing on my plate, it arced up into the air and landed high on my right boob.

  A masculine snicker made me look up. Right into Andres’s eyes. I glanced over my shoulder, but Sandy was gone, taking a seat beside Darren. Her back was to me, so there was no way she’d see that I needed help.

  Everyone else was busy eating and talking. It was just Andres and me there at the table.

  Crap. I turned back to face forward. It couldn’t have been anyone else? No, of course not. I sighed, resigned to make some sort of crack about it to maybe diffuse the awkward even a little. His eyes drifted down to said right boob, just in time to watch the blob of potato and mayo roll off and land on the floor.

  This moment is pure perfection, I told myself. Just pretend he’s not there. I reached for a napkin and crouched down to pick up the mess. Except Andres seemed to have the same idea, crouching at the same moment and, of course, we butted heads.

  Painfully. Awkwardly. Humiliatingly.

  I grunted; he groaned.

  We locked eyes. His crinkled at the corners, because apparently, this was all just so hilarious.

  Also: stupid sexy-long eyelashes.

  I wanted to shake my fists and yell up at the sky: WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?

  Instead, I dropped my eyes and focused on the potato salad on the floor. “I got it,” I said as I tried to ignore the pulsing ache in my head while also avoiding Andres’s eyes.

  When he must have realized I had the mess well in hand, he finally straightened up, so all I could see in my peripheral vision were his legs clad in jeans ending at his worn black Chucks.

  Understanding that I didn’t need to ensure the floor was clean on a molecular level, I forced myself to stand up and tossed the napkin in the trash bin at the end of the table.

  “Uh, Vanessa?” Andres said, the amusement in his voice making me consider homicide very seriously. Or would that be musicicide? Death by being beaten with one’s own guitar?

  Keeping my eyes on the table, I ignored him and turned back toward the plate I’d abandoned, deciding against the potato salad after it had so thoroughly betrayed me.

  “Vanessa?” he said again.

  Finally, I steeled my spine and looked up at him, ignoring his full lips that were twisted up in a smirk. His eyes were dancing with mischief. Suddenly fighting tears of humiliation, I was no longer able to deal with him at all. Not his smirks, his bedroom eyes, or his impossibly long, too-pretty-for-a-man eyelashes.

  “Look,” I said, hissing past my constricted throat as I stepped closer so no one could hear. “I don’t want to hurt my father so I’m not going to tell him about you and what happened because if he did know, he would kick you out of the band. But you need to stay away from me, understand?”

  All the humor drained from his face. “But I...”

  I held up a hand and closed my eyes for a long second. “Not interested,” I said. “You’re not going to have to be around me very much, so just pretend you don’t know me and that nothing ever happened. All right?”

  “No,” he said.

  That got my attention. “What?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t forget what happened between us. I don’t want to.”

  The look in his eyes was intense. He didn’t blink, and I had to turn away, cursing the pounding organ in my chest that seemed to be pulsating along with what was surely going to be a goose egg on my head.

  “Well,” I said, having to clear my throat before I could continue, “you’re going to have to. It never happened.” Then, because I wasn’t about to argue and he was opening his mouth, presumably to do just that, I turned and walked away, taking a spot on one of the randomly placed folding chairs, right next to my dad.

  Like a coward, but whatever.

  “...should move Pieces of You to be the last in the set,” Dad was saying as I balanced my plate and picked up the half sandwich I’d grabbed from the platter. “It’s a powerful song and will leave a good impression on the crowd.”

  As he spoke, I chewed and watched Linda scribbling in a notebook. At the end of the day, she would type up everything they talked about so Dad could review later in the evening. It had been part of my job when I’d worked for him last summer—an important task that allowed him to stay on top of everything and keep so many balls in the air.

  “Not to mention, the girls will go crazy over it,” Kiki said, pointing her fork at Dad. “Too bad you don’t have any merch ready yet. I bet you’d be able to sell out of a shipment of Wiretap shirts at this one event alone.”

  I glanced over at Dave, who was staring at Kiki, incredulous, and it wasn’t over her look, either. He’d had plenty of time to get used to that. He simply had no idea just how much stuff a popular boy band could move: shirts, posters, keychains.

  Just then, I felt eyes on me. Not Andres’s, thankfully, as I’d kept tabs on him in my peripheral vision and knew he was sitting to my left. No, these eyes were coming from in front of me on the right. I looked up and discovered Max, the broody guy, staring at my chest. Not looking, not peeking. Staring.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, which seemed to grab his attention because his gaze snapped up to mine. His eyes widened a little and his cheeks instantly reddened. It would have been cute if he hadn’t been zoned in on my chest like it was an
oasis in the desert.

  What the hell? I had never had the kind of assets guys stared at. Not like that. And it’s not like I dressed to show them off—I was wearing a well fitted (but not tight) uniform blouse with all but one button done up. I glanced down, and it was only then that I remembered I’d been so caught up in cleaning the potato salad off the floor that I’d neglected to clean it off myself.

  Yep, there it was: a big smear of yellowy goop running down my right breast. Classy.

  I turned toward Andres and flicked my gaze pointedly down to my blouse and then at him. He must have known right away what it meant because he just shrugged and cocked his head helplessly. Apparently, that was what he’d been trying to tell me when I’d shut him down and walked away.

  I glanced over at Sandy, but she was watching Dad, engrossed in what he was saying. There was no way to get her attention.

  I was on my own. Again.

  Ignoring Andres, I stood, calmly put my plate down on my chair and walked toward the girls’ locker room as though it was no big deal.

  Potato salad happens every day.

  Stains happen every day.

  No big deal, Nessa.

  Or so I told myself as I sat in a toilet stall and bawled my eyes out.

  I got over myself, cleaned up my blouse, and went back out into the gym to find Sandy saying goodbye to everyone as she had to return to afternoon classes.

  The boys started in on their set again, sounding even tighter after Dad’s lunchtime feedback and encouragement.

  There was a tripod set up with a video camera, and Rex was moving around the stage, taking still shots, which the guys were finally starting to be able to ignore.

  “How are they going to handle a crowd of screaming girls tomorrow?” Ginny said.

  Dad grinned. “They’ll freak out, stumble a little, and then they’ll realize the girls are screaming for them, and they’ll ride the high of it. Well, all but Andy, who’s used to it. Not that I’m sure he won’t enjoy himself.”