A snort comes from the front row. Brandon Bowers is a senior and popular. “A lot of people play guitar.”
“Not like me.”
Nervous laughter filters through the room.
“Play us something,” Brandon challenges.
“Brandon…” But our teacher trails off as Brandon goes to the back of the class, grabs his guitar, and unzips it from the case.
Our teachers are open-minded, which is why she doesn’t protest when Brandon holds out the guitar to Tyler.
With zero hesitation, Tyler takes it, slings the strap over his head, and stretches his neck as if to get comfortable.
He turns his back to the class.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Carly murmurs to one of her minions.
We don’t have to wait long, because a single note splits the buzzing silence.
Before the vibration swells enough to fill the room, the rustle of fabric says bodies are already shifting forward in their seats to listen.
But my eyes are on him.
The song begins slow, deliberate, as if he’s coaxing a story from this instrument that isn’t even his.
As he picks up the tempo, the guitar lights up under his hands as if recognizing it’s in the presence of greatness.
By the time Tyler turns to face the class, we’re all recognizing it.
His fingers fly over the strings, but it’s the rest of him that has me transfixed. The tension in his body as he bends over the guitar, every ounce of him flowing through it to us. The way his hair falls over his face, the dark streak of blue catching the light from the window.
I press my thighs together under the desk, squirming.
It’s like watching something intimate. It’s sexual, it’s holy, and the combination of the two has me more uncomfortable than everything else that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours combined.
I always knew Tyler was good. Not “bowling alley gigs every weekend” kind of good. The kind of good that fills stadiums. The kind that has fans staying up until midnight to get new tracks on release day, that makes them drop hundreds or thousands for a chance to see him, to see this.
I want to shift out of my seat and close the distance between us. To run my hands through the thick hair falling over his intent face and pull that firm mouth against mine. I want those beautiful hands on me anywhere. Everywhere.
I tear my attention away to scan the room. Everyone’s riveted. Even the teacher. I don’t know if they’re more shocked or if I am.
Jealousy spurts through me, hot and liquid and irrational. I don’t know if I’m jealous of them for seeing him like this or jealous of the looks on their faces. The shock, the intrigue, the wanting.
The unplanned performance is over before it's begun. Tyler lets the final note hang in the thick air before he hands the guitar back to Brandon. It takes a second for Brandon to put the guitar away, as if his brain turned off and he can’t quite find his motor function.
“Well, that was very compelling. Thank you, Tyler.” The teacher turns to the board. Even she seems shocked.
Tyler’s barely dropped into his seat before Brandon leans toward him. I can just make out his words from my seat a few rows back. "We have a band. We could use a backup guitarist."
"I'm good."
Brandon laughs nervously as Tyler opens his notebook, shifting back in his seat and shoving a hand through his hair as he faces the board.
I don’t think Brandon’s ever been told no before. I want to photograph it, document it for posterity.
The teacher barely has time to put up the homework assignment from yesterday on the board before Brandon leans across the aisle again. “Lead guitarist, then."
Kellan Albright scoffs from the seat behind Tyler. “You have a guitarist. Mickey’s gonna lose his shit if you give his job away.”
But Brandon doesn’t flinch. "What do you say?"
The intensity in Brandon’s profile dials up as if every second Tyler doesn’t respond makes him want it more.
My ears strain for a response.
"I'll think about it,” Tyler says at last.
I sneak a look around the room to see everyone is either still watching Tyler or talking under their breath.
The teacher asks a question, and I try to force my attention to class.
But I can’t kick the feeling that I have no idea what just happened.
Actually, I know what happened, but I refuse to believe it.
Ten minutes ago, Tyler Adams was my friend.
Now, he’s Oakwood’s new obsession.
4
Annie
“I hope your first couple of days haven’t been too difficult an adjustment,” Haley says to Tyler over dinner Tuesday night.
“Nope,” I say, reaching for my drink. “Tyler’s the biggest thing since vaping.”
“Annie’s exaggerating.” Tyler throws a crumb at me.
I try to look offended, but the mischievous glint in his eyes makes it impossible. I nod toward the bassinet sitting next to the table. “You’re setting a bad example for the next generation.”
“Don’t throw things.” Tyler’s solemn gaze lands on Sophie’s sleeping form, his voice a gentle caress. “And don’t do drugs.”
I swallow the laugh.
But the truth is, in two days, Tyler’s taken over the school in a coup so subtle and stunning it's as if no one but me noticed it happen.
Yesterday at lunch, I looked for him in the dining hall to see him already sitting with Brandon and his crew, one of the most popular tables even more crowded than usual.
Since then, I’ve been watching from the sidelines. I see Tyler in the halls, and he asks me the occasional question about class or how things work at Oakwood when we cross paths in the hall or in the kitchen at home. When I’m getting out of the pool and he’s stalking across the patio from the garage, his leather jacket hugging every inch of his body.
Between those moments, I hardly see him. He’s surrounded by new fans who are happy to get him whatever he needs. Food, praise, information.
Oakwood hasn’t taken Tyler away from me. I know intellectually that he’s the same person he was two days ago.
But it feels wrong, especially since we haven’t had time to talk.
“Glad you’re fitting in.” My dad’s voice brings me back.
“I appreciate you covering my tuition.” Tyler shifts in his seat, appearing uncomfortable for the first time since he started school. “I’ll pay you back when I can.”
“You will not. Consider it a cost of being associated with me.”
I dig into dinner even though I’m not hungry anymore.
“Tyler, I’m the last person to advocate for private education. But they do have great teachers,” Haley adds. “And they’re empathetic to other priorities, like your music.
“Oh, and the rest of your bags arrived today. I figured your clothes would need ironing, so most of them are in the laundry room. And your guitar’s in the pool house.”
Tyler’s expression lights up at the word guitar. “That’s great. I’m supposed to play with some guys from school. They’re playing a frat party tomorrow night and another party on the weekend.”
“I don’t know if I want you playing in some band from school.” My dad reaches for his water glass.
“They’re harmless,” I interject before Tyler can. “Future doctors and lawyers and congressmen playing at being musicians.”
“I won’t let it get in the way of our work,” Tyler promises.
“If it does, you drop it.”
I roll my eyes. Apparently even the new prince of Oakwood has to defer to my dad.
Tyler shoots me a grateful look and my lips curve in response.
Something brushes my leg under the table and I jump.
“Tyler, I said I’d help you catch up on history since I took it last semester.” I glance at the clock on the kitchen. “If we go to the café, you can meet Pen.”
He drains the rest of his water
glass. “Right. I still can’t believe I haven’t met your friend.”
“It’ll have to wait a little longer.” My dad sets down his fork and leans both elbows on the table. “We have work to do. When you’re done eating, we can get started.”
“Jax,” Haley chides lightly. “Tonight?”
“The kid didn’t move across the country to eat pasta and sit around all day, Hales.”
“What about history?” I protest as Tyler shovels the last bites into his mouth.
My dad shifts out of his chair and takes his plate to the dishwasher. “You can help him with history tomorrow. It’ll still be there.”
Funny.
I fold my arms as I watch Tyler follow my dad toward the front of the house without a backward glance from either of them.
It’s not a dismissal, but it stings like one.
* * *
I don’t need to make excuses for Tyler, but when I show up alone at the café to meet Pen, I do anyway.
“It’s kind of a dick move,” Pen concedes. “But most people would probably rather make music with your dad than study with us.”
“Would you?” I challenge over my cappuccino.
She cocks her head. “Hell no.”
“I love you.”
On the way back, I try to recite Spanish verbs, the quiet ride of the Audi a perfect backdrop for studying.
Still, I can’t kick the dinner scene out of my head.
As my hands clench the steering wheel, I realize it wasn’t only the fact that I feel as if I’m losing my friend.
The way my dad whisked Tyler away to practice, like it was some boys’ club, bothered me as much.
Music’s never been something we did together. He always had his band and Big Leap, the charity my dad started in his converted tour bus that lives on our property when it’s not staffed and traveling across states to help high school kids make music.
My dad has never offered to teach me, has never taken me seriously about anything besides my studies.
Maybe if I could be good enough, I’d finally feel like I belong somewhere. If not at school, then at home.
As I’m pulling into the garage, my phone buzzes with a text.
Carly: Hey, Annie, it’s Carly :) Are you with Tyler?
I stare at it for a long moment before replying.
Annie: How’d you get my number?
Carly: I thought you guys were friends
Carly: Do you know what he’s wearing this weekend? Not that it matters, he’ll look fucking hot
Her first text has the hairs on my neck rising, but the final one breaks me.
Carly’s never texted me in the two years I’ve been at this school. Yes, she’s mocked me, played pranks on me, and done her best to get me into trouble.
All of which is fine by me. I don’t need them to accept me, and it doesn’t hurt at all that they’ve accepted Tyler.
But you didn’t think he’d want them back.
Inside the house, I take the stairs to my room.
I got coffee on my blazer cuff, and I need my spare tomorrow.
I stalk into my walk-in closet, but my blazer’s nowhere in sight.
What is there is my Strawberry Shortcake costume.
I hold it up and inspect every inch, from the tights to the skirt to the cupcake hat.
It’s quirky and fun, I remind myself. Even if I don’t win, I love it.
I run down to the laundry room. Sure enough, my spare jacket’s hanging on the rack of clean clothes by the door.
So is a familiar garment bag.
I reach for it, unzipping the bag to take in the dress I bought recently and had tailored.
My hands smooth over the sleek fabric, holding up the bodice. It’s black satin under lace, a cocktail dress, with tiny straps and a hem that hits halfway down my thighs.
I hold it up in front of me in the floor-length mirror.
All I can see is my pale face, the hint of freckles I’ve made peace with across my nose. My eyes are big and clear, my hair a mess of waves around my shoulders. Not the tidy kind, the unruly kind.
The last few days, I’ve noticed the popular kids more than usual since Tyler’s been embraced by them.
I decided a long time ago they were corrupt and shallow and insecure.
But maybe that’s not it. It could be that they’ve made peace with the world, and their outward perfection is only more evidence of that.
I shut the door behind me.
In two seconds, my top is on the washing machine.
My skinny jeans take a bit longer to wiggle off, but I manage to get them off one foot, then the other, and drop them next to my top.
I step into the dress and tug it up my hips before daring to look in the full-length wall mirror.
My skin tingles as I take in my reflection from head to toe. The dress makes me seem older. When I lift my chin, I look composed. Confident.
I fish in the pocket of my jeans for an elastic and twist my hair up into a messy bun on my head. When I turn my head to the side, arch my neck, I could pass for at least eighteen.
God, to be eighteen. I could do whatever I wanted. Wherever I wanted. With whomever I wanted.
Before I can react or even think, the door opens inward.
I screech as I spin to face it, grabbing a bottle of Febreze off the shelf.
“What the fuck?” Tyler stands in the doorway, framed by light. His hair is messed up, eyes startled, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans and is in his sock feet. His attention lands on the bottle extended between us like a weapon.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I gasp. “I thought you were an intruder.”
“You were gonna disarm me with meadow freshness?”
I flush as I drop the bottle on the washer. “You must be done with my dad.”
“He’s a slave driver.” Tyler’s voice sounds distracted. “I came to get my clothes.”
I nod. “I was, um, trying on something for Carly’s party.”
Tyler’s gaze drops down my body, lingering on my bare legs. “Thought it was a costume party.”
“I’m keeping my options open.”
I turn to face the mirror, brushing a hand along the neckline of my dress for an excuse to look somewhere that’s not him. “Carly texted me to ask about your costume. I said you were going as a pirate and you specifically requested she dress as your parrot.”
Tyler meets my gaze in the glass, grinning, and for some reason I add, “Don’t fuck her.”
His reflection goes still. “Dammit, I was heading there now.”
My body stiffens. “I’m serious. She’s evil.”
“That’s the only reason?”
The thought of you with her makes my skin crawl.
When he steps close, his fingers brushing the base of my spine, I yelp. “What are you doing?”
“You’re not zipped. This would make an impression at the party.” His words are soft, but his voice chafes like a rough seam.
With the slow drag of his fingers chased by cold metal up my spine, it’s impossible not to squirm.
My new zipper must be broken, because it takes forever. This room is too small for two people. Especially when one of them’s Tyler, his dark T-shirt stretched tight over distractingly muscled shoulders and chest, his lips pursed in concentration.
“Apparently you run the school now,” I hear myself say, but it’s an echo from far away. “You’re like some prince they forgot who’s returned and woven a spell over everyone.”
I meet Tyler’s gaze over my shoulder. One brow lifts under the heavy fall of hair. “And they haven’t even seen me snort ginger ale out my nose yet.”
I roll my eyes and try but fail to stop the laugh from bubbling up.
His smile matches mine, and something in my heart twinges.
“I’m new. The appeal will wear off,” he promises.
“What if it doesn’t?”
“You tell me.”
I twist a piece of hair bet
ween my fingers. “Growing up, before I moved in with my dad, I didn’t have many things that were mine. But you… It sounds stupid, but I never had to share you. It felt like I had you to myself, and I liked that.”
His expression shutters, but after a moment he steps closer, the soft cotton of his T-shirt brushing my shoulder blades above the back of my dress.
“Maybe I like having you to myself, too.”
Heat starts low in my stomach, tugs between my legs.
I spin to face him. My hands land on his chest to brace myself, but it’s a mistake. He’s too strong and alive.
“Why are you here?” My voice is lower than it was a second ago.
When he responds, so is his. “To get my clothes.”
I follow his gaze toward a neatly folded stack of clothes on the dryer behind me. “Not in the laundry room. In Dallas.”
Tyler exhales, hard. “Your dad said he’d work with me on my music. Help set me up after graduation.” Tyler rubs a hand through his hair, smiling as if he’s got an inside joke with himself. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal. I can’t fuck around.”
“Which is what being my friend would be?”
Tyler’s eyes flash with impatience I rarely see.
Even though he’s bigger and stronger, I want to shake him until he shows himself to me. To demand that he turn back into the Tyler I knew. The one who didn’t act evasive, didn’t keep secrets.
“We’re not kids anymore, Annie. Everything I do here matters. It’s my chance to make something of myself. And there aren’t endless chances for people like me.”
I’m so ready to argue with his words, it takes a moment to notice his attention drop to my mouth, linger there.
Tyler’s looking at my mouth.
Not as if I have food in my teeth, but as if my own two lips are the answer to a question I had no idea either of us even asked.
I forget how to breathe.
Then he leans in.
He fucking leans closer, and there’s no hope of breathing again.
It’s as if he’s moving through me, his chest brushing mine, and he’s so close. He smells like cedar and sunshine, and I have a sudden shocking urge to turn my face and bury it in his throat, see if his pulse is pounding like mine.
Love Notes: A Rivals Series Prequel Page 3
