“So you’re . . . .” I pressed, certain my face was going to catch fire.
“Discreet,” he replied. “And bisexual. Probably.”
“Wow.”
It took a moment for his shock announcement to sink in. Something like longing stirred in the pit of my stomach, but it was quickly wiped out by the realization that JJ hadn’t lost his best friend when Mike had died.
He had lost his boyfriend.
“Before you try to apologize, don’t,” he said quickly, meeting my gaze for the first time. “You had no way of knowing. I should have told you that I couldn’t do Wednesday. I thought I could handle it, and I couldn’t. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“You really want to be in this band, don’t you?”
He laughed at that, leaning back against the booth. I was as surprised by my own forwardness as he was, but he wasn’t offended. I liked that I could surprise him. It was only fair after the number of times he’d left me speechless.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”
It was starting to get dark outside. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window, relaxed but more dazzling than ever.
“What’s your real name?” I asked him, unable to contain my curiosity. He’d been so honest, I wanted to get as much out of him as I could before he clammed back up again.
“Can I still be your singer?”
“Yes,” I told him, answering as soon as he’d finished asking his question. “Name?”
“That’s another secret for another time,” he said, grinning as he finished the last of his milkshake.
***
JJ showed up at the next practice on time, stone cold sober and ready to work.
I still couldn’t believe how good his voice was. We covered a whole bunch of our favorite songs, and he was great at all of them. His voice never faltered, changing what had been the band’s already good sound into something that made my breath stutter in my chest.
In between songs, he chatted easily with Jess and flirted playfully with Ash. It was as if he had been friends with us for years, a bunch of small town kids making too much noise above a quiet shop. It felt magical in a way I had never expected.
Dylan and Ash had to leave first, cutting our practice shorter than I would have liked. I was willing to play until Aunt Rose made us stop, but unfortunately, Dylan had some real life business to attend to. Jessica left next, elbowing me in the ribs as she passed and stopping to wink at me before she stomped downstairs in her knee-high boots.
“And then there were two,” JJ said with a chuckle before draining the last of his water.
“You were great today,” I told him as I laid my Fender carefully in its postcard-lined case.
“Yeah?” He asked, ducking his head just a little. His sunshine streaked hair tumbled into his eyes, blond, messy and perfect.
“Yeah,” I replied, smiling at him. “I can’t believe you haven’t been in a band all this time.”
“There aren’t many rock bands in private schools,” he said, quirking a flawless brow.
“Really? Not even the English one?”
“Especially the English one.”
“I thought you’d bring your guitar,” I blurted as I finished packing up. I had been dying to see his Gibson up close. I’d told my dad that I had met someone with a Hummingbird, and he’d been suitably impressed. If my dad was impressed, then that was a good sign. I still hadn’t told him about the band, I convinced myself I was laying the groundwork for the confession. I would tell him sooner or later . . . probably later.
“The Hummingbird?” JJ asked, eyes glittering with mischief.
“Yup.”
“I considered it,” he admitted, his careless shrug at odds with his wicked grin. “But you’re star struck enough without me showing up with my two-grand guitar.”
I choked on the swig of water I’d just taken, the bottle nearly slipping from my grip. I had known it was an expensive guitar, but I had no idea it cost that much.
“Two grand?” I repeated, the number stuck in the forefront of my mind.
“More or less. I think it was two and a half grand, or something.”
He talked about it with the nonchalance I expected from someone talking about their homework or their Saturday job. I had about a million questions, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask them.
“Did your dad buy it for you?”
“Hell no,” he replied with a snort, pulling his phone out of his pocked and tapping out a text. “I won a bet, at school in England.”
“That just creates more questions than it answers, JJ.”
“I know,” he replied, still grinning.
I smiled back, unable to resist his easy charm.
He slung an arm around my waist and pulled me close as he tilted his phone above our heads. I recognized a selfie pose—Jess had forced me into enough of her pictures—but it had never felt like it did with JJ. His fingertips were little spots of heat against my skin where my tee shirt was riding up, and I could feel his heart beating, he was standing so close. We were pressed together from shoulder to knee, and every inch of him felt alive, sparks of energy dancing across the surface of his skin.
“That’s a keeper,” he murmured as he checked the picture on his screen.
He hadn’t angled the camera properly, not used to being photographed with someone so tall. Our faces weren’t really in the picture at all—our heads were at the top of the frame, his blond hair in sharp contrast to my unruly, dark mop. Our shoulders were pressed together as if we were getting ready to go into battle. I could see a hint of his perfectly straight nose and my flushed cheeks, but that was it. The picture could have been of anyone, anonymous but full of tenderness somehow.
“Hey, so, I was thinking you guys could come over to my house after school tomorrow,” he said, fiddling with the label on his now empty water bottle in a rare display of nervousness.
“Your house?”
Calling the Keswick mansion a house was like saying the Artic is a little bit cold. I’d only seen the place a couple of times when I was driving out of town. It sat on the top of a hill, with gardens that seemed to bloom all year round. It was white, with a dark slate roof and columns at the front door, glittering in the sun like the town’s centerpiece.
“Sure. My dad’s out of town, and I’m pretty sure Lesley is taking the day off, so . . .”
“Lesley?”
“Housekeeper,” he answered, eyes flicking self-consciously up to my face.
“Of course,” I replied, laughing it off. I wasn’t surprised. The house was massive, and he didn’t strike me as the type to do chores.
“I was thinking you, Jess, Ash and Dylan could come over and watch a movie or something.”
“Sounds good,” I told him quickly, shocked by how nervous he was. “Should I bring anything?”
“Nah,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure the pantry is pretty well stocked.”
“Well, Lesley sounds like the responsible type,” I pointed out as we headed downstairs to the shop.
He laughed, the sound of it echoing around the empty shop. He was caught in the golden light from the big window, his slender frame painted in the fiery shades of a late summer sunset. He was lit from the inside out, burning so bright I couldn’t look away.
“Thanks for today, JJ,” I said as he reached the door.
“Why are you thanking me?” he asked, hesitating in the doorway, the surprise stripping his confidence away to reveal the boy underneath.
“I like to be proven wrong from time to time,” I admitted, running a hand through my hair. “It stops me from getting complacent, I guess.”
“You can kiss your complacency goodbye, Mr. Daveyson,” he replied, confidence returning as he flicked his sunglasses down over his eyes.
***
“Fucking hell,” Jess muttered as I pulled my battered van into the driveway of the Keswick mansion.
I’d had a rough idea of what it looked like, but nothi
ng could have prepared me for actually walking up to the front door.
“Agreed,” I whispered as I rang the doorbell.
It was so quiet that I could hear the chimes echoing through the house. A gentle breeze made the leaves on the nearby trees rustle. I quirked a brow at Jess when the sound of water lapping against something solid joined in the outdoor harmony.
The door swung open, and there JJ was, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. He looked way more casual than I had been expecting—his hair wasn’t styled within an inch of its life and the faded tee shirt he was wearing was a little too big. Something fluttered unexpectedly in my stomach when I realized he was barefoot.
“Hey,” he said, moving out of the doorway so we could all wander in, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
“So . . . is your dad single?” Ash joked as we followed him through the marble foyer—grand staircase and all—into the pristine living room.
“Nah,” JJ replied with a sour smile. “He is currently wooing a twenty-five-year old model who is like, so totally ready to settle down and become a step mom!” He put on a Valley girl voice for his explanation, complete with fake bubblegum sweetness and fluttering eyelashes.
“Really though, how rich is your family?” Jessica pressed as we all sat down.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, filled with an irrational fear that I would damage it somehow. JJ was completely at ease among the opulence, comfortable with the luxury of his surroundings. He looked good, a perfect example of how a rich kid should look.
“Rich enough to make sure they can completely lose touch with reality,” he said with a chuckle. “Everyone thinks that money gives you freedom, but really it just introduces a whole new set of rules.”
I let them carry on the conversation for a while, impressed by how easily JJ could banter with my friends. They teased him mercilessly, and he made them laugh, his responses lightning quick and surprisingly witty.
After ten minutes of begging, JJ agreed to take us on a tour of the house.
The kitchen was bigger than the whole top floor of the shop, polished granite work surfaces as far as the eye could see. We also went into the backyard to see the pool, lined with solid oak sun loungers. A full-size grill and picnic tables were set up to the left of the patio.
I had to use my sternest look to persuade Jess not to jump into the pool fully clothed before we all followed JJ upstairs. He explained that the right wing of the house was his dad’s space, so we avoided it. Ash and Jess were more interested in JJ’s bedroom and en-suite bathroom instead. It all looked incredibly expensive but perfectly normal to me.
Then JJ’s music room took my breath away.
The décor was a bit muted compared to the rest of the house, but the actual contents of the room were captivating enough. I had spotted the grand piano in the foyer, but JJ had an upright piano in his music room, the keys glittering in the sunlight from the window. His Gibson Hummingbird was on a guitar stand in the corner, beside his stacked drums.
“I can’t believe I ever thought you were just a dime-a-dozen jock,” Ash said, letting out a low whistle as she examined his custom drum kit. JJ shrugged, but I could see the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“When did you start playing?” I asked him, trailing my fingertips across the piano keys.
“Um . . . depends on the instrument. I was three or four when I started piano, five when I started violin, seven for guitar and ten for drums.”
“You started playing when you were three?” Jess repeated, clearly as shocked as I was.
“My mom was still around then, but she argued with my dad a lot. She wanted me to be able to drown out the yelling,” he explained, his eyes glazing over. “This used to be my nursery.”
“Way to kill the mood, JJ,” Jessica quipped, bumping her shoulder against his.
He smiled at her, pulled out of his painful reminiscing.
When you put five musicians in a room full of expensive musical instruments, there is one thing that inevitably happens. Within ten minutes, the drum kit had been assembled, Dylan was sitting at the piano cracking his knuckles, Jess was plugging in a bass guitar and JJ was handing me his Gibson Hummingbird.
“I couldn’t,” I stammered as he held his guitar out to me. “What if I drop it or something?”
“I’ll make my dad pay to have it fixed,” he replied with his trademark carefree grin. “It’s how he shows that he cares about me, very deep down. Under layers and layers of cold hard cash.”
“JJ . . .”
“I insist,” he said, stepping forward to fling the strap over my head.
We played for an hour or so, switching up guitars and songs. JJ rotated his way around the instruments, even breaking out his violin to take on a Yellowcard track.
By the time we traipsed downstairs to watch a movie, we were all buzzing with the sort of energy that only comes from a really good jam session. After taking a vote on what movie to watch, we settled on a blockbuster I’d never heard of and sat down to watch it.
JJ sat on the couch beside me, so we could share the salted popcorn (which Jess considers an abomination). Ash was sprawled at the end of the couch, taking up a considerable amount of space, despite her slender frame, so JJ was pressed against me from shoulder to knee.
He was still warm from bouncing around his music room, the heat radiated through his thin shirt. Our knuckles brushed every time we reached for the popcorn, triggering a little spark of electricity that held my attention more than the movie. I tried to focus on the film, but it was practically impossible when JJ was sitting so close and smelling so good.
It was pretty late by the time we left, the dark night eerily silent as we trudged across the gravel driveway. Jessica was yawning as she leapt up into the passenger seat of my van while Ash and Dylan shoved each other playfully into the back.
I glanced up at JJ as I started the engine. He was standing in the doorway, his feet bare, elegant hand extended in a wave. He was illuminated by the foyer light, looking like an off duty model and a lost kid all at once. The house was beautiful, but too big, too empty.
My house was laughably small by comparison, but my aunt Rose was waiting up for me, curled up on the couch with one of my mom’s handmade quilts and a glass of wine. The scene that greeted me was nowhere near as decadent as the one JJ went home to every day, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I wouldn’t trade what I had for all the money in the world.
“Yes, I was Drunk”—Twin Atlantic
Within a few short weeks, JJ Keswick had transformed from annoyingly attractive, overly confident star athlete to annoyingly attractive, overly confident vocalist and weirdly enough . . . someone I considered a friend.
He didn’t miss a practice, which we had stepped up to three a week—Wednesday nights, Saturday afternoons and Sunday afternoons. He often showed up a few minutes late, but he was sober (he insisted that being hungover didn’t count as still being intoxicated, so I let that slide) and he usually brought good coffee.
I still found myself being caught off guard by his voice. He was a born performer, injecting each song with his easy charm and natural sex appeal. He was a lot of fun to watch, but as the days ticked by, I started to realize that the performance he put in at practice was so good because he was performing every minute of every day. What I saw in the practice room was just as fake as the performance he put on at school.
He swung by the shop one Monday night about two months after joining the band. I was adding the new releases to the shelves alone. Aunt Rose was chairing a meeting at the community centre and Jess was preparing for a biology test.
I had Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge blaring, humming along to the familiar songs. I didn’t look up as JJ walked in, he had already sent me a text to let me know he was swinging by.
He leapt up on to the counter, pushing his sunglasses up into his sun-streaked hair. It was pretty cloudy outside, so there was no need for his sunglasses, but he managed to avoid looking like a dou
chebag by flashing me a surprisingly sincere smile. He rummaged through the boxes of new stock, agitated, nervous energy making him twitch as I turned around to smile at him.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked him as I grabbed the stereo remote, turning down the volume.
“Nothing,” he lied, sighing.
“You’re sitting in an empty music shop watching me stock up instead of hanging out with a pretty girl.”
“Or boy,” he added with a wink.
“Or boy,” I repeated. “So what gives?”
“I’m bored,” he replied with a shrug. “With the whole rich playboy, social butterfly, universally adored jock thing.”
“Right, because that can be so boring.”
“So . . . this is what you do at night?” he asked, slipping down from the counter to follow me around the shop.
“This is what I do on Mondays. Tuesday is new release day,” I explained, grinning over my shoulder at him.
“So you get first dibs on the new stock?”
“Pretty much, it’s a perk of the job. My dad pays me, but it’s not much, so he tops up my wages up with CDs.”
“Huh.”
We chatted idly for another few minutes while I finished up. JJ even swept the floor while I took out the trash. He laughed when I handed him a CD from the new releases and called it payment for sweeping the floor.
He seemed to be in a much better mood than he had been in when he’d first appeared at the shop. I didn’t feel like saying goodbye after I’d finished stocking up, so we put a CD on and sat at the counter. I even made us some of the decaf coffee Aunt Rose had stashed in the break room. JJ bitched about it being decaf but drank it anyway, hiding a smirk behind the rim of his mug.
“I was thinking about practice on Wednesday, and there’s a song I’d like us to try,” I told him, pulling out the sheet music I had tucked under the counter.
“Yeah?”
He frowned as he read the title of the song, his eyebrows knitting together as his expression darkened. I wondered if I had crossed a line and pushed him too far, and I instantly regretted it.
Fake It (The Keswick Chronicles Book 1) Page 7