My 90s Boy Band Boyfriend: A YA Time Travel Rockstar Romance (Teen Queens Book 2)

by Jennifer Griffith

  My 90s Boy Band Boyfriend

  A YA Time Travel Rockstar Romance

  A Teen Queens Novel

  by

  Jennifer Griffith

  Part I: Hudson’s Story

  Twenty-three Years Ago

  Scene 1: “Blame it on the Rain”

  Hudson Oaks set his guitar case down hard on the tarmac, not even caring if the neck of the Fender Stratosphere broke or if the puddle from the pounding Oregon rain seeped in through the leather case. Not even caring that he was about to get on a small commuter plane. In a storm.

  “You heard them, Levy.” For the first time in his life, Hudson knew what the cliché meant, seeing red, because his agent Roman Levy’s whole fat, balding head glowed red in Hudson’s eyes—and not merely from the taillights on their private plane. The album was a piece of trash. Roman had to know that. Being the successful music exec he was, he couldn’t be missing that key skill of knowing when music stunk. “Everybody at Mississippi Studios downtown hated it. And they are the crowd, in all of Portland, who goes for new songs the most.”

  “Kid, I had the best songwriters on the label put that together for Girl Crazy.”

  The best! Hudson scoffed silently.

  “Sure, the music is fine,” he said, trying to be tactful when he really wanted to figure out how to get out of all of it. “It’s good, actually. Strong beat.”

  “You’d know. You wrote the melody yourself.”

  Yeah, he had, and Roman had found a great team of musicians to add the orchestration, fill it out to something great.

  “Dude, you have to admit, those lyrics aren’t good.” Hudson was seventeen and could write better lyrics than that. A dead monkey could write better lyrics. “I mean, I saw you across the lunch room, your plate piled high with salad? I don’t think the guys and I should sing that in Seattle. They’ll throw salad at us. We’ll get thrown off the freeway overpass.”

  Hudson knew. He’d grown up in Seattle and been in school assemblies where the amateur bands got booed off the stage, and one extra-unforgiving day, tossed in the Dumpster out behind the school.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? I mean, think of all the great novelty songs out there. They’ve been massive hits.”

  Novelty songs? “As in?”

  “‘Achy Breaky Heart’ by Billy Ray Cyrus comes to mind. I can’t think of any others offhand, Hudson.” He sighed, impatience creeping in. “Come on, it’s raining. You’re going to delay the flight and it’s already supposed to get stormier. The co-pilot just told me there’s going to be a change in the flight plan to skirt the worst part of the storm.” He looked up at the sky.

  “It is coming down,” Hudson conceded.

  “Right, and we’ve got to get you to Seattle for the press event. Like I said, that’s happening bright and early. We want you and the boys to look like the fresh young men you are.” Roman reached out and pinched Hudson’s cheek. “We want every mom in America to believe it’s okay for her daughter to be in love with you so she’ll buy tickets to your show. That’s why we made the lyrics so squeaky clean. That’s why we are cultivating a totally clean-cut image for you and Nick and Chris and Al. It’s vital. And if you’re not rested, you’ll look haggard for the photo shoot, or worse, for when you meet the reporters. We don’t want you looking like you stayed up partying all night.”

  “We don’t party.” Hudson huffed in exhaustion. Girl Crazy was probably the only boy band in the world on such a short leash. Then again, Roman wanted the actual product to match the package. He didn’t want any cries of bait and switch.

  “And that’s not going to change.” Roman looked at his gold watch. “You boys are under my protection, and no one is going to change that. I take my responsibility as your agent far more seriously than any other agents of teen talent out there.”

  “And we appreciate it, Roman. Really.”

  “Haven’t I taught you not to fall into traps? I taught you how to invest your money, a mix of stocks and bonds, cash and savings. Haven’t I taught you not to fall for scheming women or to hang out with other artists who are drug addicts? You have to choose your friends wisely. I’m your friend.”

  As annoying as the tight reins were, Hudson couldn’t help but think Roman really did care about them—and their longer term future. He didn’t want the guys to burn out after a few hits, and then be left with nothing but addictions and regrets. That was such a cliché, and with Roman’s help, they might actually be able to avoid it.

  “Not to beat a dead horse, and I know the lyrics team probably meant well, but doesn’t protecting us include protecting our reputations?” Hudson couldn’t back down on this point, not entirely. He had to think about the guys. “Lyrics like Where’d you get that smile? Buffet cart number three? may be forgivable here in Portland where people are nice, but we’ll get lynched pretty much anywhere else, no matter what success we had with ‘Sweet Sixteen’ in the past.”

  A one- or even two-hit wonder streak wouldn’t immunize Girl Crazy against disgust when they sang about the lunch lady, which wasn’t what the song was about, but could be misconstrued that direction. Why he hadn’t spoken up during the recording sessions he didn’t know.

  No, it was because of Roman.

  Roman had promised they’d tweak the words eventually, if they still didn’t like them once the whole product was done. But it had taken longer than expected, due to some contract issues, and they’d ended up recording it in bits and spurts. Both Roman and the producers had sworn up and down that when Hudson heard the whole thing put together, the lyrics would make sense—and make girls swoon.

  Hudson and the guys hadn’t heard the finished product until this afternoon. And they’d performed it tonight in the preview show, and it had not gone well. Understatement.

  Now it was the beginning of their tour, their first with an album, and it was too late.

  Roman looked sympathetic. “I did promise we’d work through those lyrics. You’re right. We can … wait to release it. Just start the tour, since tickets have been sold and venues have been booked. We can’t lose that revenue now.”

  “You’d do that? Delay release?”

  Roman exhaled. “If it means that much to you. But I still think the crowd is going to like it.”

  He couldn’t be serious. “I saw the looks on their faces, Roman. It wasn’t amusement in a good way. It was mockery.” Then it had morphed into disgust.

  “So, look, until we get new lyrics put together, just perform what you’ve got. Then, when the crowd gets restless, play your hits. Or cover some other bands’ songs. You can choose the playlist. You’re the band leader for Girl Crazy.” Rain was pouring in a thin curtain off the rim of Levy’s umbrella, making his face wobbly, like a fun house mirror. “I trust you to solve this. Step up and lead.”

  Lead. Yeah, that was what the guys were looking to him to do. They trusted him.

  Maybe it was the exhaustion speaking. He and the boys had spent the last two months cutting the album, which had just come out of editing and remixing yesterday. Too many sleepless nights might be the thing making Hudson’s world seem oppressive all of a sudden.

  He could hear his inner voice now, Oh, you poor, miserable pop superstar. I feel so sorry for you. His inner voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “That paperwork I had you sign today is for the duration of the tour, this album’s promotion, and the next. You’re destined to go far beyond the 1990s with this music. Trust me.”

  A phone’s ring sound
ed from the open door of Levy’s limousine. The car phone. Levy was rarely off it when they traveled, always making appearance arrangements for Hudson and the rest of Girl Crazy. Hudson couldn’t deny the band manager’s dedication and loyalty, regardless of his taste in lyrics.

  “I do need to get that. And you need to get on that plane. Manny’s waiting.” Roman pointed to the cockpit, where their usual pilot waited. Roman knew the other reason Hudson delayed getting on the plane. “I know you hate to fly, but you really do need to get going.”

  “Fine. The beat is catchy.” And the melody he really liked. Hudson stared across the tarmac at the thick stand of trees separating the airport from the rest of the city. “And the chord progression is complex and impressive.”

  If only he could force his mind to come up with lyrics. Melody, yes. Always. But lyrics killed him every time. Regardless of his struggle against writing words to his tunes, he would never have penned anything as bad as the lunch lady song. Sure, its real title was “Cafeteria Girl,” but no one, not even the band, referred to it as that.

  The ice machine shivers, and so do I, when I see your ice-blue eyes.

  For reals? No way was he going to sing those lyrics live at their first tour stop in Seattle. In the city that worshiped Kurt Cobain, they’d be eaten alive—no matter how great and complex the music and chord progression were. Those stink-bomb lyrics turned the song into a bogus mess.

  “See? Catchy beat, chord progression. You’ll be fine. The album has a lot going for it.” Roman’s eyes crinkled at the sides. “Like especially you and the guys. You’re the selling point, far more than the music. I’ve told you that a thousand times.”

  “How long is the flight?” Hudson shuddered when he placed his hand on the railing of the stairs to the open plane door.

  Levy’s phone had quit ringing. He’d have to return the call. Hudson felt guilty. He knew Roman juggled ten thousand details for Girl Crazy, and at least a couple of other acts. He’d stepped in after Hudson’s and all the other guys’ parents started taking Girl Crazy’s stardom too seriously and began hounding the young singers for a piece of their finances. He’d shielded their phone calls and letters, made sure Hudson and the boys hadn’t needed to deal with that drama.

  “It’s three hours.”

  “Three!” But Seattle was barely half a state away. They could drive it in three hours. Come on.

  “Like I said, due to the weather. The co-pilot told me you’re diverting eastward a little. He’s updating Manny on the latest flight plan. I want you guys safe. Calm down. It’s going to be fine.”

  Three hours! Three hours of psychological prison. And since when did their plane need a co-pilot? Maybe because of the storm Roman considered it safer for Manny to have backup.

  Then again, three hours might give Hudson time to scrawl out a few substitute lyrics and teach them to Al, Nick, and Chris before the plane touched down in Seattle. The guys would relish the chance to change the words. They hated them too.

  Only Chris had spoken up to Roman about it, but the four of them had been in a huddle over it since it became apparent that the song was as awful as it was.

  “Okay, fine. If you’re keeping us safe.”

  “Control tower’s given the A-OK.” Levy tapped his Rolex with his index finger. “You need to board now, Hudson. Time is money.”

  “Right. We’ll see you in Seattle tomorrow. Press conference.” New hope infused Hudson. They had a fresh contract with a new album—that he was sure he could fix—and a world tour. He should be on top of the world.

  Should be.

  And after a three-hour plane ride filled with inspired lyrics, he would be.

  Yeah. In fact, Hudson would insist they re-cut the album with just the lead vocals, to save time. Which was money, after all. The backups would be fine as is. Roman couldn’t deny him that. Relief and excitement started flooding him. Yeah, this would work. They could do it after Seattle and before the world tour kickoff.

  “See you in Seattle, Hudson.” Roman gave him the thumbs up.

  As Roman turned to go, a flash of guilt hit Hudson. He should tell Levy the truth, at least hint at his plans. “And just so you know, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised when we perform ‘Cafeteria Girl’ in Seattle.”

  He turned his back on Levy and took two metal steps at a time up into the plane, his heart pounding for a lot of reasons.

  Setting foot inside, he glanced down at his wrist watch. It blinked the time—eleven eleven p.m.

  That’s a lucky number. Seeing it might be an omen. Ever since he was a kid, he’d made a wish every time he’d noted that time. He felt lucky right now. Both courage and encouragement flooded Hudson. He held his breath and made a solemn, eleven eleven wish.

  I wish for ... He didn’t put it into words, but its nebulous gist was a wish for a gift to write a meaningful song that would touch someone’s heart.

  He glanced down at his watch again. The time still hung on at eleven eleven, so he added a secondary wish—and that I won’t die on this plane.

  The door swung shut behind him, and he raced back to the leather seats of the private plane where Nick, Chris, and Al were already sitting, waiting.

  The piano-man Al read a bull riding magazine, for research on his role as the cowboy member of the band. Chris, wearing his camouflage, was sharpening a big bowie knife on a whetstone. The jungle soldier was his image as lead guitarist. Drummer Nick had his eyes closed and played the air-drums with imaginary drumsticks, as always. Sticks, the publicity department had dubbed him.

  There they were, four normal idiotic teens, morphed into pop stars, each with a role to play—the cowboy, the soldier, the wild man on drums, and then Hudson as lead singer, forced to impersonate a movie star. Didn’t movie stars build their careers on impersonating someone else?

  According to their handlers, Chris had to have the macho image. Nick needed to be the strong, silent type—since it was a lot better for everyone if they didn’t know how little Nick was thinking about anything at all besides drumbeats. Al was the winsome cowboy with the goofy grin who knew all the puns, even though they were all on cue cards.

  The unlucky Hudson had been styled as the rock star version of Tom Cruise, right down to the Ray-Ban sunglasses and gelled hair. There were a lot of stars he’d rather be assuming the character of. But as a math geek at his core, and after far too many years with braces on his teeth, being constantly compared to the Top Gun star did wonders for his confidence around girls, no question.

  Contractually from the beginning, they’d been required to portray themselves like this every single day, at least in public.

  Girl Crazy wasn’t just assembled, it was manufactured.

  “Nice set on the snare and high hat, Sticks.” Hudson gave Nick a nod as he passed and plopped down in the captain’s chair across from him and Chris.

  “You can hear it, too?” Nick often asked whether other people heard the voices in his own head. “I’m trying to get the syncopation right for ‘Lunch Lady.’”

  “That’s a rough gig.” Al looked up from his magazine and pushed his Stetson back on his head. “Is it just me, or is there something really wrong with that song? Not the song-song, but the words. The song is kind of cool.”

  “Oaks!” Chris said, his camouflage jacket buttoned up all the way to his neck. “You got a look in your eye.”

  “It’s not just you, Al.” Hudson smirked. “There’s definitely something wrong with that song. But not for long.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Chris shoved his whetstone into one of the pockets on his cargo pants. “Are you going to kill it?” He feigned stabbing the back of an empty seat with his knife. “Die! Die! Die!”

  “Sure as you have a cotton headband tied around your forehead.”

  “What is it?” Chris flicked the dangling fabric back from where it hung in his eye. Despite the fact he’d never been hunting and had no plans of joining the army—the Sylvester Stallone character was hi
s assigned persona. Actually, he planned on becoming a lawyer like his dad if their fame ever dried up, rather than a paramilitary mercenary. Then again, maybe that was splitting hairs. “You’re not going to tell Roman we hate it, are you?”

  “That’s what took me so long on the tarmac.”

  Nick whacked his drumsticks hard on the seat back. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Way to go, Hudson. That’s why you’re the lead.”

  “I bet he wasn’t too happy about it.” Al shoved his bull riding magazine in the seat back pocket. “He didn’t like it when Chris told him he wanted another lawyer to read our contract today, either. Why in the bleep is he handing us so much paperwork to sign all of a sudden? I’m getting a hand cramp. I won’t be able to play my synthesizer.”

  Al was right. There had been a tower of paperwork to sign, now that Hudson thought about it.

  “It’s just prep for the tour, guys.” Hudson had more important things to discuss with them, like brainstorming better lyrics.

  “Get over it, Al. Roman just wants to protect us.” Nick hit his sticks together now in a litany of taps. “I asked the same thing. He said we’re all good, so I signed. Didn’t you, Al?”

  Hudson saw Chris smirk and open his mouth to say something, but he shut it again, as if he’d changed his mind. Hudson would have to get to the bottom of that—but later.

  Al shrugged and straightened his hat. The piano man was the designated rhinestone cowboy of the band, with his open-chested Western shirts with pearl snaps. Hudson wouldn’t have worn pearl snaps well, but Al pulled it off, and the girls really did go crazy for Al.

  “Listen up, boys. I’ve made a decision.” The plane started taxiing, and Hudson took charge of the conversation. He needed them to work together on this. “I’m rewriting some lyrics. At least ‘Cafeteria Girl’ and ‘Pardon Me.’ Before we get to Seattle.”

  “Uh, it’s only Portland to Seattle,” Chris scoffed. “Can you write two songs in less than an hour? If so, I bow to your skill.”

  “It’s going to be longer because of the storm.” Thinking about the storm made Hudson’s heart rate rise again. He hated flying. “But you can help me. If we have them finished—”