Havoc: Mayhem Series #4

by Jamie Shaw

  “I can’t believe you made this dress,” I counter, and Dee’s gaze lifts from the skirt of it, finding my reflection.

  “You need to let me borrow it so I can get a grade on it for school,” she says, “but after that, you can have it.”

  “I can?”

  The question comes out as a squeak, and Dee smiles. “Of course. I made it for you.”

  “And you can have the shoes and leggings and jacket too,” Rowan adds, and when I frown, she assures me, “Mosh Records paid for those.”

  “We put in a special request,” Dee explains with a smirk.

  “How’d you know my shoe size?”

  “I checked your boots after you fell in the pond,” Rowan confesses, and the girls both laugh, but I’m busy trying not to drown in emotion.

  Even back then, they were planning this for me. Our scouting trip to the pond was two weeks ago, and it must have taken Dee even longer than that to make something this stunning. I can see her hard work in every stitch, every impossibly delicate layer of material. She sees my eyes welling with tears in the mirror, and she sternly shakes her head.

  “Don’t you dare, Hailey. If you mess up your makeup—”

  Rowan laughs and fans my face with her hands. “She means you’re welcome. Now calm down.”

  “I’m sorry—” I start, but Rowan only fans me harder.

  “Don’t be sorry. Just don’t cry. I don’t want you to mess up your makeup either. You look so pretty.”

  “Mike is going to die,” Dee says, reminding me that I have to go back out there. I have to go back out in front of everyone—thousands of people, and one in particular—in a bloodred dress that’s impossible not to notice.

  “Are you sure he’s going to like it?” I worry, and Dee raises an eyebrow at me in the mirror.

  “What part of ‘He is going to freaking die’ did you not understand?”

  Walking back toward the pond, I’m not convinced Mike is the one who’s going to die. My knees are week, my heart is racing, and I’m pretty sure that Rowan’s elbow linked with mine is the only thing keeping me moving.

  “If this doesn’t make him proclaim his undying love for you,” Rowan says, “nothing will.”

  I reply with a nervous chuckle, because I skipped over that little part when I told the girls about Danica bursting into his house the morning after I spent the night. His words just felt too big to repeat out loud.

  I’m in love with you.

  And he hasn’t said them since. Sometimes I wonder if he ever really said them at all, if maybe I imagined the whole thing.

  As Rowan, Dee, and I walk back into the clearing, I can feel more than a few pairs of eyes on us—on Dee’s mini dress and long legs, on Rowan’s pretty blonde hair and blue eyes, on my bloodred dress and the black boots I’m desperately trying not to trip in.

  “Oh. My. God!” A girl in a royal-blue tube top and long aquamarine skirt gapes as I walk past. “I love your dress!”

  I smile at the expression on her face and thank her, and then, before we’re too far away, I shout, “It was designed by Deandra Dawson! Look her up!”

  Dee beams as she continues walking, and I do my best to do her dress justice. I swallow my nerves, I straighten my posture, and I pretend to possess her unshakable confidence as we get closer to the pond.

  Closer to Mike.

  He’s standing with a group of fans, showing them the drumstick twirls I taught him, until one of the guys notices me over his shoulder. His eyes get wide, and when Mike follows his gaze, his do too. His drumstick slips from his fingers, dropping to the grass, and Dee and Rowan both giggle at my sides as they continue marching me to him.

  He forgets all about his drumstick and meets me halfway.

  “Wow,” he breathes, stealing all oxygen from the air. I’m breathless at the look in his eyes, but Dee isn’t impressed.

  “Wow? Really? That’s the best you can do?”

  Mike glances from her to Rowan, but Rowan doesn’t help him out. Instead, she grins as Dee lifts my hand into the air and twirls me around. Blushing fiercely, I spin for the man in front of me, and when Mike’s eyes meet mine again, they’re full of even more admiration than before.

  “Try again,” Dee instructs him, and he doesn’t hesitate.

  “You took my breath away,” he says, his voice full of veneration that I don’t think even Dee was expecting. I swear I hear her swoon beside me, and my cheeks are as red as my dress when she nudges me with her elbow.

  “See, and you were worried he wouldn’t like your dress.”

  There’s no word to describe the color my face turns. My skin flushes itself into a brand-new shade of just-kill-me-now, and Mike’s lips curve into a soft, amused smile.

  “Can I take you for a walk?” he asks, and the prospect causes the butterflies in my stomach to riot.

  “Don’t you have to start shooting soon?”

  Mike gives me an honest yes at the same time Dee and Rowan both blurt no. Then Dee gives me a gentle push forward, and before I know it, Mike’s hand slides into mine.

  Chapter 30

  It’s strange, how intimate something as simple as holding hands can be, when it’s with the right person. Last summer, I held hands with Billy Lynch on the Ferris wheel at the Apple Harvest Festival. The view was beautiful: white lights strung along the streets, carnival rides flashing as they spun in the air, balloons and cotton candy swimming over the ground far, far below. And nothing. Not one butterfly, not one spark.

  But here, with Mike, with nothing to see but tech equipment and unknown faces, my heart is a wild mustang that bucks in my chest. I hope my palm isn’t sweating, but I really can’t tell, because I’m holding on for dear life.

  “What time did you get here this morning?” I ask to try to maintain the façade that I’m the kind of girl that can hold hands with a rock star. I can be cool. I can be calm. I can do words.

  “Around seven this morning,” Mike says, and I gape at him. Dee and Rowan told me that the video isn’t scheduled to wrap until around three in the morning. That’s a twenty-freaking-hour workday.

  “That’s insane,” I say, hoping that the crew at least fed him. I should have called before I left home to find out if he wanted me to bring anything: sandwiches or coffee or a pizza or—

  “Yeah, well, I mean, I didn’t really have to be here that early,” Mike says, interrupting my mental checklist. “But Shawn always has to micromanage everything, and I figured he could use the company.”

  It strikes me—what a Mike thing that is for him to say—and I realize he does this a lot: does incredibly sweet things and takes no credit for them. It makes my heart grow as I stare up at him, and when he meets my eyes, I make sure he knows, “You’re a good man.”

  Mike chuckles and stops drumming on my hand, holding it tighter. “I’m not that good.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He smirks and shakes his head, and when I wait for him to explain, he nods his chin toward a group of guys who are very shamelessly checking out my dress. “I’m a selfish man. I’m about to steal you from your fan club.”

  He tugs me toward the woods, and as I let him lead me, I spot the path we took last time.

  The cabin. He’s taking me to the cabin.

  Last time, the entire path was lined with trees that looked like they were bleeding, they were so dressed in red leaves. Now, those leaves are withering under our feet. Each crackle weighs heavily on my nerves, reminding me that Mike is single, that he’s holding my hand, that we’re walking into the woods, that he told me he loved me.

  None of this should be happening. He’s my cousin’s ex-boyfriend. He’s leaving on tour. He’s a freaking rock star. And if Danica jumped out from behind a tree right now and saw me holding his hand, she’d throw me out of our apartment, she’d get her dad to stop paying my tuition, she’d revel in the annihilation of my dreams . . . and then she’d murder me with her bare hands just for the fun of it.

  Sliding my fingers from
Mike’s, I swoop down to pick up a vibrant red leaf, pretending that my fascination with it is the reason I pulled my hand away.

  It’s not that I’m afraid Danica is going to catch me here tonight—I know she won’t, since Shawn told her the video was rescheduled for tomorrow—it’s just that even if she doesn’t catch us tonight, even if she doesn’t catch us tomorrow . . . she’d catch us eventually. I’m smart enough to know that, and I care about Mike too much to pretend that I don’t. I don’t want to lead him on.

  I twirl the dry leaf stem between my fingers, trying to ignore the loss I already feel at the absence of his touch.

  “So you’ve been friends with Shawn a long time, huh?” I ask to change the subject, and when I look up at Mike, the expression on his face is unreadable.

  He studies me for a long moment, and then he tucks his freed hand in his pocket. “Since we were kids.”

  “How’d you meet? I mean, I know you went to school together, but how did you end up in a band together?”

  Mike holds the reaching arm of a pricker bush out of my way and answers, “He and Adam just came up to me one day at lunch in the cafeteria and were like, ‘We hear you play the drums.’” He smiles warmly at the memory, continuing the story when I look up at him expectantly. “I was just sitting there drinking a chocolate milk, and they sat down in front of me and told me they were starting a band and wanted to hear me play. They rode my bus home with me after school, and I guess they liked what they heard, because we ended up spending the whole night just hanging out in my garage dreaming up this awesome band we were going to be.”

  I didn’t know them back then, but I can see it. I bet Mike was the kind of teenager that didn’t even bother brushing his hair before he went to school each morning. I can picture him with his hours-old bedhead and his fingers drumming on the side of his chocolate milk, and I can see the curiously skeptical look he’d give a lanky Shawn and Adam when they said they wanted to hear him play. It feels like a fond memory—one that makes me smile.

  “It was crazy,” Mike continues. “Shawn had that look in his eye even back then. Like when he talked about how we were going to make it big, I believed him. And so did Adam. I just wanted to be a part of that ride, I guess . . . That night was the first time I ever drummed for anyone other than my mom, and here I had these two guys telling me I could be a rock star.”

  When Mike looks down at me, he asks, “What?”

  A proud smile curves my lips, and I say, “Look at you now.” A faint blush creeps under the scruff on Mike’s cheeks, and I press, “Big record deal with a huge label. A massive music video with thousands of people. An international tour.” I beam up at him, so proud of how far he’s come. “You’ve gotten everything you ever wanted.”

  “Not everything,” Mike corrects, and the serious look in his eyes feels like a challenge—Do I need to know? Do I want to know?

  “What else is there?” I finally ask, and Mike takes his time with my question, his gaze fixed on the leaves lining our path.

  “Right now?” His eyes lift back to mine, drying my throat. “Right now, I really just want to hold your hand again.”

  I chew on the inside of my bottom lip, weighing the consequences of what he wants against the heaviness in my heart. And then, before I can overthink it for even one more second, I stretch out my arm and wait for him to take my hand.

  Chapter 31

  The way Mike’s fingers lace with mine—his thumb outside of my thumb, his fingertips snug against the top of my hand—it feels like more than just holding hands, but that’s what I keep telling myself: It’s just holding hands, it’s just holding hands.

  As we walk, I ask him more about growing up with Adam and Shawn. I laugh at the way he describes a numskull teenage Joel. I get him to tell me about his mom, his dad who lives in Texas, his half sister and the turtle she had as a pet for a while. And I’m not sure why I ask all of these things, except that I don’t have the willpower not to.

  Mike is like a book that I can’t stop reading. And even if I finished—even if I got to the very last line of the very last page—I’m pretty sure I’d want to read him over and over and over again.

  We walk toward the cabin but never get there, since we turn around when it starts getting dark. It’s just a walk—a walk in the woods under a dusk-stained sky, with Mike Madden making me laugh. I’m in a pretty dress, and he’s holding my hand, and nothing can go wrong—until it does.

  “Oh my God,” I blurt as my feet freeze on the path. My hand jerks from Mike’s, and I stand there in a blind panic. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

  “What?” Mike worries, looking around for a snake or a rabid raccoon or a chupacabra or something, while I just stand there paralyzed, staring wide-eyed down at my dress.

  “My dress.”

  In the low light, Mike follows my line of vision and spots the branch with its fangs lodged in a layer of my flawless red tulle. “Don’t move.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Just stand still,” Mike orders, dropping to his knees.

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s going to be fine,” he assures me. “I can get it out.”

  “I ruined it.”

  “When have I ever let you down?” Mike asks, getting to work. I brace my hands on his shoulders to keep my balance. I can’t believe I snagged Dee’s gorgeous, priceless, perfect dress. She didn’t even get a grade on it yet, and I destroyed it.

  “I fixed your hoodie, didn’t I?” Mike reminds me as I stare up at the sky, praying for a miracle. “And I saved you from drowning in the pond. And I rescued you from that basset hound at the animal shelter.” I tilt my chin down to give him a confused look, and he smirks up at me. “That dog was an insatiable little monster. He probably would’ve eaten you alive.”

  “Barb named him KissyPie . . .”

  “Should’ve named him Cujo,” Mike counters, and I laugh.

  “My hero,” I joke, and he flashes me another heart-stopping smile before returning his attention to my dress.

  “So speaking of,” Mike starts as he gently maneuvers the red tulle. “I was talking to Luke last night, and I was thinking . . . when we get back from tour, I’d like to play a little show at his school. Me and the guys.”

  “Why?” I ask in disbelief. I know he’s trying to distract me from the dress, and it’s working. I imagine a band as big as Mike’s playing at a school as small as Luke’s, and how much that would mean to my timid little brother.

  “I was thinking it might help. I know he gets picked on a lot and isn’t having an easy time making friends, but I bet a lot of the kids he goes to school with have heard of us. I bet they’d think it’s cool that he’s our friend.”

  Friend. Mike Madden, Sexy as Fuck rock star with thousands of people currently waiting to be in his music video, is willing to be friends with my twelve-year-old brother to help him make friends at school. When he looks up at me from where he’s kneeling at my feet, all I can do is stare at him.

  “What do you think?” he asks, and I tell him the truth.

  “I think you’re amazing.”

  The corners of Mike’s mouth tip up, and my eyes follow them when he stands. All I can think about is how soft those lips must be, how badly I want to find out.

  “I meant about the dress,” he says, and when I glance down, I realize he’s holding it out for me to see. He fishes his phone from his pocket and shines a light on the bloodred tulle, his fingers brushing mine as we both move the material this way and that.

  There’s nothing. Not one snag, not one rip, not one trace of the thorn that had promised to ruin it.

  Words aren’t enough when I look up at him this time. I stare up into his big brown eyes, and my gaze slides slowly back down to his lips. With my four-inch boots, they’re not so far away. Mike lets my dress fall from his fingers, and—

  “Mike Madden.” Adam Everest’s voice booms from speakers not too far away. “Mike Madden, we’re going to need you to get y
our ass back here so we can start filming, over.” A short pause. “Unless you’re getting laid, over. In which case, hurry it up, over.”

  “I’m going to kill him,” Mike decides as we both stare in the direction of Adam’s voice. Mike takes in the beet-red color of my face and shakes his head. “I’m seriously going to kill him.”

  “After you play at my brother’s school,” I agree, and Mike rubs a hand down his face.

  “Okay,” he says with a frustrated but amused laugh. “After your brother’s school. Then he’s a dead man.”

  With a deep, heavy sigh, he takes my hand in his, and I let him hold it without argument this time. I allow myself to appreciate the way it makes my skin tingle, the way it causes my heart to pound. I commit it all to memory, since I’m not sure I’ll ever feel it again.

  “I bet you went to school with bedhead,” I tease as we walk back to the clearing, recalling my earlier image of teenage Mike sitting in his lunchroom cafeteria.

  The way his mouth twitches to hide a smile confirms it.

  “I knew it,” I say, and he laughs.

  “I didn’t really care about school. I wasn’t bad at it, but I just thought it was such a waste of time. I would’ve rather been home gaming or drumming or skating or something.”

  “You skated?” I ask, and Mike grins.

  “A little. I wasn’t any good at it.”

  “But you weren’t a skater?”

  Drumming his fingers against the top of my hand, he says, “No. I mostly kept to myself. No one paid much attention to me until I joined the band.”

  I put everything I know about Mike together, and I paint a mental picture: a teenage boy sitting in classes he couldn’t care less about, not interested in high school cliques but pining after the cheerleader he’s had a crush on since third grade. He joins a band with the popular kids. People start to notice him . . .

  “And then you ended up with the most popular girl in school,” I say out loud, and Mike stops drumming his fingers against my hand. He holds my gaze as we walk.