Also by Katrina Abbott
The Rosewoods
Taking The Reins
Masquerade
Playing The Part
Reading Between The Lines
This Point Forward
Making Ripples
Acting Out
Hitting the Target
Turning the Page
Crossing the Line
New Beginnings - The Rosewoods Series - Books 1 - 3
Fresh Start: The Rosewoods Series Prequel
The Rosewoods - Bonus Content
I'll Never Forget
Risking it All
The Rosewoods Rock Star Series
Along for the Ride
Going on Tour
Working for the Band
Watch for more at Katrina Abbott’s site.
Vanessa
“But getting to know you now…I know you’re not a groupie. It’s not like that with you. You know music, you see me as I am. I know if you liked me, it would be because of me. Who I am, not what I am.”
I swallowed and looked up into his eyes. “As a rule, I don’t date musicians.”
He nodded, and I knew that he understood. “But even if you did like me, I know we can’t do anything about it, no matter how much I might want it. I never want you to think I’m taking advantage of you and your dad would—”
He stopped speaking very abruptly at that moment because it turns out it’s hard to talk when a girl—a girl who has sworn not to date musicians—gets up on her tiptoes and shoves her lips against yours.
Along for the Ride
The Rosewoods Rock Star Series
Book 1
By
Katrina Abbott
Over The Cliff Publishing, 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ALONG FOR THE RIDE
First edition. October 2016
Copyright © 2016 Katrina Abbott
Written by Katrina Abbott
ISBN-13: 978-1535316231
ISBN-10: 1535316233
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Author’s Note
Along for the Ride is the first book in The Rosewoods Rock Star series for readers who love swoony and fun romantic comedies about rock stars and the girls who can't resist them.
The Rock Star books are companions to the original Rosewoods series, but mostly take place after it, beginning chronologically after Crossing the Line (book 10). There are some spoilers, but each series can be read independently.
For Steven,
My very own rock star.
January - The Rosewood/Westwood Talent Show
We were waiting for the next act to come out, but the auditorium was far from quiet. In fact, it was the opposite of quiet because even though there had been two acts and a speech from the dean since, no one could stop talking about what had happened to Seychelles Spencer during Jared Abramovich’s performance.
The poor girl had suffered a wardrobe malfunction that would go down in infamy. Every single person had seen as her outfit had fallen to her waist, exposing her to the entire audience. Well, except for my roommate, Sandy—Sandrine—Thibeault, who’d stepped out to use the bathroom, thinking she wouldn’t miss anything. Not that I could blame her, I mean, who could have predicted that what had promised to be a lame amateur magic act would turn into the talk of the talent show?
“I can’t believe the dean is letting the show go on,” Sandy said from beside me. “Between that and the other guy’s I’m Sexy and I Know It stripping stunt.”
I smiled, shaking my head at the memory of that guy’s ridiculous dance as I watched a single Westwood boy come from the wings toward the center of the stage. He had a guitar slung over his shoulder and was carrying a stool.
Great, another musician wannabe, I thought. Like we need more of those. Instead of saying it out loud, knowing I had a tendency to be hyper-critical of musicians, I turned to my roommate and said, “What else is she going to do? If she shuts the show down, it’s just going to give people more time to talk about it. At least this way, there’s more opportunity for distraction.”
Sandy shrugged. “And you’re sure she didn’t do it on purpose?”
“Seychelles?” I asked and then shook my head, lowering my voice as the guy on stage was introduced. “No, if you’d seen her face, you wouldn’t be asking that. She might be a big flirt, but I really don’t think she intended to flash the entire audience. Believe me, she was mortified. That was no act.”
“This guy’s cute,” she said, turning her attention to the stage, which of course got me to do the same.
Sandy liked—no loved—musicians, so was already biased because of that guitar, but even still, I had to admit she was right. This guy was cute and the way he was really nervous as he bent over his guitar, clearly stalling, was even kind of endearing.
“Who is he?” I asked, not having paid attention to his intro.
“Willmont Davidson,” she said. “He used to date Emmie Somerville. She’s with some guy from town now, but I heard they’re still friends.”
I looked back up to the stage and wondered if this was his first performance.
And then I wondered just how awful he was going to be and steeled my nerves and eardrums to be seriously underwhelmed.
Yes, I was jaded. But I grew up the daughter of a famous music producer: Tony Capri—maybe you’ve heard of him? Anyway, I’ve been to a million concerts and recording sessions and was even my dad’s date to the Grammys (twice) so I knew about good music. A kid playing his guitar on the stage at a high school talent show wasn’t it.
As I sat there, absently sweeping the crowd with my eyes, my attention was suddenly drawn to the stage when he finally began to play.
Because I could tell right away that this guy wasn’t just practiced, this guy was talented.
He played his opening a second time, maybe to steel his nerves or to give the crowd a moment to pay attention, but it still sounded good, so I gave him a pass. Then he looked up at the audience, leaned into the mic, took a breath, and began to sing.
An instant hush fell over the crowd. Because every single person in that auditorium realized what I just had: this guy was good. Really good. Like, star-in-the-making good.
Tears sprang to my eyes at his voice, which was the perfect combination of throaty and masculine, but sweet at the same time. It was almost like his song was reaching toward me, grabbing me, entrancing me.
“Whoa,” fell from my mouth.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” Sandy said, glancing over with wide eyes. She was already clearly smitten, and I had to resist the urge to shake my head at how easily she fell for musicians—silly fangirl.
Though the way my heart pounded and I nodded, unable to find words, told me I was a little smitten, too. Not for the same reason, though. I mean, after a lifetime spent in studios, I was immune to the allure of musicians—their egos, their arrogance, their sense of entitlement, expecting to be treated like gods.
But that same lifetime spent in studios meant I had grown up loving music; it was in my blood, after all. And I could see raw talent up on that stage; learning to identify and cultivate it was my dad’s trade, and I’d inherited his keen ear.
There was a time I’d thought I’d follow in my father’s footsteps. Produce music, maybe even perform. But that was before I’d learned what musicians were really like and the damage they could do. Before I’d made a pact with myself to stay as far away from the music business as was humanly po
ssible.
Still, there was no denying the talent up on the Rosewood stage. Coupled with his clean-cut good looks and the fact that the entire audience was watching him, rapt by his stunning performance, I knew this guy was definitely boy band material.
As luck would have it, my father was in the process of putting together a new boy band and hadn’t yet found all his members.
I let out a sigh because as much as I hated musicians and the business, and the very last thing I needed was to get involved, I was going to have to tell my dad about this guy.
Shut Down
I’d thought about catching up with Willmont after the talent show, but by the time we filed out of our row at the back of the auditorium and I pushed my way against the tide of exiting students to the stage, he was gone.
Just as well, I thought. I wasn’t really sure what I’d say to him before talking to my dad anyway. Maybe I could have felt him out to see how serious he was about his music. Though I could hardly imagine him getting up on stage in front of two whole schools if he wasn’t a rock star wannabe. I’d spent last summer working for my dad, and one of my jobs was to filter all the e-mails from rock star hopefuls. It took up a lot of my time going through all the messages—they were a dime a dozen. More like a dime a thousand.
This time, I had no doubt my dad could make him a star—no wannabe about it. Tony Capri was the kind of guy who made dreams come true, provided the talent was there and in this case, I knew for a fact it was.
But I had to talk to him first before offering Willmont everything I was sure he wanted: fame, fortune, the world at his feet.
Sandy and I made our way back out through the rear of the auditorium, and I looked around, hoping to see Willmont. No such luck.
“I don’t see Dave,” Sandy said, drawing my attention to her, standing beside me.
“Dave?”
She rolled her eyes. “Uh, Dave. The guy with the guitar that you couldn’t stop watching?”
I stared at her blankly, so she laughed. “Willmont Davidson? Everyone calls him Dave—how do you not know this?”
“How do you figure I should know his nickname?” I asked. Maybe the guy was super-popular at Westwood, but that didn’t mean anything. I spent all my time either in school on campus or at the stables. If a guy didn’t ride, he wasn’t on my radar. If he was a musician, he wasn’t even in my universe.
She made a raspberry noise.
“I’m going upstairs to call my dad,” I said, trying to eyeball a path through the crowd in the lobby. I needed to get to the stairs and up to the dorm floors where it was quiet.
“He’s got it, doesn’t he?” Sandy asked, making me turn and look at her before I set out. “That whatever it is. I can tell by that twinkle in your eye.”
I nodded. “Yes, he’s got it.”
“I thought you hated musicians,” she said, looking at me sideways, skeptically.
“I do,” I said with a sigh. “But I love my dad, and he needs guys like this.”
My roommate gave me a knowing smile. “Right, your dad,” she said. Before I could argue, she nodded toward a pack of our friends. “I’m going to go see what the girls are up to. See you upstairs later.”
And then she was gone.
I had never been so excited to go to a dance, and it wasn’t because I’d get to socialize with boys. Well, just one boy, but not for socialization; I was going to see Dave and to tell him that my dad wanted him to come to Manhattan for an audition. He still needed two members for Wiretap—his new boy band—and Dave would be perfect.
A bunch of us went down early to await the Westwood buses: a favorite Rosewood girls’ pastime. Sandy must have noticed me glancing at the clock on the wall for like the thousandth time.
“They’ll be here soon,” she said. “I’ve never seen you so anxious. Why are you so amped up?”
I shook my head and laughed—at myself mostly. “I don’t know. I hate all this, but I can’t help but be excited knowing I’m going to help make his dreams come true.”
She smiled. “I get that. Maybe he’ll be grateful. Really grateful.” She waggled her eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Just think,” she said, as though she hadn’t even heard me. “You’ll get all the credit for making him famous. You’ll have to fight off all the fangirls and groupies.”
I was about to protest that I wouldn’t be fighting off anything, when the gym erupted into a roar at the Westwood boys’ arrival. I practically held my breath, watching for Dave to come in.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long. I noticed him right away as he came in with a bunch of guys who were laughing and chatting around him, making their way toward a group of girls that I recognized as Seychelles Spencer, Brooklyn Prescott, and their friends. I knew Brooklyn from the stables—she was on the dressage team (somehow—she was really not a good rider) and had a huge crush on our former coach, which was probably why she was even on the team. Though he’d been off since hurting himself before Christmas and inexplicably she’d stayed.
I hardly had time to wonder if she was dating one of these guys and didn’t really care besides—I wanted to get to Dave first.
Taking a breath, I took several steps until I blocked his trajectory, causing him to almost bash into me.
“Hey,” I said.
He lurched to a stop and looked around in surprise before eyeing me, obviously confused. “Uh, hi?”
“Can we talk for a few minutes?” I asked, unable to stop the stupid grin on my face.
He frowned and looked over my shoulder toward where his friends had joined the girls, and I was sure he must have thought I was crazy and wondering just who the hell I was.
“Just a couple of minutes,” I assured him. “You’re going to like it, I promise.”
Boy, was I wrong.
“What do you mean?” my dad said on the phone a half hour later.
I’d been so shocked at what Dave had said that I’d left the dance and returned to my dorm to call my dad right away. Now it was his turn to be flabbergasted.
I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see through the phone. “He said he’s not interested.”
“Because of school? Did you tell him we’re not starting up the tour until the summer, and we’re going to only do intensive weekend rehearsals until then?”
“He wouldn’t say why, but yes, I told him that.”
“He knows it’s a paid gig, right? Not an internship…”
“Yes, Dad,” I sighed. “But remember, he probably comes from money, so it’s not about that.”
“Huh,” Dad said, obviously having trouble accepting that someone wasn’t interested in being rich and famous. Dad was usually the one turning people down, not the other way around. “Did you give him my number? Maybe I can talk to him.”
I thought back to those awkward moments in the gym when I’d tried to force my dad’s card into Dave's hand, but he’d refused to take it. The card had ended up on the floor, and I’d had to scramble to pick it up as he tried to walk away from me. Well, no, he didn’t try, he did walk away from me. Rather rudely.
Musicians.
“I’ll keep at him,” I promised, though I wasn’t sure what good it would do. He’d seemed adamant that he wasn’t interested and almost seemed disgusted at the concept. Sure, boy bands weren’t exactly everyone’s idea of serious music, but it would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience and could totally springboard his career. Plus, my father was committed to making sure these guys weren’t just fluffy eye candy—he wanted real musicians.
Dad sighed. “Don’t push too hard. If he’s not into it, we can’t force him. The last thing I need is someone walking out halfway through a tour because he never wanted to be there in the first place. But after you were so sure…” he trailed off, clearly disappointed.
“I know, Dad,” I said with a sigh. “I’m so sorry. I never would have guessed he wasn’t into it.”
“It’s all right, kidd
o,” Dad said. “I have some auditions lined up for this week.”
“That’s great!” I said, hopeful that he’d find someone as good as Dave. Or that Dave would come around.
“Yeah,” he said. “Graeme and Darren are really shaping up, and I’ve just signed a bass player. Now if we could only find a couple of guitars we’d be all set.”
“Do you really need two guitars?” I asked.
“The magic number for the band is five.”
“Right,” I said with a chuckle. “The boy band formula.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. That formula is going to pay for your cushy summer in the Hamptons.”
“I’m not knocking it, Dad,” I said, laughing. “And believe me, I am going to appreciate that summer if it ever gets here.” I glanced up at the window, and like I’d cued Mother Nature, it was snowing again.
“Unless you’d rather work for me again this summer.”
“Nice try,” I said, not even bothering to pretend to consider it. While I’d worked for my dad the summer before, he had been between projects and was just starting to do the preliminary work for Wiretap, so while it was busy, it wasn’t insane busy, and it was office work and a few festival gigs, not studio work. But this summer was going to be crazy and filled with the drama of going on tour with five guys who, let’s face it, were probably just as interested in hooking up with groupies as they were in playing music. Like I needed that in my life.
No thanks. And anyway, Sandy was going to be spending the summer with me since her parents did the Europe thing and she wasn’t into it. We already had it all worked out, right down to the several days a week I was going to ride at the stables down the road from our summer house.
“Worth a shot,” he said, resigned. “Good thing I’ve got Linda on the payroll. All right, I’d better go back to reviewing more demos. When will I see you?”
Along for the Ride Page 1