“We’re not going that far,” Rag says in a half whisper. I don’t know why, because Jesse can still hear him. We’re sitting the same distance away. It’s like he knows the rules, though, of how this goes—this blowing off steam mission I think we’re on.
My lips close tight, and I turn my attention out the window, the rain hitting the glass and creating the illusion of traveling at lightspeed—stars rushing by us while we propel away from here.
Rag’s promise was accurate, because he pulls off of the main road after just a couple miles, fishtailing onto a muddy side road that leads to an abandoned frame that was probably going to be an office building at one point. He pulls up next to the structure of metal and heavy brick, and shoves the car into park. I catch the fading sign as Jesse opens our door.
THE YARDS
I’m sure it was supposed to sound elegant. Now, it feels like a dystopia.
We’re all soaked in a matter of seconds after leaving the car, but Rag follows Jesse into the multi-story building frame that’s only lit by his Camaro. I follow them in after a few more seconds, but stop just under the wide umbrella of a large metal beam. It isn’t perfect, but it protects me from the direct rain enough that I can stand and wipe the water from my face with my soaked sweatshirt.
Jesse starts to climb a ladder that doesn’t seem to really go anywhere at all, and before he can get too far up, his cousin grabs his leg at the knee and shakes his head.
“Don’t pull this shit. We’re here to vent.” They have a stare-off that lasts a few long seconds until Jesse picks up a piece of metal rebar and thrusts it across the open space, clanking against the broken foundation ground.
I start to shiver, but I don’t dare mention that I’m cold. A second later, Jesse screams. His voice bellows, broken up by the rush of rain.
“He wants my music. That’s it, man. He wants to steal the only thing I have left!” His teeth grit as he speaks the words, his eyes moving from his cousin to me, and a realization colors his skin that I’m in the dark for most of this. I know more than he realizes; I don’t know enough.
“What do you mean? That doesn’t even make sense. Just…back up, and start at the beginning. He came over and then…what?”
I can tell Rag has had to do this conversation before. I wonder how many times Alton Berringer has been a disappointment.
“Get this…he’s an agent now. Or he has a record label. Or…fuck, I didn’t even really listen when I started to smell the bullshit. He’s just doing what he always does, weaseling his way in by finding what makes me weak. He was like, ‘Merry fucking Christmas, kid. Let me fix everything in your life and sponsor your dream. You know…because I have such a great track record at being good at business.’ He did it to my mom so many times—lied? That’s why I can see it!” He bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head.
My body is starting to convulse now, and Jesse notices. I wince with guilt.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, you’re not. Dude, forget it. Just take us home. Get her inside.” Jesse starts to walk back toward the car, and Rag stares at me for a second or two before nodding for me to follow along.
“I’m sorry. He swings his emotions when it comes to Alton. A lot of things, really. But being pissed is better than being depressed, so if he wants to come break shit, I break shit with him.”
Rag’s insight stops when we reach the car, and I get that it’s not meant for Jesse’s ears. I also get that Jesse’s manic.
I curl back into his lap, and his hands slide around my waist again, his palms flat along my stomach and sides. His touch is a little more personal this time, though. He’s trying to keep me warm.
When we pull onto the main road, I feel his head come to a rest against my back, between my shoulder blades, and his breathing—the once rapid rise and fall of his body under and against mine—slows to a long and steady motion.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a low voice. I don’t know if that’s meant for Rag, me, or both of us. I answer regardless.
“It’s okay,” I say, my hands moving to the place where his rest along my body. At the first feel of my touch, he grasps a hold on me, an almost desperate hold that comes with the release of one small breath.
It’s exasperation.
It’s exhaustion.
It’s disappointment—in Alton, and in himself.
The rain has let up, but it’s still a steady mist, tiny drops that sting more than pelt. We stop in front of my house, and Jesse helps me climb free, getting out with me and leaning into the car to talk to Rag.
“I’m good. I’ll walk her up then jog home. Let’s rehearse again tomorrow, yeah? Logan can come then, so it’s better anyway.” He reaches in with a fist, pounding it against Rag’s. I bend forward and wave to my side with an open palm, still holding myself to stay warm.
“You sure you’re good?” Rag asks, glancing to Jesse for a beat. I know what he means—can I handle him like this? I nod. I can handle so much more.
Jesse and I start to walk up the driveway as Rag circles around and leaves our street. I lead him along the side of the house, to the back gate. My parents leave the patio door unlocked so I can get in at night. They started doing that last year when Sam and I started staying out well past midnight.
“I’m okay here,” I say.
Jesse nods, his eyes lifting to mine, heavy with pathetic apologies. The mist and thin rain has become white. Snow flurries. That’s the one thing you get up here near these ugly, bare hillsides. There’s always a chance of snow. Not the real, magical kind you see on greeting cards—the kind that teases you and disappoints when it melts along the ground. Still, I like the way it dusts Jesse’s hair right now.
“Rag tell you what that was all about?” He closes one eye as he asks.
“He told me enough.”
His gaze meets mine again as he nods. His attention quickly goes back to his feet, though. The flurries are practically singing to us against the metal gutter, a melody of faint tings and splashes from leftover rain growing lighter and lighter until it barely feels wet at all outside.
“I had a sister,” I begin. Jesse’s brow dents, but his eyes remain on the wet ground between us, a burst of fog parting his lips. “We were a year apart. She dove into a lake up north from our uncle’s boat in the middle of the night. We were out there fishing, and out of nowhere, she tossed her rod to the side and dove in.”
Jesse’s gaze creeps up, and when our eyes meet, I know he knows the end of this story. I say it anyway.
“She never came up. I was six. She was seven.”
My breath quivers, and it’s not because I’m cold. I haven’t talked about Ella in years. More than a decade, really. Not since I quit having to talk about her to therapists willing to give me pills.
“Ella was bipolar manic, and she was in a serious low. We were kids, and I had no idea what any of her problems meant. I just knew my mom cried a lot, and my parents both worried. They watched us like hawks, and my uncle promised he’d watch us too. It was just one second.”
I laugh at the sadness of it all. I think I have to. I’m not sure because I’ve never really talked to someone like this…about this.
“For whatever reason, after mourning her for a year, my parents just decided to hit reset. They quit jobs they hated and bought a shipping business that makes barely enough to get by. They started giving me more freedom. They put me in music classes. I fell in love with the drums.”
Jesse breathes in, his lips parted in thought before his front teeth come together as he exhales, holding back whatever it is he’s trying to say. I get that, too. I didn’t talk about Ella for an entire decade. My parents still haven’t. Ten years later, we’ve just moved on, as if she never was.
But she was.
Sometimes, when I’m in my peaceful place—when I’m playing—she still is. I feel her often.
I get why Jesse doesn’t like the holidays. It’s the same reason I adore them. This time…it was Ella
’s favorite, too.
“I’m really glad I met you, Jesse Barringer,” I say, my voice cracking from my nerves and the cold.
I’m not sure what to expect from him, but I know more than anything that those are the words I had to say right now. Those are the words he needs to hear, from someone who doesn’t have a damn thing to do with his dad.
His eyes dip and his mouth curls on one side, and I think maybe he’s a little embarrassed by my compliment…my appreciation of him. His eyes flicker with thought for a few seconds, but then rise to meet mine in a blink. In a sudden step, his lips brush against mine as his hands come up to gently hold either side of my face. I stand completely still, my arms still tethered around my own body—paralyzed. His kiss lasts for the smallest moment, long enough for his lips to hold onto my top lip with the force of a feather then fall away.
“Goodnight, Arizona Wakefield. I’m really glad I met you, too.”
I remain in the dark, in the mist and under the clearing sky while he walks with his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans back to the house where his siblings are probably tired of pretending they aren’t afraid.
The storm came and left.
And so did Jesse.
This story will continue. The entire Drummer Girl book will release in the middle of 2019. I hope you enjoyed this early sneak peek!
You can add Drummer Girl to your TBR here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42832402-drummer-girl
STANDALONES:
Cry Baby
Memphis
The Hard Count
Hold My Breath
How We Deal With Gravity
Blindness
THE LIKE US DUET
A Boy Like You
A Girl Like Me
THE HARPER BOYS DUET
Wild Reckless
Wicked Restless
THE FALLING SERIES
This Is Falling
You & Everything After
The Girl I Was Before
Spin-off
In Your Dreams
THE WAITING SERIES
Waiting on the Sidelines
Going Long
Coming January 2019: The Hail Mary, Book 3 in the Waiting Series
Add to your TBR here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42832386-the-hail-mary
Ginger Scott is an Amazon-bestselling and Goodreads Choice Award-nominated author from Peoria, Arizona. She is the author of several young and new adult romances, including recent bestsellers Cry Baby, The Hard Count, A Boy Like You, This Is Falling and Wild Reckless.
Ginger believes tomboys deserve love stories too, so her heroines often play hard and fall harder — and they don’t lose to the boys. She has been writing and editing for newspapers, magazines and blogs for a helluva long time, and she has told the stories of Olympians, politicians, actors, scientists, cowboys, criminals and towns. For more on her and her work, visit her website at http://www.littlemisswrite.com.
When she’s not writing, the odds are high that she’s somewhere near a baseball diamond, either watching her son field pop flies like Bryce Harper or cheering on her favorite baseball team, the Arizona Diamondbacks. Ginger lives in Arizona and is married to her college sweetheart whom she met at ASU (fork ‘em, Devils).
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Christmas Eve’s not supposed to come with stomach-churning anxiety and the desire to tug my hair out. Still, that’s exactly how I feel when I open the front door to find my fiancé standing on Gram’s snow-covered porch, both hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans and a cocky smirk playing on his full lips. For a long pause, the look on Lucas’s face makes me forget my worries—it sure as hell isn’t there because he’s hungry for food. Then, I remember who’s inside the house at this very moment. Ignoring my racing heartbeat, I cross my arms tightly over my chest.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I mutter.
He laughs. Probably because he doesn’t understand that my mother is fully capable of turning our pre-Christmas lunch into Hurricane Rebecca. Over and over again, I’ve made her promise to behave in front of his parents. She said she will, but I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours stressed out, my belly tangled in knots and a migraine pricking at my temples. If she somehow manages to keep her word, this will be the first Christmas gift she’s given me in over ten years.
It’ll make up for all the rest.
I glance behind Lucas toward his black Audi, but his parents aren’t inside. “Did they change their mind?” I ask, my voice shamefully hopeful.
“They’re driving over from their hotel.” Drawing his hands from his pockets, he tucks a tattooed finger under my chin, tilting my face up to his. “Breathe, Red.” With his other hand, he splays his fingers over the small of my back, jerking me to his muscular body. “You smell good—like cranberries. Bet you taste just as good. Makes me want to—”
“Is that Lucas?” Gram’s voice interrupts from the steps behind me. Reluctantly, he drops his hand from my back, his knuckles grazing my ass in the process. Sliding a red strand of hair behind my ear, I face my grandmother with fiery cheeks. Lucas, on the other hand, casts a grin at her that’s mesmerized millions of die-hard rock fans and stolen the hearts of groupies in every major city.
My grandmother leans against the garland-wrapped banister for support and curls her lips into a bright smile. “Merry Christmas Eve, Lucas.”
“You too, Mrs. Previn.” His tone, calm and pleasant, completely belies whatever filth, sexy promise he was just about to growl at me. He’s been out of town so much recently that my body is already going crazy with anticipation.
Her brows draw together as she walks down the last couple steps. “Your mother and father are still coming for lunch before they go back to Atlanta, aren’t they?” Beaming up at Lucas, she waves me away when I try to help her. “Sienna’s been cooking since the sun came up.”
His thick, dark brows lift in mock surprise. “You cook, Red?”
I roll my eyes. His reaction is similar to the one I got from my younger brother an hour ago. Seth was under the impression lunch was courtesy of Sara Lee and Marie Callender’s. “I swear if one more person looks at me like that...” He laughs at the dark glare I shoot his way. “You should be thankful my mother’s not the one cooking. She’d probably serve us toilet wine.”
“Be nice, it’s almost Christmas.” But Gram winks at me, giving me a pat on the arm as she walks past us. “I know it’s going to taste wonderful, sweetheart. No matter what anyone else says.” She heads into the living room where Seth is watching the football game with my mother—who claims to know what’s going on, even though I can’t remember her watching football ever. Just when I think we’re in the clear, she calls back, “By the way, Lucas, you smell good—like cologne.”
I automatically clench my teeth, but he doesn’t seem the least bit phased because he draws me close to him again. “You’re doing that teeth thing again. You know it drives me abso-fucking-lutely crazy,” he says in a rough, low voice that warms my skin.
“Maybe because my grandmother just pointed out she heard what you were saying to me,” I argue, immediately releasing a sigh a couple seconds later when his lips cover mine. Of course, the moment I mold against him, the knock at the door breaks us apart.
“That must be your parents.” I quickly trace my fingertip around the outline of my lips to fix my gloss, then use the pad of my thumb to wipe the shimmery pink color from Lucas’ mouth. When I’m finished, I hold my arms out and glance down at my burgundy skater dress. “How do I look?”
“By the end of this day, I’m going to peel that little dress off of you.” His hazel eyes seem to
darken while he skims his gaze over the length of my body, and I curl my toes in my shoes. “But to answer your question, you look beautiful.”
A hot tingle wiggles through me, but I pretend I’m unaffected as I reach past him to open the door. “I’m surprised you didn’t say you were gonna do it with your teeth,” I tease, peeking up at him.
He gives my waist a gentle squeeze and bends so that his mouth touches my ear. “I figured that was implied.”
I’m still struggling to catch my breath when I let his parents in and while we exchange hugs. I had met them before—back in February when we went to Atlanta—but this time is different, and his mother makes sure she lets me know when she throws her arms around me.
“I never thought he’d settle down, but I’m so happy it’s with a good girl and none of those ... flings he’s had,” she whispers fiercely in my ear. She kisses my cheek, and her brown eyes are dancing when she leans away from me. “I’m sure my daughter has already inundated you with planning questions—”
“Not too much.” I try not to cringe at the thought of Kylie’s constant Facebook check-ins. For someone who eloped in lieu of a big ass wedding, she’s terrifyingly obsessed with my wedding plans. She claims it’s the pregnancy hormones. I spot Lucas and his dad slipping into the family room, and I give his mom an apologetic smile. “I’ve got to take the ham out, but if you want—”
She quickly nods in understanding. “I’d rather help you.”
Having Shannon Wolfe—who insists I call her Shan—in the kitchen is awkward at first, but she quickly puts me at ease by telling me about the year Lucas and Sinjin, the band’s drummer, managed to ruin the contents of the spare fridge (food meant for Christmas dinner) after they unplugged it to practice.
“All to plug in an amp?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
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