by Karina Halle
Rocked Up
A Novel
Karina Halle
Scott Mackenzie
Metal Blonde Books
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the authors
Also by Karina Halle & Scott Mackenzie
First edition published by Metal Blonde Books
May 2017
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright © 2017 by Karina Halle Mackenzie & Scott Mackenzie
Kindle edition
All rights reserved
Cover design: Hang Le Designs
Edited by: Kara Malinczak
Proofed by Laura Helseth, Mariana Ruiz, Dawn Sousa Birch, Amy Clowdsley
Created with Vellum
For those who haven’t forgotten how to dream.
And for Bruce.
Prologue
Lael
Seven Years Ago
“He’s so hot.”
I glance over at Shelby who’s staring down at the cover of Seventeen magazine with a crazy smile on her face. “Like, so hot.”
“I know,” I tell her. That’s all we’ve been talking about this entire limo ride to the venue. It’s all I’ve been talking about ever since I first heard Brad Snyder’s voice playing from the speakers in our house, let alone from the moment I first saw his face.
Brad Snyder is the lead singer and guitarist for one of my favorite bands, And Then. Actually, I swear I would totally love the band even if Brad wasn’t in it and especially if they weren’t represented by my dad’s record label, Ramsey Records. They’ve just got this killer sound, heavier on the rock than what normally does well on the charts, and it speaks to my soul. It makes me want to be a rock star more than anything.
Of course, my father would be the one to do that but he doesn’t take me seriously at all. He says I’m too young for that (I’m fourteen) and that I don’t know what I want yet. I always point out that he discovered Brad when he was the same age but he just dismisses me as he always does.
At least I’m finally going to see them live. It’s taken a year of extreme begging for this to happen. I mean, considering who my father is, you’d think that I’d have seen them a bunch of times already, but no. And every time the band has been in the office – they’ve even been in our house! – I’ve been at school.
My boyfriend, Ken, didn’t want to go with me to this show. I think he’s totally jealous of Brad, he just won’t admit it. I can’t blame Ken a bit. I mean, Ken is cute. But he’s fifteen. I used to think it was so cool that he was a year older than me but, come on, he’s no Brad Snyder.
Of course Brad is way too old for me, even if I ever did have a chance. He’s twenty-years old. Super fit, super hot. He’s not the type to strut around the stage shirtless or anything or pose for steamy pictures. You know the ones of the rock boys with sweat dripping off their abs and stuff. He’s not like that. Instead he’s just him. And even though all his fangirls would profess to know him, I really do know him.
My father doesn’t tell me anything, of course, even who he’s dating (though it seems he’s always dating some hot young actress or singer), but I know on some weird level who Brad really is. It’s like I feel connected to him through his music, like his songs speak just to me and me alone. There’s a lonely boy behind the hot façade, someone with loneliness I can understand.
At least my friend Shelby doesn’t think I’m nuts when I talk about Brad that way. If I’m his number one fan, she’s probably number two. Or three. Not as obsessed as me, and definitely without the connection I feel, but she knows all their songs by heart and has posters of Brad on her wall.
My obsession is subtler, maybe because it seems super weird with my father being in charge of them. I don’t have their posters on the wall but I do have a sketchbook I keep for magazine cut-outs and sheet-music, plus when I feel like doodling (usually sketches of the two of us), or writing my own lyrics I jot it down in there. I keep the notebook under my bed – not that anyone would care to find it. My father barely knows I’m alive most days.
Which is why I’m surprised he bothered getting us backstage passes for the show. It’s not even my birthday. The only problem is that we’re meeting my father at the venue, so it’s not like Shelby and I will be able to run around unchecked.
The concert is at the Palladium Theater in Hollywood, a long limo drive from my house in Calabasas which has given Shelby and I plenty of time to giggle and get super nervous.
“Do we get to go on the side stage?” Shelby asks, even though she’s already asked me this a million times.
“I think so,” I tell her. Last time I told her yes, the time before that I told her maybe.
“Do you think we’ll be able to talk to the guys?”
By guys, she means Brad. She doesn’t care about the other guys in the band, Switch, Calvi and Nick. I don’t really care about them either. They’re all older than Brad and that Calvi is like some Italian mobster wannabe. But they’re all integral to the sound, even though sometimes I think they could be easily replaced. The only one who can’t be is Brad. He’s everything.
“I hope so,” I tell her, twirling my hair around my finger. I’ve got stick straight long blonde hair that I’m dying to do something rebellious with. Like dye it my favorite color, teal. Or chop it all off into a Miley Cyrus look. But my father would hate it. My mother had long blonde hair and he used to say that we looked alike. He doesn’t say it anymore. He doesn’t talk about her at all. She died from cancer when I was only four years old, so my memories of her are pretty much nonexistent.
The only memory I think I have is of her taking me to my first dance class. My chubby tummy in a bright pink body suit and pale pink tights. Dancing is the only thing I’ve really stuck with over the years and I like to think it’s because I know it’s what she would have wanted.
But even though my father never talks about her, I know he misses her. At least, I like to think he does. He must be terribly lonely sometimes, having to work all the time and boss people around. I imagine my mother must have made him more human, at least for a little bit.
“Oh my god,” Shelby cries out softly, a big toothy smile on her face. “What if your dad introduces us? What are you going to say? What are you going to do?”
“What are you going to do?” I retort, giving her a look. I know she thinks I’ll turn into a screaming blubbering mess like those fans did in the sixties when they saw The Beatles but believe me, I have complete control over my emotions. She’s the one who’s going to lose her mind.
“I’m going to play it cool,” she says, trying to sound cool and failing miserably.
Yeah freaking right.
By the time the limo pulls up and goes through the gates at the back of the theater, I’m practically having a panic attack.
We’re in the place where normal people don’t get to go! All my friends
from school are out there beyond the fences lining up or maybe already in the venue. Maybe even hanging around one of the entrances, trying their hardest to catch a glimpse of one of the band members. And yet here we are, feeling like rock stars ourselves.
We say goodbye to the driver and I double-check my last text from my father. He said Arnie, the band’s famous English tour manager, would be outside the door but so far I just see a scraggly-haired bouncer with a thick neck and a couple of roadie-looking types smoking cigarettes.
I feel like such a little girl, surrounded by these people who seem so much cooler than me. They might even be nobodies but it doesn’t matter. I’m super nervous too, that maybe I’ll say the wrong thing or that Arnie will never show. I don’t know why he’s meeting us and not my father. I exchange an anxious glance with Shelby and can tell she’s thinking the same thing. Worst case scenario, I can call my father and just hope he sees it, wherever he is.
But then the door swings open, fluorescent lights shining out onto the darkness and I see Arnie’s silhouette. I’ve only met the guy once, in passing at our house, but I recognize him more from all the pictures I’ve seen of him with the band. The main website I follow, And Then We Were Fans, has tons of photos of him.
“Lael Ramsey?” Arnie asks in his thick accent.
Shelby points at me because I’m apparently speechless.
“Great, come on in,” he says, holding the door wider and gesturing for us to go inside.
This is the moment of truth. At this moment I stop being Lael and start becoming the me I’ve always wanted to be.
I step inside with Shelby and stare up at Arnie as he starts searching his pockets.
“I’ve got your passes here,” he says, “somewhere bloody somewhere.”
I giggle. So does Shelby. Arnie is totally intimidating, not just because he’s older and wiser – I mean with his long beard and hair and glasses, he totally resembles a wizard – but because he’s infamous. Aside from managing And Then he’s also been overseeing U2, Foo Fighters and NIN on their tours. He’s a legend.
And in the presence of a legend, I become a giggling pile of nerves.
Way to be cool, Lael.
Thankfully he fishes out the laminated passes and thrusts them into our hands. “These give you access almost everywhere, okay loves?” he says, looking us both in the eye. “Everywhere except their dressing rooms. Unless you are invited in. But don’t count on it. They know you’re part of Team Ramsey. All right, I better go check on Switch to make sure he’s not doing a mound of…” he pauses, looking between the two of us, “chocolate.”
He starts walking off.
“Wait!” I cry out, finding my voice. “Where do we go? Can we watch from the side stage? Where’s my dad?”
“Can we meet them?” Shelby asks, her voice extra high-pitched with hope.
“Your father had business to attend to, so you’re both on your own. Yes you can watch from the side stage, though I have to warn you, the sound isn’t the best there. And if you do happen to run into them,” he says, “don’t be afraid to say hello.”
And then he disappears up the stairs.
I look at Shelby and we both squeal in unison.
Backstage is the kind of nirvana I’ve only dreamed about. And I’ve dreamed about it a lot. In my fantasy I’m roaming around backstage, a little older than I am now, and Brad sees me by myself. He goes up to me and asks me who I am and what I’m doing and why I look so sad. I tell him that I’m sad because I understand what loneliness is and that we should be lonely together.
In this fantasy I also smoke for some reason, wear red lipstick and have a short black bob. Basically, I’m Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction crossed with Amelie. A million miles from who I really am. But the point is, Brad sees that I see the real him and then he falls madly in love with me and we get married and I have his babies. The end.
And I know it’s totally just a fantasy and it could never happen but maybe I’m special. Maybe he sees something in me that he doesn’t see in anyone else. That hope keeps the fantasy alive for me, the what if. Nothing in this world is impossible if you wish hard enough.
But the further that Shelby and I explore backstage, the more I realize that the fantasy will probably stay that way. It’s a beehive of activity and we are far from being the only girls there, we just happen to be the youngest.
Everyone seems so much prettier, skinnier, cooler. I look over at Shelby with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and round cheeks and I realize how young we really are. Why would Brad ever be interested in a child like me?
Shelby, though, doesn’t seem to be thinking the same thing. She’s still practically jumping up and down and after a while, I am too. There’s no use playing it cool anymore. How can all the people here pretend that this isn’t the greatest thing that’s ever happened to them?
We stick together like glue, afraid to be without each other. It’s exciting, it’s scary. I’m staring at everyone here with big eyes, even the ones who are pretending to be cool.
Then I see Jerry Cantrell standing off to the side. I mean, the freaking legend, the guitarist from Alice in Chains.
“Oh my god!” I grab onto Shelby’s arm. “It’s him.”
“And he’s going off to the side stage!” she squeals. “Let’s follow him!”
We trail behind Jerry, trying to be casual. Even though we’re allowed back here, on the side stage, I still feel like we’re going to get caught at any moment.
We nervously stand beside Jerry until I work up the nerve to ask if he can have a picture taken with us. He’s tall and looks like he did in all those 90’s videos.
He’s also the silent type, just smiles and nods and poses with us while we take a selfie.
After that we’re buzzing, on the moon, and I’m so tempted to send the pic to everyone I know but I don’t want him to see that I’m nuts.
Plus the lights lower and more people crowd on the stage around us.
The show is starting.
I’m a bit sad that we didn’t have a chance to find the boys before the show but maybe afterward is always a better shot. I would think Brad and the band wouldn’t be socializing beforehand and just be concentrating on the music.
And then it happens. Shelby elbows me and I look beside us to see Switch getting behind the drums, followed by Calvi going over to his guitar and Nick picking up the bass. The shadows of the stage create imposing figures.
Then comes Brad and the moment I see him I feel my heart stop.
He is so beautiful, his eyes focused on his mic stand, slipping his famous Gibson SG guitar over his shoulders as he walks over to the middle of the stage to plug it in.
Shelby makes a sound that’s half a whimper, half a squeal.
I can barely breathe.
And then the lights shine on the stage and the band kicks off with “Young Demons.”
For the next hour and a bit, I’m transported to another place, another world, another galaxy I never knew existed. I know Arnie said that the sound on the side stage isn’t the best but honestly there’s no place I would rather be. Being here makes you feel like you’re one with the band, that you’re one with the world, with every single musical note.
I want this.
I want what Brad has.
I want to come up on stage and play an instrument and have the crowd fawning over me, screaming over me. I want the power that Brad has to bring someone like myself to another world.
And most of all, I want him.
For once, I don’t feel overwhelmed by the impossibility of my fantasy, of my wish. I feel good, right, like I’m supposed to be here and feeling these things. That this is the start of something wonderful. The start of the real me.
This will happen, I tell myself. You know you can make this happen.
I keep repeating it to myself, spending half the show in some pocket of self-awareness, this drive and resolve building inside my heart. Then I realize I need to pull myself into the moment, i
nto what I’m witnessing.
I watch the band, bobbing my head in time with everyone else on the side stage with me (Jerry included) and sing my heart out.
When it’s all over, my throat is raw and I feel high. Better than the glass of wine I had once, better than the joints I’ve smoked a few times. Better than my best dream. I’m floating and I never want to come down.
“That was amaaaaaazing!” Shelby yells at me, looking just as euphoric as I feel. Though her voice does sound a bit muffled and far away, which makes me realize how loud that show must have been. “That was the best thing in the world! I’m so happy right now!”
I nod and while I feel all she’s feeling, it’s almost too personal for me to put into words. “Let’s go and try and find them,” I tell her, noting they walked off the stage already.
“Okay!”
But we’re not the only people with this idea. Their dressing room door is closed, guarded by some security, but people like Jerry Cantrell and the drummer from Tool are able to waltz on in with no problem.
Jerks.
We’re nothing if not persistent though. The show has given me new confidence, bolstered me into believing that we will meet them and everything is going to be all right.
Then it happens. An hour has passed with us loitering outside, listening to their cheers and debauchery from inside the dressing room, and then the door opens and Jerry steps out.
He gives us a polite nod – we’re so old friends at this point – before walking away and then Switch comes out to talk to someone, beer in hand.
Before I know what’s going on, the entire band is out in the hallway with us.
Including Brad.
My whole body jolts in his presence, like I’ve been plugged into a lightning bolt.
But he starts to walk off, away from us.
Shelby says softly, “Oh no.”
I won’t let this happen.
I cry out, “Brad!”
And he stops.
