Oh my gosh! Is this really happening? What is he going to do to me? How far will this go? I try to detach myself—again metaphorically—but it’s impossible. No one has ever attacked me like this before, and tears start to leak out the corners of my eyes.
One of his hands clasps my butt cheek as he moves me upstairs. My stomach plummets as I hope against all hope Sierra stays in her room. She cannot see this. I don’t want her to see this.
We get to the top of the landing and I hear a doorknob turn, but it’s not from Sierra’s room. It’s the front door which is in plain view from where Cody has me pinned. Cody hears it too and he shoots upright, letting go of me long enough so I can fix my top before someone walks in.
“Hello?”
I’m too relieved to be confused about Zak standing in the doorway. I jog down the stairs, coming within inches of his body, but stop myself from hugging him. My arms drop and I pretend I was going to scratch my head, looking like an idiot. His puzzled face would be comical if it weren’t for the tense atmosphere. I take a small step away as Cody descends the staircase. I search deep inside my voice box for a cheery tone and blink away the water from my eyes. “Hey, uh … my dad’ll be home in a minute and he can get you that book you wanted. I’m not sure where he put it. You can sit over there if you wanna wait.”
I’m so glad Zak knows when to act stupid and when to play along. “Thanks, Zoe.” He goes into the living room and sits down, not taking his eyes off me and my now very ex-boyfriend. No way will that guy ever get near me again. Cody looks like he just got attacked by fire ants with how red he is. He clears his throat and looks at me.
“I better get back to the party. You comin’?”
“No.” Hell no. I don’t look him in the eyes, because now they scare the crap out of me. “I’m sick, remember?”
“Your loss.” He shrugs out the front door and I almost break into tears right there in the entryway. But Zak’s presence shuts me off from losing it.
“Are you all right?” he asks, getting off the couch and stepping closer to me. I quickly try to erase the pain and horror from my face, putting my calm mask on.
“Yeah. I’m just not feeling well, like I told Cody. So, I’m going to go upstairs and sleep it off.”
“Zoe, don’t pretend like I don’t know what just happened.”
I feel all the color drain from my body. So much for looking calm. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Zak bores his eyes into mine. I fold my arms again and stare back. He’s not going to get me to admit to anything. I’m not even sure what happened. It’s like my mind can’t catch up with the reality of it all.
“Well, next time I see him attack you like that, I’m calling the cops.”
Agh! What the crap? How did he …? I gaze out the window behind him and I see he has a perfect view of the living room if he’s in his kitchen.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” I lie. “Really, it’s always like that.”
“If that’s the case, I’m calling the cops right now.”
“Wait,” I say, coming up short on excuses. I don’t know why I care so much, or why I’m giving Zak the attitude, especially since he just saved me, but I find myself trying to keep up my fake persona. “Don’t call the cops. I just … uh … we got in a fight, and he wanted to make up. And … uh, I wasn’t exactly done being mad at him, you know?” Great, now I sound like a rambling fool.
Zak studies my face. His eyes search mine for any deception, but since what I said isn’t completely untrue, he lets it go.
“Okay. Sorry I barged in. I thought it was a problem.”
“No, there’s no problem.”
He studies my face once again before going out the door. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until the hot air escapes my nose. I jog upstairs, slam my bedroom door and put on my baggy pajamas before curling up under my sheets and crying myself to sleep.
Also look for THE FUNERAL SINGER, a young adult contemporary romance, coming from Swoon Romance on September 24, 2013
THE FUNERAL SINGER
Linda Budzinski
Chapter One
Normally I didn’t attend my father’s funerals unless I was scheduled to sing, but it wasn’t every day Dad buried a rock star.
No way would I miss Mick Nolan’s service. It was by far the coolest thing to ever happen at Martin’s Family Mortuary. I rifled through my closet full of black dresses—eight in all, but none quite right for today. I wanted to look good, but of course, this was a funeral, not a concert, and I was in mourning. Mick was my second favorite member of The Grime, behind bassist Zed Logan.
Ah, bass players. Soulful, brooding, background guys.
I finally settled on a knee-length dress with long, sheer, flowing sleeves. Its neckline dipped low enough to be sexy but not, I hoped, disrespectful.
Turned out, I shouldn’t have worried. Downstairs looked like the set of a music video. Girls in miniskirts, midriff tops, and strappy heels pranced around guys in torn jeans and t-shirts. A sea of tattooed arms, legs, bellies, and backs clashed against the lobby’s soothing rose-and-tan striped wallpaper.
My dad walked around solemnly shaking each person’s hand and intoning over and over, “Thank you for coming,” and “So sorry for your loss.” His dark blue suit, which usually helped him blend into the background, had the opposite effect, and he stuck out like … well, like a funeral director at a rock concert.
“There you are, Melanie.” My mother thrust a wreath of red and white chrysanthemums into my arms and pointed me toward the chapel. “Set this with the other arrangements and then head out front to help Dawn hand out the programs.”
The wreath was so large I could barely see around it, but I knew every inch of the chapel as well as I knew every word of “Candle in the Wind.” I wound my way down the aisle and toward the front, where Mick’s Grecian-style urn, hand-painted with The Grime’s logo, sat on top of his keyboard. I waded through dozens of wreaths, sprays, and bouquets until I found a place to squeeze in the new addition. The sweet scent made me dizzy. Never before had I seen so many flowers. Of course, never before had we held a service for someone famous.
I stopped by the urn and said a quick prayer. Mick had overdosed on cocaine at age twenty-one. My first reaction when I’d heard the news—and I’m not proud of this—was: What would happen to the band? That was almost a month ago, and there had been a small, private service a few days later. Today’s event, “A Celebration of Mick’s Life,” was open to everyone.
As I turned to leave, I spotted an older woman seated in the front row of the chapel, fingering a delicate gold cross around her neck. I’d read somewhere that Mick’s grandmother had raised him. That had to be her. I turned, hoping to escape before she noticed me, but she stood and called out. “Excuse me, sweetheart. Do you know how long it will be before the service begins?”
I glanced at the clock on the back wall. “About twenty minutes.” If I were my father, I’d offer her some water or ask if she needed anything while she waited. Maybe I’d even sit down and take her hands in mine and ask how she was holding up. Instead, I turned and ran.
Avoid close family. That was my rule, and though I’d been to hundreds of funerals in the past few years, I’d somehow managed to follow it—most of the time, anyway.
The trick was to sneak up to the chapel’s balcony just before the service began, perform my songs, and disappear as soon as it ended. Let my dad deal with the dearly beloved. The bereaved. The very word felt heavy, loaded down with a heartache and pain and emptiness I had no clue how to handle.
I made my way down the chapel aisle, through the lobby, and outside onto the porch, where Dawn, our receptionist, shot me a panicked look and handed me half of her stack of memorial programs. “Thank goodness you’re here. This place is a madhouse.”
The Grime hadn’t had a hit in almost two years, but they still had plenty of fans here in their hometown, just across the river from Washington, D.C. The line woun
d all the way down and around the end of our block. “No way all these people will fit inside the chapel,” I said. “Dad’ll have to come out and shut the doors soon.”
Dawn pointed toward a pair of cop cars parked across the street. “That’s why I called them to come out early.” The police normally didn’t arrive until the end of the service, so they could escort the funeral procession to the cemetery.
“You don’t think we’ll have any problems, do you?”
Dawn looked around. The crowd was large, but tame. “No, but better safe than sorry.”
A few girls from my high school called to me from halfway back in the line. “Hi, Mel! Love your dress!”
I pretended not to hear them. They treated me like the Freaky Funeral Girl at school, and now they wanted to act as though we were best buds?
I scanned the parking lot. Only one news van—our local Channel 4. Too bad. I’d hoped TMZ would show up, or MTV, or at least Entertainment Tonight. Then again, Mick had two strikes against him: First, The Grime’s second album had tanked, after which Rolling Stone had labeled them a “one-hit wonder,” and second, he played keyboards. Keyboardists got no respect.
A woman with poofy blond hair rushed over, signaling a cameraman to follow. “Hey, you! Girl with the programs! Can you tell us where the band members are?”
I shook my head. “They’re not here yet.” The Grime’s crew had come by this morning to set up their equipment and tune their guitars, but the band was nowhere to be seen.
The woman sighed and turned back to her cameraman. “Fine. Let’s keep doing fan interviews. One of these idiots is bound to have something interesting to say.”
They cornered a girl with pink-streaked hair and a pierced lip. “Hello, I’m Andrea Little, Channel 4 News. Mind if we ask a few questions?” About halfway through the interview, the girl started sobbing, her makeup forming two dark tracks down her cheeks. Now there was a girl who didn’t go to many funerals. Should’ve gone easy on the mascara and made sure it was super waterproof.
My mom was big on the value of crying. She said holding back could make you sick, and that her job as a grief counselor was to get people to let it all out. That was one thing we had in common. When I was singing up in that balcony, I wanted to make people feel something—sadness, anger, relief—whatever it was they needed.
One thing was for certain: Pink Hair Girl didn’t need help from me, my mom, or anyone else. As I watched, she fished a tissue out of her bag, wiped her cheeks, and blew her nose with a loud honk. Andrea Little backed up and grimaced, but she motioned at the cameraman to zoom in closer.
Dad came out and called over one of the cops. “We’re at capacity,” he told him. “We need to shut the doors.”
“But, Dad …” I said.
“Fire marshal’s rules, honey.” He pointed to the speakers mounted at both ends of the porch. “We’ll pipe the sound from the service out here. Everyone is more than welcome to stay and listen.”
“But, Dad, the band members aren’t here yet. We have to let them in.”
Dad glanced at his watch and stepped back inside. “Right. When they show up, send them into the chapel. But no one else.”
While the cops explained to the crowd what was happening, Dawn and I walked around and passed out the rest of the programs, souvenirs for people to take home even though they couldn’t get in. As I handed out the last few, I spotted my best friend, Lana, making her way through the crowd. Apparently she’d gotten the memo about the miniskirts.
“This is insane,” she said when she reached me. “Mom had to drop me off a block away.”
I nodded toward her oversized purse. “Let me guess. Your Randy-approved outfit is in there.” No way would her uber-strict stepdad have let her out of the house wearing so little.
Lana grinned and opened her bag to reveal a full-length black skirt crammed inside. “What Mr. Control Freak doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Well, you look great, as always.” I led her up the stairs onto the porch. “It’s standing-room only inside. Dad shut the doors, so I’ll have to sneak you in.”
She ran her fingers through her tight blond curls and adjusted her sweater to bare her right shoulder. “Is Bruno in there?” Lana was obsessed with The Grime’s lead singer, Bruno Locke. He seemed like an arrogant, self-absorbed jerk to me, but then again, that would fit right in line with her dating record.
I shook my head. “No sign of the band yet.”
Just as I opened the door for her, a limo pulled up. It was longer, sleeker, and somehow even a little blacker than my dad’s limos. And unlike my dad’s cars, it had shiny chrome bumpers and chrome-spoked wheels.
Lana grabbed my hand. “That must be them.”
A huge guy with a shaved head stepped out from the driver’s seat. Andrea and her cameraman rushed over. “Back up,” he yelled at them. “The band will not do any interviews. You can film them walking in, but they won’t stop to talk.”
I held my breath as lead guitarist Jon Marks and drummer Ty Walker stepped out. Next came Bruno, and Lana squeezed my hand so tightly I thought my fingers might break. Bruno paused for a moment and eyed the crowd. When he noticed the camera, he tilted his head and gave his signature sneer. Oh, please. Couldn’t he give it a rest, even for one day?
Finally, out stepped Zed. Shorter than he looked in their videos but otherwise even better in person. The messy dark hair, the brown eyes, the scar on the left side of his chin. So hot.
I held the door open and they filed past.
Zed shot me a half-smile. “Thank you.”
“You too.”
You too? Ugh. Real smooth.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SAMPLE: HOW TO DATE A NERD
SAMPLE: THE FUNERAL SINGER
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SAMPLE: HOW TO DATE A NERD
SAMPLE: THE FUNERAL SINGER
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