“C-sharp. That’s a minor chord in the key of E. Hard to play, right?”
His expression changes. Maybe I’m not annoying him after all.
“Yeah. At first. The 6. Usually minor.”
“Nashville Number System?”
Is that startled admiration?
“You a musician?”
“Related to one. I’m a quick study.” I hope.
I think he might like that as the slightest turn of his full lips shoots lightning through my blood. Focus.
“Then I’m sure you know I’m playing a bass guitar,” he challenges. I didn’t, but he doesn’t have to know that.
“I wasn’t really paying a lot of attention to your guitar.”
Oh god! It takes all my strength to keep my hand from flying to my mouth in shock. I said that out loud! No way to recover from this one. His silence is answer enough as the heat rises from my hips to my cheeks. I. Freaking. Suck at this!
But his smile is now a full-on grin, and I can’t move.
“No? It’s a nice guitar, though.”
“Um…” I don’t know the right answer. I’m not entirely sure there is one. His eyes dance as he waits for whatever ridiculous sounds will come out of my mouth next. I’m sure I won’t disappoint.
“It is. It has some… knobs.”
He laughs and follows my focus to the body of the guitar. Sure enough. Knobs.
“It does. And strings.”
“Tuning thingies.”
“Several.”
“I bet it came in a case.”
“It did. A big one.”
I know my shiny lips might win some points as they curve in response. I wore my best gloss for the occasion. The one I had to buy from my aunt because you can only get it through consultants who bug the crap out of you. It’s totally paying off though, and I decide right then to give in to that over-priced mascara I’ve been eyeing.
“Are you here with a band?”
He hesitates for a second and nods. Of course he is—I didn’t think it was possible, but he’s somehow ten times more attractive now. Those devastating eyes slay me with a direct scan this time, and I know my mission for this weekend has just taken a dramatic turn.
I need to ignore the cuteness overload in front of me. Jesus H, what am I doing, flirting with a seventeen-year-old? Elias snickers next to me. I think he can hear my thoughts. Funny how he’s being all smart, remaining safe and sound out of the conversation. Wish I’d done the same.
“Weelll, gotta get...” Sylvia tips up on her toes, making it hard to look away from her legs, because dayum. She points a finger in the general direction of the Tracing Holland and newly arrived Night Shifts Black gang.
“Gotta get goin’, you know. Check out the other guitars and what-have-you,” she explains, cheeks pinkening. And I want to slap some sense into myself to keep from staring.
Instead I nod and mutter, “Yeah, have fun. See ya later.” Then I do my best to not devour her ass as it sways off.
Kat Kontry and the surely killer The Country Experience 2005 is up first tonight. She’s bending over now, by the snack table. Good lord, why? There’s nothing on the floor as far as I can tell. Oh wait. A beer cap. She glances around once she’s back up again, and there’s no doubt she did that for the peepshow. Leopard-print panties. I scrub my eyes real quick.
A few of the dudes are still watching her, including Eli and Sweeny from Night Shifts Black. One elbows the other, and there’s a subtle waggling of eyebrows going down too. At least that keeps their eyes off Sylvia.
“Guitars ready?” Mariana asks on the way past.
“Yep.”
“Monitors?”
I don’t know why she does this. I’m always done before she even asks, and after sound check, there’s not much I can do until right before our set. Sure it’ll get intense at that point, what with two of the three girls on guitar and me being their only tech at the moment. But for now though—
“Monitors are fine. You’re not on until after Kat,” I remind her.
“I know, I know.” Then we both look at Kat again, who’s dancing now, slowly, while chatting with Eli and Sweeny. I can’t not laugh anymore. This place is going to be a riot. We’ve got three whole days here, each band playing a half hour every day. It’s pretty wild what one filthy rich guy can stage for his favorite charity. Now, if only Aishe stays out of Clown Irruption trouble, we’re good.
Speaking of the devil.
Emil, the lead singer of Clown Irruption and Aishe’s old Achilles’ heel, lumbers in through the door. With his signature grin and half-closed eyes, he’s got an arm over his wife’s shoulder, crazy Zoe from Los Angeles. They’re okay though. There’s no beef left to pick with the two of them. It’s the drummer entering behind them that can make or break the stay for Aishe.
Troy. Man, he’s spent a lot of time on phone calls and text messages over the last six months to make Aishe forgive him. Emil was a total jerk to her, but what Troy did…?
I stand without thinking, fists clenching at my sides. Aishe sees me, her eyes moving to my line of focus, and then she scurries toward me on high heels.
I just want to talk with him. Maybe use a fist. I’m past Kat—who’s now shimmying her tits at Eli—by the time Aishe catches up with me.
“Shandor, please. That was a long time ago. I don’t even care anymore,” she murmurs. She grabs the tail end of my bandana and tugs a little. “Stop looking at him.”
“I can’t. That fucking piece of—”
“We were two making bad decisions. Ha,” she fake-laughs. “Never mind. Three.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, and then, at the corner of my eye, I see Sylvia. She’s frozen, right behind Kat and the guys, innocent and open, gaze flickering between Aishe and me. She’s curious. Disappointed too? I frown, looking away.
“Just let me talk with him. I’ll behave,” I say.
Aishe lets go of my bandana but only to link her hands over my shoulder. I stride forward anyway, and by now Troy has noticed me. All conversation stops between Emil, Zoe, and Troy as they watch me advance. Zoe tugs at Emil, who’s more than willing to find a less controversial group of people to chat with.
“Troy,” I say.
“Hey, Shandor,” he sighs out. Does he think I don’t notice how he looked at my cousin? Didn’t he get enough of her? I want to ask him that, but Aishe would be pissed. “How are you?”
How are you? Oh how civil.
“I’m awesome,” I say, letting out a chuckle. “How about you, man? Hope you brought your girlfriend?” I might sound sarcastic, but really, I mean it. If he’s got a girl, we’re good. He’s not the type who’d mess with other chicks if he’s got one.
“Shandor, enough.” Aishe pulls on my arm again. I let her extend it behind me, but I’m moving closer to his body. Troy crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall behind him.
“I don’t have a girl,” he says, voice low.
“No?” I keep my voice low too because I’ve got a great job and can’t stir shit up. Aishe is happy working for The Thalias, so it’s where we’ll be staying. A huge plus is that they have no fucking dudes there thinking they can sprawl her out on their bed.
“Well, too bad.” Again, I sound sarcastic, while really, I’m dead honest. I keep Aishe behind me. It’s what I should have done when we worked for Clown Irruption. Ah, why didn’t I? “I’ll be happy to help you with that, find you a little someone to play with. Just stay the fuck away from Aishe, and your face will remain intact too.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches us walk away, me with my arm secured around my cousin’s shoulders—and she, muttering that I’m not her father, that it’s been over a year, and that she doesn’t work with me because she wants me to rule her life.
I grunt in reply, the anger subsiding. I slow do
wn by the snack table and dip a carrot in ranch dressing. When I look up again, I find Sylvia’s focus shifting to Aishe. She’s studying her slowly, top to bottom, not even realizing how obvious she is.
Ah crap. There’s nothing sexier in a girl than a complete and utter lack of self-awareness.
I knew it. A self-critical “duh” weaves through my disappointment as I watch some gorgeous, confident supermodel claim my new favorite bass player. I hate my optimism that never fails to turn me into an idiot.
“Wow, that guitar must be super heavy.”
My attention shifts to the nature show on my left just in time to see a ravenous Kat Kontry size up every inch of her target’s bicep. Eli doesn’t seem to mind the pawing and returns some comment about the bass guitar having a higher structural density than a regular electric. Liar. I don’t even think his admirer believes him as she purrs her approval of his “science.”
My own hungry gaze strays back toward the snack table, and I cringe at the sudden stream of puns in my head when it rests on my new crush. I’m not a pun girl. I don’t even get poetry, or literature, or English, really. Metaphors and similes, all that pretentious crap. Holland says it’s art. I’m pretty sure it’s boring. And yet, here I am, practically sobbing over a string of adjectives and loosely-related sentence fragments about veggie platters. Oh, to be a carrot on those lips. I hate myself.
The goddess is still clutching him for absolutely no reason except that she caught me staring. I guess I’m a threat? Small win, even if all it gets me is the satisfaction of knowing they’ll argue about it later before stripping clothes off. Those jeans included. Crap. I instinctively fight back with my legendary leg move but stop mid-flex. If it didn’t work the first time, it sure as heck won’t work now.
“You a country fan, Eli Rex?”
Huh? I know for a fact NSB’s bass player isn’t a Rex. I know everything about Night Shifts Black. Gosh, I should. I’ve been obsessed with them from the time I was old enough to choose my own music. I have no clue what that word means to this lady, but I enjoy the distraction from my own humiliation.
Even easy-smile, go-with-the-flow Eli Blake doesn’t seem to know what to do with that one. His suppressed amusement is definitely the funniest thing I’ve seen today.
“I don’t judge,” he croons with perfection, because no matter what she just said, he rocked the response.
Kat’s manager ruins it all with the announcement that it’s time to get set for their performance. I think I’m the most disappointed when she’s forced to bat expensive eyelashes at her new beau. “Finish this later?”
We all get that one.
“Kill it, tiger,” he returns, and I almost snort when Sweeny chokes on his beer.
Kat is fine accepting Eli’s wry endearment as gospel truth, and the pair exchange a wink I will never un-see.
“Dude, seriously?” Sweeny groans, smacking his friend. Eli shrugs and pops a giant prawn in his mouth.
“Why not?”
“Well, she’s the same age as your mom for one.”
“Exactly. My mom is gonna freak when I tell her. She loves The Country Experience 2-whatever.”
“2005.”
“Whatever.”
With the Kat-Eli show over, I search for Holland, but realize Luke must have whisked her away to be the effing perfect boyfriend. Probably has some boys’ choir serenading her in the south atrium while he shoves rose petals up her nose.
Oh well, that also means Holland isn’t here to stop my forbidden hunt for Casey. I need to thank him again for the fan swag he gave me two months ago. It was the sweetest thing. EVER. Holland said one thank you was enough, two was sweet, the third was creepy, and now I’m banned from ever bringing it up again. Holland doesn’t know what it’s like to have a fake boyfriend for six years, though.
But Casey has disappeared as well. All of them, off in their rock star bubbles, while Little Miss Nobody gets stuck watching Eli score with his mom’s idol. Damn, this weekend had so much potential.
The bar, my last resort, tempts me from across the room. Just beckoning, one little shot of liquid courage to hide how much this night totally sucks. Holland’s eating rose petals right now. What would she know?
“Hey, baby sis.”
O.M.G.
I swallow because my brain still controls that at least. “Hi, Jesse.”
“Having a good time?”
“How could I not?” I don’t pull off the ambiguous charm as well as Eli.
Jesse just smiles and gives me the time of day like he’s not the next Luke Craven on the verge of exploding alternative rock charts. I suddenly realize it makes absolutely no sense that I never developed a crush on Jesse Everett, Limelight’s young, hypnotic frontman. He’s gorgeous, extremely talented, sweet but kind of a badass, and actually available. Oh wait, that’s why.
“Have you seen Holland?” I ask. Small talk again. Ugh.
“Not since she left with Luke. Have you seen Parker?”
I giggle at his knowing smirk. “Over there.”
He grins and shrugs. Gosh, he needs a girlfriend so I can fall hard.
“You know that guy?” Jesse continues, interrupting my fantasy of not hooking up with him.
I follow his inquiry to the golden eyes I’d just given up on. Sure enough, the simmering fire even Jesse noticed is making me wonder if I’m the hunter or the prey. I do know I’m confused as heck.
“Yeah, I do. He’s…” Oh. I don’t. He never gave me a name. Not even the wrong one. “No, I guess not.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s about to change.”
“What?”
Stupid blood doesn’t seem to understand it has no business in my cheeks.
“He’s been staring at you since I came over here.”
“Well, we chatted a bit earlier.”
“What band is he with?”
“Um. That one, I think.”
“Clown Irruption? No.”
“Oh. Then I don’t know. That’s his girlfriend, though,” I add, totally bitter because Mr. Mysterious should have opened with that for no reason whatsoever.
Jesse’s intense appraisal agrees I have no chance. “Wow.”
“Yeah. So what are you drinking?” I continue, still terrible at small talk.
“Jack and Coke. You?”
“Champagne.” Ginger ale. I wonder if anyone has ever tipped a bartender to keep his mouth shut. Jesse isn’t dumb enough to believe me but is sweet enough to pretend. Oh yeah. Champagne flutes are a thing. We let the fib settle into an awkward silence which only worsens when my gaze drifts back to my mystery musician. If he’s not in Clown Irruption, I’ve got nothing.
I’ve just been reprimanded. Funny part, my cousin stewed on it for fifteen minutes before she pulled me out the emergency exit and hiss-yelled at me.
Long story short: from now on, I’m not to meddle in her business, especially not on this trip. She’s very happy, thank-you-very-much, about being here in the Bahamas and getting a free vacation between the half-hour Thalia gigs.
I tried to negotiate a deal about me being nice as long as she didn’t hang with the Clown Irruption guys, Troy in particular, but she countered it with a body-tensing hell no! I guess I lost that deal.
“I’m me, myself, and responsible for me and myself. Just like you can do whatever you want, even if it means flirting with Tracing Holland’s relatives, I can do whatever I want—which means whatever the heck I want it to mean.”
“That’s a lot of words.”
“Shut it, I’m not kidding, Shandor.”
I wasn’t flirting with Sylvia though. Much.
Kat Kontry’s onstage with The Country Experience 2005. I exchange glances with Elias, because, wow, that’s freaking smarmy, which, by the way, is an expression I never thought I’d use for a girl. An older girl.
<
br /> Kat’s got her cowboy boots and an oversized cowboy hat on. Which is fine, but it’s hard to focus on the music when the woman moves like an upright cobra and she’s wearing a snake-textured bikini held together, top to bottom, by a— What is that? Jesus. It’s a chain.
“You like country music?” a girl’s voice yells from behind me. I look over my shoulder and find Sylvia there. Her hair glows under the spotlights, a long halo I know is pink and blonde and other colors too.
“Not my fave,” I admit.
“Ah!” She pushes her hands together like she just won. “Mine either. I love Night Shifts Black though,” she volunteers.
“They’re really good,” I say.
“What band are you with?” Her eyes are round and really fucking pretty. Okay, I need a pep talk before I can continue this convo.
Shandor, get your shit together. You’re twenty-five. You’ve been there, done that. How the hell are you letting her get to you? There are tons of hot, beautiful girls out there who are nice, innocent, cute, wholesome, and adorable too. Doesn’t mean you have to lunge at someone’s little sister... emphasis on “little.”
“I’m with The Thalias. They’re on next. I’ll be the guy fiddling with strings in the back,” I say. Sadly, I’m unable to hold back my wink.
Sylvia giggles. No really, full-on giggles. “I’ll be watching you do that. I love string-fiddling. I think. I’ll tell you after.”
I swallow.
There’s no crowd in front of the stage. In fact, we’re only a dozen or two patrons in the room all together, half of which are from the other bands. Most of us are more interested in the sound than the artist, I suspect. With the exception of Eli, Night Shifts Black’s bass player. Clearly, he’s got nothing against the snake costume coiling about up there.
I turn to face Sylvia, but I’m accompanied by a loud throat-clearing at my ear. Elias, that dick. Guy thinks he’s funny. I ignore him.
Speaking of. I haven’t felt the need to trick a woman’s age out of her before, because I don’t typically fall for the young ones. But what if she’s different? What if this escalates? What if I wake up with an overripe sixteen-year-old in my bed—or that this girl is, god forbid, fifteen? I panic silently on the inside.
Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1) Page 2