The Second Coming (Rogue Academy Book 1)

by Carrie Aarons

  Kingston and Vance are coming in for the game, having no match at the academy today, and it has been too long since we caused some mischief.

  While the shop ladies go to work and sit us down by the dressing room with glasses of champagne, Aria openly gapes at me.

  “Blimey, your life is not even real.” Her face scrunches up as the bubbles hit her nose after her first sip.

  “Oh, it’s real, love, and you’re about to carve out a permanent path in it, too.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  I take a deep breath. “Someone from a record label saw your performance at the open mic night. He was sitting two tables away from me, noticed who I was and I suppose how intensely I was staring at you and asked for your name. His name is Ian Rethal, he works for a big-time label here in London, and he loves your voice. Somehow, he tracked down my phone number and called me the other day to ask if you’d come in and record a demo with them.”

  The story spills out of me, and afterward, I feel like I’ve just gotten a big weight off my chest. I’d been keeping it from Aria, not maliciously or anything of the sort, for three days, trying to gauge how she’d react when I told her. Now that I have, I feel a tad better.

  “Wow … I … don’t really know what to say.” Those big hazel eyes are full of astonishment. “He … he really liked my voice?”

  I nod. “And apparently, his bosses think you’re brilliant as well.”

  “They want me to record a demo?” she breathes in a whisper, almost as if the words are reverent.

  Reaching out, I set her glass down next to my own and take her hands in mine. “Yes. Here’s the thing, though, love … they want you to record three hours from now.”

  That was the anvil I had to drop, and when it comes crashing down upon Aria’s head, she looks ready to clobber me.

  “You kept this from me until three hours before I have to go sing like my bloody life is on the line?”

  Across the shop, the workers, their hands full of dresses, turn their heads to investigate why Aria’s voice has taken on the screechy yell of an animal that’s gone mental.

  “Because if I’d told you days ago, you’d have been fretting over it obsessively.” She knows I am right.

  Slumping back in the plush chair across from a dressing room, Aria wipes both hands down her face in pretend agony. “Jude, I can’t possibly record a demo in three hours. I don’t even know these people … nor do I know if anything your record label friend is saying is true! And in three hours … wait a minute. You’re not going with me?”

  At this, I have the decency to wince in shame. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to be at the stadium already …”

  “Kill me now. Just bloody kill me, stab the knife of embarrassment through my heart and get it over with.” She sobs with exaggeration.

  “We’ve collected a load of gorgeous dresses we think will look fab on you!” One of the shop ladies comes bouncing up.

  “In you go.” I wave at Aria, twirling my finger to let her know I want a full fashion show.

  Although, with the sinful swaths of material the employees are holding in their hands, it will be a feat if I’m able to keep from growing hard as a steel pipe.

  Before she stands to walk into the dressing room, Aria shoots me a scowl. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

  This has me chuckling. I kind of enjoy that my girl always fights for the last word.

  25

  Aria

  Jude left for the stadium a half hour ago, instructing me that the driver of my car will call up to our hotel suite when it’s time to leave for the recording studio.

  Since the moment he told me about the phone calls he’s been having with Ian Rethal, my hands haven’t stopped shaking.

  The tremors don’t cease when the car calls up and I take the elevator down, and my legs join the quaking party in the car as we drive through the streets of London.

  I can’t believe Jude has left me alone to do this, scheduling it at the same time he knew he’d be getting ready for his match. Not only did the timing mean I’ll be recording this demo in a room full of strangers, but it also means that I’ll be late to Jude’s match if this runs long. And that’s the reason I’d come to London, having known nothing about this little singing session he’d covertly signed me up for. I want to see him come off the bench for RFC today, to really cheer my lungs off for him.

  As Jude had suspected, our pictures from Bond Street were already trending on Twitter, and former friends of mine I haven’t spoken to since my dad got sick have started texting me like we still braided each other’s hair. My face has been splashed all over the Internet and is bound to be in the newspapers tomorrow morning.

  Do I mind that half a billion strangers are going to begin criticizing my clothes, my hair, my looks, our relationship, and almost every other thing about me?

  Honestly? Not really. I have bigger problems, and I don’t live here. We may get the rare photographer in Clavering, trying to snap photos of the academy players, but no one is going to remember me enough by next week to track me down.

  Plus, it’s not written in stone that what Jude and I have will even last.

  Pushing that sorrowful thought out of my mind, I focus on taking deep breaths in and out of my nose. I don’t need Jude here; having him at the recording session will only make me feel more dependent on him than I’ve already become. I’ve forgotten over the past few weeks that I am a strong, independent woman who has taken care of a lot more in her life up until now. Recording a demo, alone, on three hours’ notice, will be an easy feat.

  My entire body vibrates with nerves, though, when I step out of the car and enter the building. In the middle of the sleek lobby stands the man I’m probably supposed to meet.

  Ian Rethal is a slight man who looks to be in his late twenties, early thirties, with thick black-rimmed glasses and jeans tighter than mine. He’s wearing an oversized leather bomber jacket and smiles with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen as I walk up to him just inside the entrance of the building.

  “Welcome to the studio!” He shakes my hand, and I try my best to keep my nauseous stomach in check.

  “Thank you for, uh, having me.” I’m not sure if that was the right thing to say.

  It doesn’t seem to bother Ian, who turns on his heel and begins walking. I follow, hoping that’s what he wants me to do, as he talks over his shoulder.

  “When I saw you at the open mic night, I knew we had to get you in the studio. And then to find out you’re dating Jude Davies? Ho ho, you’ll be an overnight sensation!”

  Did I want to be an overnight sensation? As we march from hallway to hallway of this posh building, I try to talk to him about my goals. “Um, well—”

  Ian throws open a door, and what I always envisioned a recording studio to look like comes into view. Sleek black sound-proofed walls, wood paneling, and electronic control boards with dials as far as the eye can see. Two hefty sound engineers sit at the boards and wave to Ian when he walks in. Me? They barely even glance over their shoulders to see who I am.

  He cuts me off. “Here are the lyrics to the song we want you to record. I know you’ve never been thrown into anything like this, but it’s normal.”

  Ian hands me pieces of papers with stanzas written on them. I look at the words, and they just look like a jumble of letters. “I’m not going to write my own song?”

  Ian shakes his head. “We don’t really have time for that. The executive I’m working with wants to fast track this, try to push it out to see who might be interested in managing you or signing you. He’s taking a big risk on this, so we just have to work with what we have right now.”

  None of that means anything to me, and I feel like I am on a perpetual carnival ride that won’t stop spinning. “Um, okay …”

  “Take about twenty minutes to look over those, try to memorize them, and we’ll get started.”

  My eyes must be bugging out of my head because it feels like I am
going to lose it. “Wait!”

  He turns from where he is already getting down to business with the engineers. “Something wrong?”

  In this situation, I feel like a little child trying to act like an adult in a room full of people way more mature than I am. When in reality, I’ve probably seen and had responsibilities way beyond any of these men’s years. But they move faster than I do, live in a posher city, and so their actions make me feel as though I don’t measure up to the level of class they exhibit.

  Tilting my chin just a bit higher, I swallow my pride. “This is my first time in a studio. And while I understand the basics of what I’m supposed to do here today, you’ll need to slow down. I want everything detailed out, or I won’t commit to recording this demo.”

  Something tells me that Ian sees me as his golden ticket to a promotion, or something of the sort. He’s too jittery, and by the sounds of it, is trying to fast track me to a number one single so he can write his name all over the success.

  To his credit, Ian has the decency to look ashamed. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have bombarded you. It’s just … your voice is special, Aria. Should have mentioned that the moment you walked in. It deserves to be heard.”

  Although I’m still on edge, I can tell he’s being genuine. “Thank you.”

  “Do you want to go through the song a couple of times to work out the melody?” Ian offers.

  I smile, feeling my heart rate slow down. “I’d like that, thanks.”

  For twenty minutes, Ian sits down with me as the engineers, who I learn are Yanis and Michael, tune up the instrumental version of the song. It was written by someone the label employs for these kinds of things, and the lyrics are so beautiful they make me want to cry. The demo Ian’s having me record is a song about love and loss, with a final note of hope at the end.

  “Do you think you can give it a go?” he asks patiently.

  By now, my nerves have calmed to a dull roar, and the three men in the room seem to be trying to make me as comfortable as possible. I nod, licking my suddenly dry lips, as Ian ushers me into the recording booth.

  I feel like a mental patient in here, with the padded walls and my heart hammering against my ribcage. This all seems like a dream, one I never allowed myself to have. And now that it is truly happening, I can’t find my wits about me.

  “So, this is obviously your microphone. We’re going to put headphones on you so that you can hear yourself, it makes it easier to stay in pitch. And besides that, just … sing,” Ian says as he places the headphones over my head.

  I try to remember the jumble of words floating around my head, looking down at the sheet of the lyrics on the music stand in front of me. All of a sudden, the soft, slow melody of piano and guitar drifts into my headphones, and I look through the glass of the booth.

  Yanis, Michael, and Ian are staring at me, and Ian holds his hand up, counting down three, two, one …

  My mouth opens, my eyes close, and without thinking, I just sing. Unworried, every emotion pouring into the story I’m telling through the lyrics, and I just let myself feel every fear, moment of passion, and sense of heartbreak.

  As the music fades out, I open my eyes to the three gentlemen still staring at me.

  Ian gapes at me as he says, “We may not even need another take. Get ready to be a star, love.”

  26

  Aria

  After RFC win their game in spectacular fashion, with a goal from Jude to clinch it in the eighty-fourth minute, the boys decide it is time to celebrate.

  London at night is a spectacle, all the historic buildings, twinkling lights, double-decker buses and people milling about in various states of leglessness. And on the arm of Jude, with Vance and Kingston trailing behind us, there is no door that isn’t accessible.

  I’m the last person to call myself a gold-digger, or someone who sought out the finer things in life, but once you have a taste of them … it’s easy to slip into the fantasy of it. Five-star meals, bottles of alcohol that cost more pounds than I could scrape up in six months and things like shop employees picking out dresses for you. It’s excessive and unnecessary, yes, but these upper-crusters don’t seem to care how much something cost.

  Imagine that, fancying something and then buying it on the spot because you did? It’s a luxury I’ll never have again.

  So, because I’m swept up in Jude and the world that he comes with, I let myself be carried away on the opulent tide. I put on the dress and shoes he bought me. I agree to let the hair and makeup artists into my room at the suite because I worked hard in the studio today and part of me has been waiting for this my whole life.

  This is my Cinderella moment, and I’m taking it.

  The four of us lounge in a big, velvet VIP booth in the back of some club I didn’t catch the name of. It’s on a randy row in Piccadilly Circus, and I can barely hear a thing over the music. My veins hum with the happiness of fuzzy drinks, and I am cheekily perched on Jude’s lap.

  A scantily clad waitress leads another group past us and parks them in the VIP section next to ours. Both Vance and Kingston’s heads immediately whip to the newcomers, all of whom are gorgeous, leggy babes.

  But one, in particular, seems to glow amongst the dingy darkness of the club.

  This girl, or should I say goddess, has legs longer than my entire body. Her gleaming brown hair is something out of a Pantene commercial, and there is so much beauty radiating off of her, it shouldn’t be legal to possess so much of it.

  “Hey, you’re the new Riare campaign model.” Kingston points at her, leaning back on the sofa and opening his legs in a vulgar position.

  Almost as if he’s inviting her to sit on his lap. If I weren’t so enthralled with his best friend, I’d fall for Kingston’s charm. He can be boisterous and flashy, but he’s got those pretty boy looks and his famous name … I’m sure most of the girls in this bar would fall all over themselves just to sleep with him.

  “And you’re that cheeky football player who thinks he can bed anyone who bats an eyelash at him,” the model quips back, unamused, opening a menu in her booth and chewing on a plump lip.

  “Oh, I like her.” My sloshed voice chuckles, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

  Jude barks out a laugh while Kingston shoots me a vexing glower. The model gets up, coming over to stand near us.

  “Poppy Raymond, nice to meet you.” The goddess holds her hand out to me, smiling warmly, and I shake it in return.

  “You look like an Amazon.” I blink.

  She laughs; a heavenly sound. “Good genetics pay the bills in this world, I guess. But let’s face it, I’d rather look like you. You’re beautiful, in a way only someone like you could be. Elegant, angelic, with the sex appeal of a loaded pistol but the grace to disguise it. When people see a woman like me, they automatically think slag or model … my looks are far too obvious.”

  “Now I get it!” Kingston cries from where he sits on the other side of Jude in our booth. “You’re a lesbian.”

  I have to really bite my tongue to keep from cracking up and the horrible job Kingston is doing trying to seduce Poppy.

  The gorgeous specimen in front of us shoots Kingston a look that could melt his face off. “I’m not a lesbian. I just know how to admire beauty, in a way that doesn’t scream at everyone that I’m a bloody git. However, if I were I would have ten times the game you do when trying to pick up fit birds.”

  “Oh my lord, I think he’s met his match.” Vance chuckles as he tips his beer back.

  “Why don’t you come sit down on my lap and find out just how much game I have.” Kingston waggles his eyebrows, undeterred from her obvious distaste of him.

  “Make it to the first squad, come play in London among the ranks of the big boys, and maybe I’ll give your theory a test.” Poppy smirks and flounces back to her booth.

  She’s only just on the other side of the raised velvet booth, but by the way she just shut Kingston down, you’d think he’d have just watched a gir
l catapult herself to the other side of the world using a circus cannon.

  That is how stunned Kingston Phillips is.

  “Shake it off, brother.” Vance claps a big hand down on his friend’s shoulder.

  Sensing an explosion coming on, Jude interrupts before Kingston can blow up. “Hey, let’s go somewhere else, yeah? This place is starting to get lame.”

  He must agree, I can’t hear the rest of their conversation over the boom of the music, but we are suddenly leaving in a flurry of motion and people. We leave the club with triple the number of people we came in with, and the group trails behind the three golden boys, with me attached to Jude’s side.

  As we all stand on the pavement, Kingston still won’t stop complaining to Vance about what Poppy said to him.

  “Did you hear her, mate? Turning down the likes of me? Does she even know who I am?” His pouty lips hang open incredulously.

  And just as I think he’s about to go back in and get her, Jude whistles to his friend, who saunters over to him.

  The scene that plays out next is something out of a teen cult classic.

  Jude flags down a bus while Kingston practically stands in the middle of the road to get it to stop. These boys are a bunch of mad nutters, but I’m sloshed and mesmerized by their world, so I just wobble here and chuckle watching them.

  Is this what it feels like to be young, wild, and free? Like that Wiz Khalifa song claims it is?

  My four-inch heels, the ones Jude surprised me with, dig into the London pavement as I throw my arms up and do a twirl. The sparkly gold dress that I picked off the rack, at the store I would never have dreamed of walking into but did with Jude’s insistence, creeps up my thighs. It already barely graces them anyway, and with my giddy dance move, I’ve probably flashed the entire country. But right now, I don’t care in the slightest.