Along for the Ride

by Katrina Abbott

  Dad looked over at me. “So you really don’t want in the business, huh? You’re still serious about that?”

  I didn’t look at him, scared of seeing disappointment on his face—it was bad enough hearing it in his voice. “Very serious.”

  “You’d be good at producing,” he said, for the millionth time since I was old enough to sit on his lap at the mixing board. The difference was that now I knew he really meant it. Not that it mattered even if it was true.

  “Not interested,” I said, realizing as I did that I sounded a lot like Dave had when I’d tried to convince him to join Wiretap. Ironic, I know, but I had my reasons. Good ones.

  “It’s because of—”

  “Dad,” I said, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He blew out a loud breath. “Which is probably why we should.”

  Even though it had been years, tears rose to my eyes. “Dad, please,” I begged. “I came here to see you and meet the band because I’m curious, not because I want to join the family business. Can we just leave it at that and have a nice visit?”

  By that time, we were at the studio, and I stopped, my hand on the front door. I looked at him, waiting for his answer. He sighed and nodded. “I’ve made peace with it. With her, all of it, you know.”

  I swallowed. “That’s good,” I said, my throat tight on the words.

  “You should, too. It’s been a long time, Nessa. You can’t hold onto that anger forever.”

  Wanna bet? I thought but just shook my head and opened the door.

  I had just taken a huge bite of my corned beef on rye when my eye was caught by bodies walking past the glass-walled conference room we were in. Tall, male bodies. Though I couldn’t see much else through the mostly closed blinds, no matter how hard I tried.

  Distracted, I nearly choked on the food, which wasn’t just humiliating, but made me instantly angry at myself. Luckily, no one seemed to notice as I forced the food down and took a long slug of my lemonade.

  “Oh good,” Dad said, putting down his sandwich and glancing toward me. “The boys are back. I’ll go get them so you can meet them.”

  Linda shook her head. “They’re fine. Let us eat and we’ll go out when we’re done.”

  I gave her a grateful look as Dad dropped back into his chair. Not only did I not want to meet these guys while I had a mouth full of food that was obviously a choking hazard, but…no, that was pretty much it.

  They are musicians, I told myself. You knew they were going to be hot, there’s no reason to get all flustered. Remember what happened last time you got mixed up with a musician?

  I felt my face heat up, so I bent my head, intent on my food, hoping no one noticed.

  No one knew about the musician I’d hooked up with at last summer’s Fourth of July music festival in a rare moment of weakness.

  Andres Castillo had just finished his set and was coming down off the stage when we locked eyes in one of those crazy movie moments when you just know. Like there’s an instant eye chemistry or something.

  He hadn’t been one of Dad’s guys and didn’t know who I was, assuming I’d gotten backstage by being a particularly persistent groupie. I guess letting him believe that was mistake number one (or two, since making eye contact with him in the first place would have been the first), but who’s to say it wouldn’t have ended the same way if he had known?

  He’d handed off his guitar to a roadie and had pulled me into a quiet corner backstage where we could talk and kiss a little. We’d spent the weekend together, my father busy enough with his own musicians that he hadn’t even noticed I’d been sneaking off.

  Andres had been cute and sweet, saying all the right things and acting like I wasn’t just another groupie dazzled by his fame. I honestly thought he was different than all the rest. I honestly thought he’d liked me.

  Until I’d come back from the washrooms to see him making out with an actual groupie. The worst part? When I’d busted him, he’d grinned like it was no big deal and invited me to join them.

  Right. Like that was happening.

  I’d been angry at him, of course, but even more, I’d been angry at myself for falling for it. I knew better. I’d seen enough of that crap over the years—first hand even. But I’d gotten duped by a teenager who was already well-versed in how to get whatever he wanted. It was humiliating and made me pity his future conquests because last summer was just the beginning of his career. Since then, he’d had a couple of chart-toppers, and I’d heard he was breaking hearts not just at local festivals, but all over the world.

  I was just glad we’d never gotten past first names. Well, my first name, anyway. In retrospect, it should have been a red flag that he’d never bothered to ask my last name.

  But his was no mystery, and there was no way I could escape the name, Andres Castillo, since he was all over the radio. To rub salt on my wound, he happened to be one of Sandy’s current favorites, and I even had to see his face staring at me from the wall over her bed.

  I’d gotten somewhat used to it, throwing it mental daggers every time it caught me by surprise.

  Thank God I’d never have to see him again in person.

  Introducing Wiretap

  About ten minutes later, we finished eating and tossed our garbage into the bin in the corner of the boardroom. I followed my dad and Linda (Cliff had already left, since he didn’t seem to need to chew his food) out and down the hall to the studio. We went in through the back door to the musician side.

  As the door opened, it was obvious that the guys hadn’t started rehearsing and were chatting, other than one who was tinkering at the piano.

  They looked up when we came in, and I felt all their eyes on me, making me suddenly very self-conscious, wishing I’d worn something a little nicer than my jeans and Rosewood sweatshirt.

  A beat later, Dad began to introduce me to the guys:

  Graeme Boone the lead singer, who also played keyboards, was first and came around the piano and right up to me with a big smile. I was very familiar with the name as he’d been on Dad’s radar for a long time. In fact, he was the reason Dad even started putting the band together since he’d auditioned Graeme in the fall. He didn’t think Graeme was quite strong enough to be a solo act but didn’t want to lose him, either. Plus, he had that pretty boy look and British charm that was perfect for the boy band formula. I hadn’t heard his demo, but dad said he had a rare vocal talent and a deep, soulful voice; Dad saying that meant a lot and seeing him now just validated that he was a good choice for lead.

  Darren Hill was a clean-cut African-American kid with chocolatey brown eyes and a killer smirk. He shook my hand with a strong grip, which was fitting since he was the drummer.

  Max Lindstrom was the youngest-looking of the guys and had a Scandinavian look with blonde hair and almost ice-blue eyes. There was something haunted in those eyes, making me wonder immediately about his backstory. I made a mental note to ask my father later what the deal was with this bass player as my eyes slid to the next band member.

  Andres…wait. Seriously? I did a double take and looked at my father, wide-eyed. No, wild-eyed. Because I just couldn’t believe it.

  How could this be? Andres Castillo, the guy who had permeated my nightmares for weeks last summer, was already a star, what was he doing in Dad’s fledgling boy band?

  The blood rushed through my ears like my body’s own white noise until I realized people were staring at me, and I’d clearly missed something.

  “Huh?” I said because I’m super smart like that.

  Dad chuckled. But it was Andres who was standing there with his hand out for me to shake. “I said it was nice to meet you, Vanessa,” he said politely, but there was mischief in his eyes.

  So we’re going to pretend last summer’s thing never happened, I thought, resisting the urge to kick this guy in the Castillo family jewels.

  I reluctantly slid my hand into his and was then sorry when he held onto it a fraction too long, a s
ilent message that said: I remember you. All the humiliation that I’d finally gotten over came rushing back in that moment. I pulled my hand away and turned to the last band member, eager to get out of Andres’s clutches.

  “…Chris Blair,” my dad was saying. “Our second guitar.”

  I gave Chris what I hoped was a polite smile, which felt more like a grimace, but whatever. It wasn’t like I’d be spending much time with these guys (especially now, because: Andres) so it didn’t really matter what they thought of me.

  “Nice to meet you,” Chris said, giving my hand something of a clammy shake. At least he wasn’t total arrogance personified. Though Andres had enough for the both of them. Hell, he had enough for the whole band.

  “So now that you’ve met everyone, how about we let them get back to it and you can listen from the booth?” Dad said.

  Eager to get away from Andres, I nodded and beelined for the door, knowing my father would be right behind me. As I left, I heard the clatter of the guys grabbing their instruments as they made ready to play.

  We were barely in our seats in the booth when I turned to my dad. “Why on earth do you have Andres Castillo in the band?”

  He blinked at me a couple of times before he said, “He’s a good musician,” like that was explanation enough.

  It wasn’t. I gave him a withering look. “Come on Dad,” I said, cocking my head at him. “There are a lot of good musicians out there. Why him? And more importantly: Why would he even want to be in your boy band?”

  Dad sighed before saying, “He got into a bit of trouble. He hit it big so fast that he couldn’t handle it—you know what it can be like. He didn’t have a good handler and things got out of control.”

  Why didn’t this surprise me? What did was that Dad was willing to take him on. “So why…”

  Dad shook his head. “He doesn’t want to ruin his career before it really even starts. He came to me to help him clean up his act, and I saw this as a good opportunity for him. He’s promised to stay clean.”

  “But he’s a solo act,” I said.

  “Not anymore,” Dad said. “Anyway, working as a part of a band will help him grow as a musician. Keep his ego in check.”

  I had doubts about that. “I never heard anything about him getting into real trouble,” I said.

  Cliff looked at me and then nodded toward my dad.

  “So you bailed him out and made sure the press didn’t catch wind?” I guessed.

  My father just smiled at me, answer enough. That’s why he got the big bucks.

  I turned my head and looked through the window at the guys as they got ready to play. Graeme was the only one without an instrument, at the stand mic in front, having abandoned the piano for now.

  “What makes you think he’ll stay on the straight and narrow?” I asked, sneaking a peek at Andres as he tuned his guitar and tested the pedals on the floor in front of him. He really was gorgeous with his dark hair and eyes—totally rocking that Latin lover vibe. It was especially distracting that he had the several days’ stubble thing going on.

  “I told him,” Dad said, breaking into my thoughts, which was a good thing. “He messes up, he’s out, and I can’t protect him anymore. Notoriety works for a while to get attention, but will only get you so far in your musical career. I can get him better press and more success if he does it my way. And my way he’s not dead of an overdose before he’s thirty.”

  “He’s a player,” I warned, sliding my eyes back toward the window, not wanting to give my father the opportunity to guess I knew firsthand.

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  That pulled my eyes back to his as I snorted involuntarily. “Right.”

  He shook his head at me, his expression serious. “He signed the contract. He knows the rules. I don’t mess around anymore, Nessa. If he wants this, he’s got to do it my way.”

  I had my doubts, but I nodded and turned back to the window just in time for Graeme to count them in and they started to play.

  That Time I Should Have Read a Book Instead

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: Spring Break

  Message: Are you having a good break?

  V.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: Spring Break

  Message: No. But I’m guessing if you’re e-mailing me, neither are you. :/

  Dave

  I sighed, hating that I’d just given so much away by sending a simple, bored e-mail. I was in the condo on the Tuesday morning of break, lying in bed. Dad was long gone, and I was feeling lazy and a little bit lonely. I don’t know why I decided to send Dave a message but whatever the reason, now that I’d gotten his response, I was now sorry I had.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Not true. Having a blast with the band in Manhattan. The band you could have been in.

  My fingers hovered over the keys and then I deleted the last sentence, not wanting to make him angry or rub it in what he was missing out on. Although apparently lying through my teeth (fingers?) was totally acceptable.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Not true. Having a blast with the band in Manhattan. Just getting ready to go meet them at the studio. Where are you spending break?

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Home with family.

  That made me pause. Why wasn’t he having a good break at home? Did he hate his family? Did he wish he was somewhere else? Somewhere exotic? Exciting?

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Bored? :P

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Not exactly. My grandfather is ill.

  I gasped at his sudden honesty and then rolled over and sat up, leaning against my headboard. It suddenly felt like this conversation was too real for lazing in bed.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Oh. I’m really sorry. I hope he’s okay.

  I practically held my breath until I got his response.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: he’s going into hospice.

  Doing a quick search, I learned hospice meant end of life care. His grandfather was dying. I stared down at the phone and fought tears; I knew what it was like to lose a grandparent. I’d lost all four already, knew that grief personally. A typed message felt so inadequate, but I wasn’t about to call him. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t have his number, and it felt too personal anyway. We didn’t really have that kind of relationship. Though with this new information, it felt more personal than it had been.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Dave, I’m so sorry.

  There was a long pause as I waited for him to respond. Long enough for me to get out of bed and pad to the bathroom, taking the phone with me, of course. I’d just finished brushing my teeth w
hen his response came.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Thanks. Anyway, I’m not sure why I just told you that. Please don’t say anything. I don’t want anyone to know. Ok?

  Why on earth had he told me? We didn’t even know each other. In fact, I had been fairly sure he sort of hated me for nagging him about the band and had no idea why he suffered through e-mailing me. I suddenly felt guilty about all that.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Is this why you didn’t want to audition?

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: Partly. It’s complicated.

  I read his message and sat down on the closed toilet, not wanting to abandon the conversation to jump into the shower just yet.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: I’m sorry I nagged you. If I’d known, I would have backed off.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Spring Break

  Message: I didn’t mind your nagging so much. And like I said, I didn’t want anyone to know.

  Though, if I didn’t know better, I might have thought you wanted me in the band because you liked me. ;)