Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  CHAPTER ONE: FAIRY EXPLOSIONS

  CHAPTER TWO: COUGARS & MINISKIRTS

  CHAPTER THREE: PUNS

  CHAPTER FOUR: PHANTOM TINGLES

  CHAPTER FIVE: APPLE PICKING

  CHAPTER SIX: STALLION KISSES

  CHAPTER SEVEN: SKIING

  CHAPTER EIGHT: BABING HER

  CHAPTER NINE: IN AND OUT

  CHAPTER TEN: TEXT WHORE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: SERIOUS SASS

  CHAPTER TWELVE: MR. RESPONSIBLE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: GYPSY PILLOWS

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SO, SO MUCH SEX

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LEMON SLICES

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: TRENCHES & TEEN QUEENS

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE GRILLED CHEESE EFFECT

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: AMBER-EYED BLISS

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: GIFT EXCHANGE

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHORS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CONTACT INFO

  COPYRIGHT

  O.

  M.

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  Holland threatened to send me home if she heard those three letters one more time, but I’m not worried. A) I know I won’t even see her once Luke and the Night Shifts Black boys show up, and B) No, that’s pretty much it. But O.M.G.

  Even buzz-kill Holland cracks a slight smile at my expression as I absorb the lobby of the Malachite Maple Resort. I mean, five stars but really? Apparently, those extra couple of stars carry way more weight than I thought.

  “Jaw,” Holland says, tapping her chin as a reminder that mine needs to be re-attached.

  “It’s like the North Pole freaking exploded in here. Well, more like a legion of diamond fairies.”

  “Diamond fairies?” My big sister snickers. “That’s an actual thing in your world, isn’t it?”

  I cast her an annoyed eye roll, but don’t waste time on a retort. The next three days are about one thing and one thing only, and it’s not shards of mythical beings. I’m here for Casey Barrett, Night Shifts Black’s super-hot, sweet, adorable, funny, insanely talented drummer. He also happens to be in heavy with his girlfriend Callie Roland who is also sweet, adorable, funny… Gah, whatever. I’m not here to marry him, not even bed him. I just want a few minutes of pure, unadulterated fangirling for my resume.

  You’d think being the sister of a rock star who’s dating my crush’s front man and BFF would make such a small goal an easy score, but no. Because Holland is Holland, which means I’m out of luck on any assistance in the “stalking her friends” department. My DNA did get me a few minutes of awkward stuttering after the NSB show when they played the A.C.C. back in October, but Casey had been mobbed, which means my status as Holland’s baby sis only earned me a handshake and a smile.

  Baby sis, ugh. I’m almost twenty. I can vote, own a house if anyone could actually afford Toronto real estate, drink… well, in my home country of Canada. Not at this event according to Holland, because she’s going to be too busy to bail me out of trouble. More like too busy being plowed by her boyfriend Luke in a hotel room for three days. I’m not an idiot.

  Okay, fine, they do have actual responsibilities, like playing their respective shows and doing their Christmas charity ball crap. Charity ball? I don’t know. Charity something. There was an expensive sign at the entrance but I missed the last part. Some fonts are impossible to read when you don’t care.

  “They’re not even here yet,” Holland says, noticing my eyes scanning the sparkling cavern for any sign of my obsession. I glare at her, reminded of how much I love her and how much I can’t wait for her to be glued to her boyfriend’s perfect body and out of my way.

  “I’m going to check in with Darlene and the band. You want to come?”

  So generous of her to pity me.

  “Nah, I want to take a look around. Text me when it’s time to check in.”

  Baby sis, my ass.

  Holland nods, eyes stern. “Okay. Remember, no bar. Mom would kill me.”

  “Aww, Hol. How would she even know?”

  She shrugs with a “not my problem” and waits for my promise. Actually stands there with arms crossed. Full-on expectation.

  “I’m really supposed to spend a weekend at a resort with a crap-load of rockers and not drink? Like, anything?”

  “Go nuts with the juice.”

  My eyes narrow. “You know what I mean.”

  “Well, I don’t drink. So we’ll be ‘not drinking’ together.”

  “Only because of Luke.”

  Another shrug. Not her problem, I get it.

  “Fine. I’ll stay away from the bar.”

  “Thank you, Sylvie,” she says with that maternal smile that’s way worse than Mom’s. “I’ll let you know when the NSB bus gets here.”

  I sigh. It’s a fair exchange though. “Thanks. I’m going on the prowl now.”

  Her eyebrows react, and I realize I didn’t exactly nail that announcement.

  “For cool rich-people Christmas stuff,” I clarify, not sure if that fixes anything. She shakes her head.

  “Just be safe,” she says.

  “I’ll use protection. That tinsel, you know?”

  I can’t tell if her big-sister radar liked my joke. Thinking not.

  “Good. Hey, for the record, I’m glad you came with me.”

  I meet her gaze in surprise, a sudden warmth spreading through me. I know I’m not her favorite sister, so it meant a lot that I was the plus one she invited. Sure, I’m also the only one who gives a rat’s you-know-what about alternative music, but still. I’m here enjoying the experience of a lifetime because my sister loves me enough to recognize that her normal is a string of O.M.G.’s to me. She heads off to her lead-singer duties, and I shake off my sentimental lapse. I have fairy guts to explore.

  I notice the consistent aesthetic of the guests surrounding complimentary refreshment tables and lounging on posh furniture. Clones of my longtime crush, Casey, my sister, and her boyfriend, Luke, mingle and brood, occupying that untouchable realm above the rest of us. Ripped jeans that cost more than my entire wardrobe, mismatched, obnoxious top-halves that normal people can’t pull off but try anyway. Hair. Everywhere unnatural hair that makes my infamous bathroom mirror marathons seem downright low maintenance.

  A cluster of case-in-points enters the giant room and triggers all kinds of fangirl alarms in my head. I don’t recognize this particular rainbow of rocker gorgeousness, but that doesn’t stop my body from reacting in a paralytic halt as they laugh and converse in a foreign language that melts me straight into a fairy-dust puddle. They switch to English when they approach another member. A guitar player I’m guessing, because he’s on a couch picking out some private melody and I’m awesome at piecing together the obvious. I’m too far away to make out every detail of their conversation but hear things like “what’s up,” “sounding good,” and other Pulitzer-worthy remarks.

  And that’s when my eyes get stuck. Yep, there they go, hopelessly fixated on the one rocker in this place who doesn’t look the part. Then again, he totally looks the part with his dark hair, gasp-worthy amber eyes, and mouth-watering body that doesn’t seem to care what it does to a girl. He doesn’t notice me—at least I hope not—because right now I just want to stare. I want to gawk and imagine those exotic eyes caressing me as he transmits whatever song is in his head to mine. I’m a sucker for underrated talent, and this guy screams hidden gem.

>   His bandmates are teasing him as he shakes his head with a smile. He issues a playful swat to remove them from his space, which only increases their amusement. Finally, one of them smacks his shoulder and the majority leaves him in peace.

  For me.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’d be stoked with this gig if it weren’t for Clown Irruption. The indie-world is enormous, so what are the odds that the single group of rockers you left after beating up the lead singer ends up at the same Christmassy charity weekend as your new band?

  “Dude, seriously, I mean it. You can borrow my bass any day. So sorry all of that happened back when, ya know,” says Elias, the bass player of Clown Irruption, a vampire-white dude that every chick with an affinity for Twilight fluctuates toward.

  Really, everything was awesome with that band until the lead singer messed with the one girl I’ve always been protective of. Emil almost broke Aishe. If it weren’t for me getting her out in time and taking this job with The Thalias, I have no idea how she would have ended up.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I say to Elias, who’s funny as hell to be around. I always enjoyed his company. Guess it’s why I, despite myself, have a smirk on my face over being in their midst all over again. It’s been a year since all that shit went down. Sure, Emil is in a different state of mind now altogether, married and all, but Aishe, my cousin whom I love more than a sister, will always be my top priority and I’m not taking any chances this weekend.

  “All good with her, right?” Elias murmurs, clearly referring to Aishe. “She loves her new job and all that jazz?”

  All that jazz. Seriously. Swedish rockers have a knack for shooting the English language through time machines.

  “Yeah, she’s fine. Emil and she have made their peace.”

  “I know. I was there, remember?”

  “Right. Anyways.”

  He plucks on the strings while his bass is in my lap. To be honest, it’s a bit intimate. If I still worked for them, I’d tell him to stop touching my junk. “Cracks me up how you literally pull off flamenco on a freaking bass, man,” he says. “Ridiculous.”

  “No big deal,” I say. Really, it isn’t.

  Elias snickers. “Right, because even Bo doesn’t try flamenco on his guitar.”

  “Eh, Gypsy thing,” I say, not joking.

  “Exactly,” he agrees, aware. When you grow up in a caravan clutching a Flamenco guitar, it’s what you’ll play whenever and however you can.

  We’re on a couch in the green room of the Malachite Maple Resort at the Grand Bahama. The room is oversized, which makes sense considering the five big ticket bands playing this weekend. The Thalias is the smallest of them, a theater-slash-rock-opera trio of girls with pipes that’ll blow you to Mars. I’m in charge of monitors, and I guitar-tech for them, while Aishe is in charge of their costumes.

  I lift my eyes, roaming the room for our fellow charity peeps. Night Shifts Black will be here. If I hadn’t been in the business for so long, my jaw would’ve been dropping at playing the same event as them. Their singer, Luke Craven, is one of those dark, magnetic figures with an insane talent. In many ways, he reminds me of the guitar player and band leader of Clown Irruption, Bo Lindgren.

  I’ve heard of Limelight too. They’ve got a producer-inspired electronica feel to their rock sound, and their star is rising. Then there’s Kat Kontry, who’s with The Country Experience 2005. The name screams outdated, but who am I to judge?

  Oh right, that makes it six bands on this ticket. Because TCE2005 isn’t one of the big five even if Kat thinks otherwise. She sashays around the room, champagne in hand and donning a skin-tight, pleather mini skirt that’s so short it displays her butt cheeks. There’s a wrinkle beneath each of them, and I already regret having discovered this. Not that it could be avoided if you’re a dude and in the same room as her short-short skirt.

  Tracing Holland is the fifth of the big-ticket bands on the bill. The vocalist, Holland Drake, is easy to spot. With her doll face and blonde hair that’s slightly wild over her shoulders, she’s got a bright gaze that speaks of happiness, intelligence, and love. She’s Luke Craven’s girlfriend, and if I hadn’t seen them in person, I’d chime in with the gossip magazines, saying, Their publicists invented their relationship!

  There’s one person only who doesn’t fit into this room. She’s too young, too pretty, and it’s a little bit disturbing to see her here. Is she a groupie? If she keeps that eager, innocent look on her face, she’ll be eaten alive by the younger musicians.

  “What’re you looking at?” Aishe says, voice low at my ear. Her generous curves and long black hair, courtesy of our Gypsy inheritance, is what drove Emil crazy a year ago.

  “Looking at nothing. What’s the status? The Thalias’ costumes ready to go?”

  She snorts at me, knowing I never care about the ironing of silk and stiffening of whatever to make those eighties’ shoulder pads look right.

  “Uh-huh. Checking out the youngsters, Shandor?” she asks.

  Why are women psychic? “Hell no. Go play somewhere else,” I say and give a nudge against the small of her back.

  She giggles and saunters over to Mariana, the leader of The Thalias. I still catch her winking at me though when my focus draws back to too-shiny eyes.

  The teenager bites her lip. Chews on it a little bit while she studies me. I continue plucking on the bass like it’s got flamenco strings, and the side of her mouth curls into a damn obvious version of impressed.

  Well isn’t that fucking adorable?

  This girl isn’t used to being among rock stars. What bus did she get off?

  Against my better judgment, I slow my pace on the strings and hold her gaze. I narrow my eyes, wanting to see how brave she is.

  Long, blonde hair, the color of Holland’s actually. She’s got some stripes in it though, like she had a bipolar moment and couldn’t decide on pink or turquoise, so she went for both. She’s wearing a ton of dark eyeliner and green eye shadow, but I think what gets me is the slight swell of puppy fat to her cheeks.

  Okay. She’s cute as hell.

  I shake my head, slowly, imperceptibly, a reminder to myself as much as a warning to her. Look away, little girl. You don’t want it to become too late.

  O.M.G.

  I swear his eyes grazed mine before they dismissed me because I’m not famous. Not my sister. But gosh, I want to change his mind. Have to.

  I do a quick scan to test my conclusions, but no, only the old cougar with the scandalous miniskirt could have been the other recipient of that smoldering message. Maybe she… no. No! I know nothing about that overload of hotness except he doesn’t need a desperate grandmother to feed his ego. Okay, I don’t know that. Sometimes you just have to have faith, right?

  I can’t tell if he wants me to approach or stay the hell away, but I don’t have a choice when the paralysis wears off and my bare legs start guiding me toward his loose-cut jeans. Jeans that hide… I blush. I don’t usually worry about what could be going on in a guy’s jeans.

  Say something, Sylvie. And not about his pants.

  “I like your guitar.” Ugh! WTH?! I might as well have said I liked his subscription to Time Magazine.

  He just stares at me for a moment, and I’m praying that slight slip in his expression is because he didn’t hear me.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  He’s so not grateful for my praise, but I can’t stop now that I have his attention. I find myself rising on my toes, hoping the slim muscles in my toned thighs are making a pretty picture beneath my tiny shredded shorts. Yes, it’s December. It’s also the Bahamas at a resort that promised a buffet of hot rockers. Funny, I suddenly only notice one. And he needs to notice me.

  “I’m Sylvie Drake,” I continue, even though I know that means nothing to him. “My sister is Holland Drake.”

  I shoot a thumb toward the opposite
corner where my dear sibling is… hanging on Luke. If Luke, then Casey. Thank you grade-nine Algebra, and I’m suddenly annoyed I never got that promised text from Holland. Then again, since my attention zeroed in on this inferno, I haven’t noticed much else. My phone could be replacing the moons of Jupiter with all its flashing and I wouldn’t know it.

  “Hi, Sylvia.”

  “Sylvie.”

  His brows knit because that’s what he said, except he didn’t. Still, I don’t know how to correct him with him looking at me like that. Even slanted in confusion, I feel the intensity of those golden embers shaded by dark lashes. Darnit, I’m Sylvia. It’s fine. I can be Sylvia because he’s… my body doesn’t need words as it answers his piercing concentration with all kinds of adult stuff. Holland would kill me if she knew what was going through my head. So much worse than gin and tonics. So much tastier. Tastier? Too adult. The lady with the miniskirt thinks he’s “tasty.” I think he’s… crap. I suck at this. What would Holland say?

  “What key are you playing in?”

  He’s an observer again, his gaze devouring this puzzle that asks random questions no one in their right mind would ask. Geez, it’s time to quit before he calls security.

  “Um. E, I guess.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s a great key. Lots of… uh… sharps.” Sharps? That’s a music word. Holland talks about sharps. I think. He’s not impressed with my expertise.

  “I guess so.”

  I cringe, completely mortified.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I’ll let you keep working.”

  I turn my cute little shorts toward my sister and am surprised when I hear, “Sylvia.”

  My gaze flickers back, searching, teeth clenching my lip again.

  “Yeah. Four of them, actually. Sharps. F, C, G, and D.”

  I grin and study the tiled floor. His mercy is too tempting to confront directly. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just…” I dare to meet him again. Fire and ice in one look, and my body responds with a shiver that it wants adult things. My brain is no help. Pants. Pants. Pants. Shut it, brain!