I nearly fell off the toilet lid, I was that surprised at his sudden one-eighty. Was he seriously flirting with me? A sudden wave of rage washed over me as he reminded me why I loathed musicians so much. Clearly, I’d dodged a bullet by him not auditioning. Not that I was going to be around the band much, but with him going to Westwood, it would have gotten way too awkward, way too quickly.
Jerk.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: nice try
Message: Sorry to disappoint you, Dave, but I don’t date musicians.
“How do you like that?” I said to my phone as I hit send and then waited for his response where he would apologize and try to smooth things over.
I waited.
And waited some more.
After about ten minutes, I realized I must have pissed him off. But there was no way I could send him another message now or I’d look like I was backpedaling.
Oh well.
It was many hours later (after a long walk to the spa for a pedi and a stop at Panera for lunch) that I finally got his response, the one I’d assumed wasn’t coming.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: nice try
Message: Good to know.
Good to know? Ugh. It wasn’t exactly what I’d been expecting. I mean, obviously, I’d shut him down, which had been my intention.
So why was I disappointed?
Corned Beef and Confessions on Rye
The last thing I wanted to do was go back to the studio. Not just because the less I had to be around Andres, the better, either. I was in Manhattan, and it was spring break, and I wanted to do fun things with my best friend: shop, eat, people-watch, stay away from musicians.
Not hang out in a stuffy studio, pretending I wasn’t avoiding a guitar player who seemed determined to make me uncomfortable. To be honest, just his presence made me uncomfortable, but he had taken awkward to a new level, seeming to go out of his way to flirt with me and pretend to want to get to know me. And the more I rebuffed him, the more determined he got.
Which meant I’d avoided the studio the last several days, dodging Dad’s requests. He wanted me to come listen to the band and give feedback on the music and the boys in general because they needed to build image portfolios for them. Of course, as a teen girl who normally would fit into the band’s target demographic, my opinion was valuable, and since I wasn’t the type to suck up, trusted.
I felt somewhat bad, especially when Dad seemed to think I was avoiding him (and I wasn’t about to tell him the real reason for making myself scarce) but I had tried to make up for it by cooking him a couple of dinners and even dragging him out one afternoon so he could take me to the Met. He had refused at first, but I’d gotten Linda involved, and she’d shooed him out, saying she and Cliff could hold down the fort for a couple of hours while the boys rehearsed.
So far, this week had been mostly musician and drama-free.
It had also been really boring.
Things were about to pick up since Sandy was scheduled to arrive. Except, of course, she wanted to meet the band. This wasn’t a surprise—I had promised her she could. But that was before I knew about Andres.
Still, there was no backing out now, so on Thursday morning, I went with Gary to Penn Station where we picked Sandy up in the limo and drove back to the studio. After hearing about her extended spa weekend, I’d told her the band was busy and couldn’t be distracted, so we could only spend a couple of hours (max) at the studio. She could meet them and hear them play, but we wouldn’t be staying all day.
She definitely wanted to stay all day.
And gauging by the guys’ reactions to her, they wanted the same. No surprise there: where I was cold and standoffish as I woodenly introduced her around, she was all smiles and flirtiness. That she was fangirling, even before she’d heard them play a note, was harmless, and it shouldn’t have bothered me, but I knew that Andres was watching my every move even as he flirted with her, making me even more nervous than I already was around him.
Thankfully, I got an opportunity to escape in the early afternoon. Dad was working with Graeme on his vocals while the guys sat around, looking bored as they stared at their respective phones.
“I guess I should get some lunch,” Linda said, frowning as she glanced from her laptop up to the clock on the wall.
“We’ll go,” I offered, standing up and stretching, happy for the distraction. I turned to Sandy, but she was looking wistfully through the glass at Graeme, obviously reluctant to leave.
“I’ll come with you,” Chris said, popping up out of his seat. “I could use some air.”
Sandy didn’t even look at me so I smiled at Chris and nodded, glad at least someone was willing to help.
“Just put it on the account,” Linda said with a grateful smile. She had so many balls in the air that I was happy to pitch in and grab food for everyone, especially if it meant I could get out of the studio, even for twenty minutes.
It was a bit awkward walking down the street beside Chris at first. I barely knew him beyond Dad’s basic introductions from the beginning of the week. Nonetheless, what I did know, I liked. In a friends kind of way, of course. I looked at him sideways, wondering if there was some sort of ulterior motive behind him wanting to come with me.
“So,” he said as we made our way to the deli. “You having a good spring break so far?”
I glanced over at him, not sure if he was joking, but no, how could he know the last place I wanted to be was at the studio? His friendly smile and open expression confirmed that his question was an honest one.
I shrugged. “Could be worse.”
He laughed. “Okay, so I’ll take that as a no.”
“Hanging out in my dad’s studio isn’t really my idea of a great time,” I said, sounding a lot crabbier than intended.
He hunched his shoulders a bit, and I realized maybe I was raining on his parade a little. “No offense or anything. Just not my thing.”
“Not a music fan?”
Did I want to get into it with this guy? No, I really didn’t. But I didn’t want to insult him, either.
“On the contrary,” I said. “I’m a big music fan, but put it this way, if your dad owned a bakery, you’d still like croissants and donuts and fresh-baked bread, but you’d also appreciate having a salad or a hamburger every once in a while, right?”
He tilted his head toward me, still smiling and said, “You do need a nice, fresh bun to make a great hamburger.”
I rolled my eyes. “Touché.”
He bumped my shoulder with his. “I’m just teasing; I do get it. Obviously, you’re not into the family business.”
“Not really. I probably would have preferred to do something else on my spring break than hang out in a stuffy studio. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be a rock star.”
Chris grinned at that, but his cheeks got a little pink, which was adorable. Not that I’d ever admit it or tell him. But he was definitely the nice guy in the band. With his piercing blue eyes and easy smiles, he was going to find a big fan base with girls who are into the boy next door type for sure.
“All that talent around you and you don’t play?” Chris asked, taking the focus off himself and that whole rock star comment that I could tell he was struggling with.
I shrugged. “A little. Nothing to write home about.” It was my turn to shift focus. “Speaking of home, where are you from?”
“Seattle,” he said as we stopped in front of the door to the deli. He grabbed the handle and pulled it open, gesturing for me to go in front of him.
“Thanks,” I said. “So how did you hook up with Tony?” I knew my dad had put feelers out about the band months ago but didn’t know the guys’ individual stories.
“I was in a band back home, and we were doing a wedding gig, if you believe i
t.” He chuckled as we stepped to the back of the four-person line at the counter. He crossed his arms and then nodded his head back in the direction of the studio. “Cliff was one of the groomsmen, and I guess he called your dad right from the church hall.”
I smiled; that sounded like Cliff. He and my dad (and Linda, too) are always on the lookout for talent.
“Three weeks later your dad sent me a plane ticket to come audition.” He shrugged. “Rest is history, I guess.”
“A star is born,” I said.
He smirked. “I guess. It’s…it’s kind of surreal, you know? I mean, one second I’m playing old Beatles songs in a crap wedding band to help my mom with rent and then next thing I know, I’m signing this crazy contract with more zeros than I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, I love the music, it’s just…that money is really going to help.”
I looked over at him and saw something like awe in his eyes. Clearly this opportunity was about more than just making his musical dreams come true. As someone who had been lucky to be born into wealth and who’d never really had to work for anything, it was humbling to know that getting to be in Dad’s band was life-changing for Chris in ways I’d never considered. It also made me a little uncomfortable—talking about money with people who didn’t have a lot made me feel like a spoiled brat.
Which is probably why I said stupid things sometimes. Like that very moment when I blurted out, “The money’s great, sure, but just wait until you get on tour and girls throw their panties on stage at you.”
His smile faltered a little. “Your dad told us that it can get crazy. But it’s not that bad, is it? Like, girls don’t really do that sort of stuff, do they?”
Poor guy, he had no idea. But I didn’t want to be the one to fill him in on just how crazy it could get. “Sometimes,” I told him. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get the full briefing before tour.”
It took him a second to catch on to what I’d said, but then he barked out a loud laugh, making the two suits in front of us turn around. The one on the right glared at Chris. Lighten up, sheesh, I thought.
Chris apologized and leaned close to me, saying in a low voice, “What a couple of stiffs, huh?”
I winked at him.
“Anyway, I’m hoping it’s really not going to be that crazy,” he said.
I was going to ask why but he said, “Girlfriend back home,” before I got the chance.
“Ah,” I said, trying to not let my cynicism show.
“What? What’s that expression for?” he said. So much for my poker face.
“Going on tour is hard. Really hard for relationships.”
He made a sour face and sighed. “I know. We had a good talk about it and discussed taking a break for the summer, but neither of us wants to.”
“Well,” I said, reaching to grab a handful of napkins and paper-covered straws to take back with us. “If it makes you feel better, Tony won’t let things get crazy on the bus or in any hotel rooms. It’s not going to be a regular tour—the kind you hear about with trashed hotel rooms and hookers. He runs a tight ship.”
Chris nodded. “That was one of the reasons I signed on. And I showed Lindsay the contract, so she has more reason to trust me, but…”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s still going to be hard. There has to be a lot of trust. A lot.”
He nodded, his smile replaced with a strained expression. A few seconds later, he shook his head and seemed to push all those thoughts away. “So, you coming on tour with us?”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m going to the beach for the summer.” I cringed as soon as the words were out of my mouth because they made me sound so entitled: Rich girl doesn’t have to get a job and can laze around all summer. “Ugh.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m…I feel like a spoiled brat because I don’t have to work for the summer and am going to the Hamptons—the snottiest place on earth.”
“Hey,” he said, nodding toward the counter because we were up next. “If I could do what I loved for the summer without having to worry about money, I would, too.”
I glanced at him but had to wait several long minutes until after we’d placed our order before I could respond.
“But wait,” I said, once the deli guy had turned to go make our food. “Aren’t you doing what you love for the summer?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Looks that way.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“The money part’s just a really nice bonus.”
“And the panties?”
He frowned. “Occupational hazard?”
It was my turn to let out a huge laugh.
After lunch, the guys all went back to rehearse while Sandy and I sat in the booth watching. Sandy was, of course, having the best time ever, but for me, it was basically torture. And it had zero to do with the music and everything to do with the musicians. Well, one musician in particular.
When Andres looked at through the glass me for about the eight millionth time, I couldn’t take it for even one second more.
“Let’s go, Sandy,” I said, grabbing her arm and dragging her out of the studio before she could do more than grunt in protest.
“What was that about?” she asked as the door closed behind her, her flirty smile gone and replaced with a scowl. She rubbed at her arm where I’d just let her go, realizing too late that I’d had a vice grip on her.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She shook her head. “No, I meant about you dragging me out of there like your butt was on fire. What’s going on with you?”
I glanced down the hall to make sure we were alone but decided even if we were, the hallway wasn’t a place to have this conversation. “Come on,” I said, leading her toward the bathroom.
I pushed open the door and checked under both stalls just to make sure we were alone. I leaned against the counter and took a breath as I crossed my arms.
“What is it?” Sandy asked, obviously concerned.
“Last summer I sort of hooked up with Andres.”
She froze for a second and then her eyes went wide as what I’d said sunk in. “What? Where? When? How did this happen? And how did I NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS?”
“Shhhhh,” I said, glancing toward the door, but thankfully no one came busting in.
She took a few steps toward me and lowered her voice, but her tone was no less intense. “You hooked up with Andres Castillo, the guy I’ve been drooling over all freaking year. Whose picture is over my bed! And you didn’t think it was worth telling me? Your best friend?”
Her surprise turned to hurt in front of my eyes. “No,” I said. “It’s not like that, I promise. He…” I exhaled and turned my head away, fighting tears. Not over him, I’d done enough crying over him. This time, it was over hurting my best friend.
“You hate musicians,” she said, filling the awkward silence while I tried to pull myself together.
I nodded and then turned back toward her. “I do. And he validated exactly why. He…” I sighed and shook my head before continuing. “I thought he was different. He seemed really nice and not caught up in it, you know? He knew he was a good musician, but in a confident way, not an arrogant one. But then I caught him making out with someone else, and he didn’t even get why I was mad.”
Sandy flinched. “Really? He didn’t get that?”
“No,” I said. “He invited me to join in.”
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Wow, he is a jerk.” She closed the gap between us and put her arms around me. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have pulled that poster down and ripped it into a million pieces.”
I pulled back and reached for a tissue from the box on the counter. “Uh, slightly embarrassing, don’t you think, Sandy?”
“No,” she said decisively. “Not for you. Embarrassing for him because he’s a douche.”
I smiled at her. “So yeah, do you understand why I hate musicians?”
“They are,” I assured her, tossing the tissue into the bin and turning toward the mirror.
She frowned toward the door, beyond which was the studio. “All five of them? Did the others make a move on you or something?”
“No,” I clarified. “But all musicians are like that. Entitled and arrogant. If they aren’t yet, they will be after the first time a crowd of fangirls screams at them. They’re still in training.”
“Pretty cynical, Nessa.”
I shrugged. “Realistic.”
She looked at me long enough that I began to fidget, so I dropped my eyes and made my way toward the door. “You ready to go?” I asked, hoping she didn’t want to stick around.
“Does your father know?” she asked, making me turn back to face her.
“No.” I gave her a pointed look. “And he never will.”
She held her hands up in surrender. “I’m not about to tell him, but Andres could use it against you somehow.”
I’d already thought about that (more than I would have liked to admit) but shook my head. “He won’t. Dad’s already read him the riot act about bad behavior, and if he found out what Andres did to me, he’d kick him out of the band. He needs my dad more than he needs to humiliate me.”
“That makes sense,” she said with a nod.
“So,” I said, reaching for the door handle. “Can we go? I want to get out of here.”
She nodded, and I pulled the door open. “I just want to talk to your dad for a minute first. I have an idea that I want to run by him.”
I stopped in my tracks, causing her to run into my back with an “Oof.”
“Sorry,” I said, moving out into the hallway and starting slowly toward the booth before asking, “What kind of idea?”
She bit her lip and then said, “Don’t get mad, okay?”
Why do people not get how bad an opening that is? I stopped again and narrowed my eyes at her. “I’m not making that promise. What is it?”
Along for the Ride Page 4