Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  And then it hits me. As alluring as he is, I haven’t experienced the full extent of his hotness. Not really. Mr. Smoldering, Mr. Responsible, Mr. Playful, Mr. Considerate, check, check, check, and check. But holy sex-on-a-stick, what about Mr. Musician? He’s probably an amazing guitar player. Has to be, and I haven’t had access to that part yet. So. Freaking. Gorgeous.

  One complicated progression and I’d be putty in his hands. Throwing myself around cave-lady style if that’s a thing. I determine right there that he’s going to play the guitar before he gets to play me again. I giggle at my own pun because it’s awesome. Was that a pun?

  Bud wants to be close to his insurance firm. Rena doesn’t want to leave the city. That doesn’t leave them many options, Rena whines. Screw that. There are always options. ‘Effin Rena and her negativity. When you need options, you make them.

  Take these last two hours for instance. Tons of options, right? A whole health textbook’s worth of options, and we did them all. All the freaking stuff. Because my man knows everything. Wait…

  I bolt up and zero in on Bud’s yuck-face when he sees the olive carpeting in this 1970’s colonial.

  If Shandor is so good at all the stuff, it’s because he’s practiced all the stuff. Which means...

  Ugh. No!

  I throw myself back on the pillow. I’m not going to be that girl. No way. Nope. Don’t do it, Sylvie. You promised.

  How many times to be that good? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? Let’s see twenty-five-years-old divided by…when do Gypsies start? Is that something you can Google? My phone is so tempting but no. I will never be that girl. Never ever.

  Probably fourteen. I bet he was fourteen. Definitely some smokin’ hot Gypsy girl in his clan who looked like his voodoo supermodel cousin. Ew, no. A little like his cousin, but not enough that it would be weird. I bet she was, like, eighteen at the time and showed him all the stuff then. No, that’s gross. Seventeen. She was definitely seventeen and they had dated for two years first. Which means he was…fourteen, thirteen, twelve. Twelve. That made her fifteen? Gosh! That fifteen-year-old bitch stealing my man and teaching him all the stuff!

  Stop it, Sylvie. It’s none of your business.

  It’s not like we’re married. Then maybe it’d be my business because…? Married people always argue about those things, which means they have to know them. I wouldn’t do that, though, argue about his Gypsy girlfriend. Or any girlfriends. Not even the one-night groupie horde.

  We all make mistakes.

  I wasted four years on Dan, right? Imagine all the stuff I could have learned if we weren’t busy playing video games and cursing at the Maple Leafs losing pennants. Prom night at his parents’ house, with his parents, watching…I don’t remember. I fell asleep on the couch.

  Shandor and I would need a house first. Before arguing about things we can’t change, that is. Not a three-bedroom cape cod thanks to Bud and Rena’s terrible experience. A condo, probably, since he’d be on the road all the time and there’s no way in heck I’m mowing lawns and shoveling snow.

  Maybe in downtown Toronto. I could still commute to school. He’s on tour, what does he care where our place is? Oh, right, Gypsy. They probably aren’t big fans of things like yards and association fees. I definitely need to spend more time with Google to make this work.

  Crap, crap, crap!

  I’m doing it. Dammit. I promised I wasn’t going to be that girl. Gave a freaking State of the Union Address and everything.

  You’re a groupie, Sylvie Drake. A desperate fangirl of a guitar tech.

  My phone buzzes, and I reach over for a peek. Holland.

  Hey, just checking in. Did you eat?

  Why do sisters assume because you did one thing they didn’t like that you suddenly will do everything they don’t like?

  Me: Yes.

  H: What?

  M: Some snacks.

  H: No alcohol?

  M: May have swallowed a bit of mouthwash.

  H: Funny. What time did you eat?

  M: Grade 7. Seriously?

  H: Sorry, just making sure you’re okay. Haven’t seen you all day.

  M: Been busy.

  H: With that guy?

  M: Shandor?

  H: There better not be another one.

  M: I’m not a slut.

  H: I didn’t say that.

  M: Yes, with Shandor. We’re having sex. So so much sex.

  H: Hilarious. Just check in once in a while, okay?

  M: He’s working for The Thalias right now anyway. I’m watching TV.

  Score. I’m getting good at this.

  H: Oh, perfect. I’ll go say hi.

  Never mind. I freaking suck at this.

  Yes, I’m exhausted, but I don’t regret a thing. It needed to be done. Look at her now, moving slowly along the buffet. Wet-from-the-washer breakfast plate in hand, she’s too distracted to focus on the food choices. I made her that distracted, and it makes me fucking happy.

  I suppress a smile; my balls are drained, dried out, painfully empty. I’ve gotta hurry up and produce some more baby juice though, because I’m not about to waste our last night in the Bahamas.

  I want Sylvie to join us at Aishe’s table, but I realize she’ll probably check in with Mom-Sis first. She’s scrutinizing her from afar. It’d be a lie to say I don’t revel in the way Holland frowns over Sylvie’s cautious gait.

  Of course I don’t want Sylvie to hurt, but in my defense, to get her there I made her scream Heaven all night. Here’s to hoping she finds it as worthwhile as I do.

  My girl stops in front of the omelet-maker dude. He’s got a white smile on, holding up a pan as if we don’t know what his job entails. Hmm. Though my beautifully distracted baby doesn’t seem to get it.

  “Shandor? You’re acting strange,” Aishe tells me. “You know what I think?”

  “I don’t.” My gaze remains on my too-big T-shirt: it encapsulates feminine curves I already know so well I could compose music to it. Sylvie is sore and wearing my shirt. Mercy me.

  “I think you’ve got it.”

  I jerk my head up, staring. “What? No!”

  “No? You don’t have the love fire?”

  I stand so fast my chair screeches backward, making half a dozen rocker tables look up from their meals. One thing is to think these things in my head. Another is to hear Aishe call me out on it for the first time ever.

  I want to stalk off, but Sylvie sees me too, gaze honest and innocent and real and true. Oh that look. She’s my open book; sex-dazed, love-stunned, still feeling me inside of her, she’s in the twilight zone between sweet, throbbing consequences and feet on the ground.

  I don’t answer my cousin’s question. Her eyes are on me as I force myself to walk slowly to the waffle section. My hunger has dissipated, but I go through the motions of pouring batter into the iron. That’s how long my patience lasts before I turn and swallow the distance between Sylvie and me.

  Yeah, fuck the love fire. I don’t care. I slink my arms around her from behind and burrow my face into her hair. I squeeze this girl to me. The fleeing, the world travels, never remaining in one place to stay out of its reach. The whole time, it was so-far-so-good. Not anymore, because I’m done for. I have a lump in my chest at my heritage finally catching up with me.

  I separate pink from turquoise hair at the nape of her neck. She leans forward, and a light puff hisses from me as my lips find skin over rippling vertebrae. Fragrant Sylvie: flowers—she’s all I smell.

  “Get a room.” That’s Elias laughing from the Clown Irruption table.

  “I think he likes her.” That’s some smartass from another table.

  “Shh, baby.” That’s my girl. She turns in my arms and links her hands around my neck. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispers.

  How does she know? Out here in the rea
l world, I suppress the flames, the emotions, the crazy of my Gypsy soul, but Sylvie makes it roar.

  “I’m here,” she murmurs now, soothing me. Then, “I still feel you everywhere.”

  She makes me smile. She’s got the power to temper the fear of us.

  “Woot,” I whisper against her mouth.

  “So you got what you need from the buffet?” a polite voice asks behind me. “Come join Holland and me, or do you need something to go with that lemon?”

  I veer up from us and find Luke biting his lip with humor. Sure enough. My plate has a slice of lemon on it and that’s it. I’m not sure how it ended up there. Sister Holland’s face is a dead giveaway of how she’s sent her boyfriend over to rectify our public display of affection.

  The smell of burnt batter permeates the air.

  “How black do you like your waffles?” Sylvie asks. It snaps me into action. I let go of her to open the wretched waffle maker and start digging out crusty remains.

  “We’ll be right there,” I tell Luke over my shoulder, because I still possess some civility. “I just need to scrape my breakfast onto my plate.”

  The sound of Sylvie’s laughter relaxes me. “Burned waffle with lemon slices. Yum.”

  “My subpar meal is your fault. There’s no way I can concentrate with the way you walk.”

  “Oh gee, thanks. You think it’s funny that I’m practically limping?”

  “No, not funny. I think it’s too hot for words.”

  Aishe’s gaze returns to me as I accept a chair opposite Luke and Holland. It’s fine—Troy is nowhere to be seen, and Aishe should be safe with the Limelight guys.

  But I do feel like I’m about to have dinner with the in-laws. Hilarious, considering how Holland and Luke must be around my age.

  We have one more night in this place. Then I’m heading back to L.A. for a low-key Christmas before The Thalias start their winter tour. Sylvie is probably going back for a family holiday up north. Do we have any Canadian dates on the next tour? I sure hope so. Because one more night won’t sate my need for this woman.

  A double date with Holland Drake and Luke Craven. I’ve been imagining this moment since I was thirteen years old, since I first stumbled upon the crazy-talented and swoon-worthy rock icons of Night Shifts Black. In those fantasies it was always Casey Barrett, their drummer, seated beside me, however. I have the Wall of Stalker Fangirldom at home in my bedroom to prove it.

  Funny how one weekend has left me wondering, Casey who?

  Shandor’s chair is closer than it needs to be, and it feels so natural to settle my hand on his thigh. I love when he hides mine with his own, running his thumb in a casual trail over my wrist as he talks. Shivers travel up my arm, delicious memories triggered with each teased cell. Last night was… O.M.G.

  He’s amazing with my sister and almost brother-in-law. The conversation has flowed in a seamless exchange of music jargon blah-blahs from one pro to another since we sat down. Even Luke seems impressed with my man’s knowledge and background. Me? I’m past impressed, straight into puddle-of-drool territory, at the evidence of my Gypsy’s passion, not just for me, but for the music that owned me before he did.

  Holland is shooting me another dark look. I’ve ignored several, but this one catches right in my pupils, and I can’t pretend not to see it. Shandor and Luke continue discussing the hazards of touring, oblivious to my silent argument with my sister.

  I’m accustomed to her warnings, but this one guts me. Straight through irises and into my brain, then sliding, sliding to my shattered heart.

  You haven’t told him, her look screams.

  It’s obvious to her. The way Shandor talks of our plans that day. The way his smile radiates contentment at the same rate my frown sucks it away.

  “What is it? You okay?” He notices, and his voice is soft enough that our companions politely ignore our exchange. I’d much rather join their alternate discussion about the quality of the table linens.

  “Fine. Why?” I lie, clenching my fist to keep the tears where they belong, which is nowhere until I’m alone. I can feel Holland’s stare across the table.

  “You look upset.”

  Those eyes. Will haunt me for the rest of my life. This is the kind of forever-moment that alters a girl, breaks her if she’s not careful.

  “No, just tired.” I force a twist of the lips this time, easier since it’s only a lie by implication.

  “Sorry for that,” he grins, so not sorry, and the tears shift hard against my wall. I attack his lips then. I don’t care. Etiquette can kiss my ass if it thinks I shouldn’t spend my last moments entwined with the man I might love.

  Tell him! Holland is silently mouthing when I pull away and catch her glare.

  I focus back on those simmering ambers, fully intending to do it. But how can I when they reach into my soul? When they tempt me with magic I’ve come to need?

  “How’s your waffle?” I manage instead, rewarded with a smile that almost makes my betrayal worth it.

  “The lemon perfectly balances the bitterness of the burnt batter.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  “Want a bite?”

  I shake my head and opt for another kiss instead. I’m careful to avoid any eye movement within a two-metre radius of Holland this time.

  “Well, hey, we’re finished here, so catch you later?” Luke announces, all amused and gracious.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” Holland says, much less so.

  The chill of panic begins to sweep through me as our table empties. It’s easier to ignore an anvil hanging over your head when your overbearing sister and her boyfriend are around to distract you.

  “So what do you want to do this afternoon? I have a few hours before they need me.”

  Such an innocent question. Such an easy answer that I can’t get past my lips.

  Say. It.

  “Um, can we just go back to your room?”

  His look of surprise isn’t surprising considering I’m probably too sore to even get there.

  “Really? I was thinking we could go check out the beach or something. They have—”

  “I didn’t mean for sex. Just to relax, but yeah, the beach sounds great. Let’s go for a walk.”

  I glance at my phone as he gathers our plates of uneaten food. Fifty-seven minutes.

  The sand is perfect between my toes. Everything is perfect. Sandals in one hand, love of my life in the other. Birds, waves, warm sun, fucking palm trees rustling in the breeze.

  Yeah, that’s right. I said it! I don’t have other words right now. Not when he squeezes my fingers like we have nothing but time and it’s the one thing we don’t have.

  Ugh, time. Freaking Rena and Bud who only have to worry about carpeting and daily commutes. I hope their dream house needs a new roof and furnace.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard this much silence from you since we met.”

  “You don’t hear silence,” I correct because my misery is making me a bitch.

  It’s enough to earn a glance, and I pull us to a halt.

  “I was making a point. What’s going on, Sylvie?”

  “How about you kiss me instead?” There’s no way I’m doing the conversation thing right now. Not with that one sentence I can’t say pounding against my skull.

  “Sylvie, what’s up? Are you regretting last night?”

  Regretting? I’d laugh if I could. How do I explain that I will never ever regret the biggest mistake of my life: falling in love with a guy I can’t have. Because come on, condos in downtown Toronto be damned. This boy is not a settler, and I’m just a groupie. This is it. This beach walk is the end. Stupid logistics!

  “No, of course not. It was amazing. It was…” I suck in my breath. ‘Effing tears now too?

  “Then what?”

  “I’m going to miss y
ou?” I have no idea why it comes out like a question except that maybe the quiver distorts my voice. Pretty sure all words would be questions right now. Coconuts? Seagulls? Lemon waffles?

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, pulling me against his chest. “We’ll figure it out. We still have time.”

  Say it, Sylvie. Say it!

  I can’t. I can’t because then it’s real. Then this forever-moment becomes a goodbye and I can’t handle a real goodbye. I’m not built for those. I’m a dreamer who goes after inaccessible fantasies so I can keep on dreaming. Reality freaking sucks.

  So I don’t say a thing. For the first time in my life I say silence as we stand in this perfect slice of forever, clinging to each other in a fantasy I actually got to touch for two whole days. No, I’m speechless because here’s reality: I don’t know how to tell the man I’m afraid I can’t live without that I leave for my flight in a half hour.

  I bite my lip, which tilts upward in the mirror of my bathroom. In it, I see a guy who’s different to the one who came to the Bahamas a few days ago.

  Sure, I’m still wearing a bandanna, and unruly hair dips in and out around it. I’ve got a black tee on, my tattoo still peeking out from beneath a sleeve. But I see what Aishe saw at sound check a minute ago: my eyes look odd. They’re brighter. I look apprehensive, sure, but fuck, I look happy.

  Tonight’s will be a long performance. All bands will do their thing in sequence like Friday and Saturday, but after the last band there’s a collaboration the promoter insisted on as a finale.

  The bands have rehearsed two songs together, and Mariana has enlisted me for a ten-second Flamenco-guitar riff after the last bridge of the last tune. Basically, it means I’ve got a two-hour and thirty-minute break between The Thalias and the culmination, which is supposed to blow the audience’s mind. On the rooftop. Under the stars. And under the impromptu fireworks the sponsor just decided on.