Vanessa
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: re: re: re: Stalking
Message: FINALLY!
;)
Dave
One Random Night
I was in bed one night in March in the middle of exams when an e-mail came in to my phone. I glanced over at Sandy, but she was asleep, her breathing deep and even. I was thankful my phone hadn’t woken her—she could be a dragon when her sleep got interrupted.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Do I need a shrink?
Message: I almost miss your nagging
Dave
p.s. Almost.
To which I responded right away.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: Do I need a shrink?
Message:
Obviously.
V.
And he sent back, immediately:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: re: Do I need a shrink?
Message:
Right. Thanks.
p.s. Still not interested.
Dave
Sandy let out a very loud, exasperated sigh. “Ugh! Would you stop giggling over there? Who are you even talking to?”
“No one,” I said. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.” I pulled my covers over my head and sent Dave a message back.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: re: re: Do I need a shrink?
Fine, you’re not interested. MESSAGE RECEIVED LOUD AND CLEAR.
V.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: re: re: re: re: Do I need a shrink?
Message: Good. :P
Dave
In the Studio
Dad was too busy with getting the band together to take me out to our house in the Hamptons. And anyway, it was still too cold, especially by the water. So on the Friday before spring break—a half day—he sent his driver, Gary, to Rosewood to bring me back to New York City. It was a fairly short drive, which meant we were pulling into the city shortly after two in the afternoon.
Instead of going to our penthouse in Chelsea, I asked Gary to take me to the studio, knowing Dad would be there working. Because while I had no intention of getting involved with the band, I couldn’t deny that I was a tiny bit eager to meet them, especially in advance of Sandy’s arrival on Thursday. Her mother was flying her to Sonoma for them to have an extended spa weekend first. But once she arrived, I had a feeling things would be even crazier, so I wanted my first impression of the boys to be as objective and drama-free as possible.
Once I was past the building’s security guard and just inside the studio’s front door, I found myself pulled into a hug by Dad’s assistant and tour manager, Linda Heffernan, who had come out to meet me.
“Nessie!” she exclaimed, almost squeezing the life out of me. I would have laughed if I’d had any air left in my lungs. Before I could protest, though, she pulled away and held me at arm’s length, looking like she hadn’t seen me in years. Which was funny because it had only been a couple of months. “How are you?” she asked, staring at me as she waited for an honest answer.
I smiled, not minding the smothery attention. In fact, I kind of loved it, though I’d never admit it to her or anyone else. I’d known her practically forever—she was like my dad’s work wife and I guess by extension, my work mom, even though as a single lady in her forties, she didn’t have any kids of her own. “I’m great,” I said, pulling my messenger bag over my head and dropping it on the desk. “How’s life?”
She hesitated for a half a second before she smiled and said, “Great, thanks. Everything’s perfect. You’re here to meet the guys, I presume?”
I made a mental note to ask my dad if everything was okay with her but just nodded. “Yeah, Dad’s been going on non-stop about nothing else so I figured I’d come and see for myself.”
Linda chuckled as she nodded toward the door to the studio. “He’s excited. But he has reason to be; he’s put together a good group. These guys are going to go the distance, I think.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear it, but it made me worry a little. My dad was a notorious workaholic and put everything into his career, which also meant he was vulnerable. He’d thankfully been fine the last few years, but there was no guarantee Wiretap would be successful or things would go the way he was hoping. He was putting a lot of eggs in this basket and the last time he’d done that, it had been a disaster. Linda knew it as well as I did. We’d both had to live through it.
She must have seen the concern on my face because before she opened the door, she put an arm across my shoulders and gave me a side-hug. “He’s doing fine, I promise. He has his eyes open.”
I nodded and followed her into the studio. The door opened to the mixing board side where my father and his engineer, Cliff, sat facing the window that overlooked the recording room. My eyes drifted there first, but I let out a breath when I saw it was empty.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dad said as he got up and came over.
“Hi, Dad,” I muttered into his chest as I got my second bear hug of the day.
He pulled back, giving me a chance to say hi to Cliff, another one of Dad’s long-time staffers.
“So,” I said, trying not to sound eager as I nodded to the empty room. Well, empty of people—there were plenty of instruments. “Where are they?”
“They needed a break,” Dad said. “I sent them to the gym to blow off some steam and then back to the condo for a shower and food. Cliff and I are going through the work they did this morning. It’s good, but not there yet. They’ll be back in time to get a couple hours in before dinner.”
Dinner didn’t mean the end of the day, either. Knowing Dad, the guys would be working late into the evening. It was a good sign that they were getting regular meals and breaks in, though. And of course, gym time, though that was all part of what they’d signed up for: boy band boot camp. They might be real musicians, but they had to be attractive and fit, too; that was a big part of the formula.
I dropped into one of the chairs at the board. “Have you had lunch?” I asked my father, eyeing the not-so-fresh-looking paper coffee cup beside him.
He followed my gaze and must have realized he hadn’t because he shook his head and pushed up out of his chair. “No, but I could use some air. Let’s go walk to the deli and grab some sandwiches.”
We took orders and left the studio, walking down the block to the deli that knew us both by name and even Dad’s ‘the usual.’ We ordered for everyone and left laden with food: sandwiches, drinks, and even kosher pickles (because you can’t have the deli experience without them, Dad always said).
I’d thought Dad would talk about the band, but he seemed to be more interested in hearing about me: school and how my equestrian training was coming along. Small talk, which was weird, but I didn’t mind.
“I actually missed competing in the last derby thanks to that flu going around,” I said, still getting over the disappointment of the horrible timing of the illness, and how I’d puked the second the bus had pulled into the stable yard.
He gave me a sympathetic look.
I shrugged it off. “I’ll never be a contender,” I told him as we walked out in the sunshine, dodging and weaving around people on the busy sidewalk. “I’m good for my school and maybe even regionals, but not good enough to do it more than as a hobby. But maybe someday I can have a job working
at a stables or something to do with horses.” I was aware I needed to start getting serious about my future plans, especially if they included college.
Dad looked over at me. “So you really don’t want in the business, huh? You’re still serious about that?”
I didn’t look at him, scared of seeing disappointment on his face—it was bad enough hearing it in his voice. “Very serious.”
“You’d be good at producing,” he said, for the millionth time since I was old enough to sit on his lap at the mixing board. The difference was that now I knew he really meant it. Not that it mattered even if it was true.
“Not interested,” I said, realizing as I did that I sounded a lot like Dave had when I’d tried to convince him to join Wiretap. Ironic, I know, but I had my reasons. Good ones.
“It’s because of—”
“Dad,” I said, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He blew out a loud breath. “Which is probably why we should.”
Even though it had been years, tears rose to my eyes. “Dad, please,” I begged. “I came here to see you and meet the band because I’m curious, not because I want to join the family business. Can we just leave it at that and have a nice visit?”
By that time, we were at the studio, and I stopped, my hand on the front door. I looked at him, waiting for his answer. He sighed and nodded. “I’ve made peace with it. With her, all of it, you know.”
I swallowed. “That’s good,” I said, my throat tight on the words.
“You should, too. It’s been a long time, Nessa. You can’t hold onto that anger forever.”
Wanna bet? I thought but just shook my head and opened the door.
I had just taken a huge bite of my corned beef on rye when my eye was caught by bodies walking past the glass-walled conference room we were in. Tall, male bodies. Though I couldn’t see much else through the mostly closed blinds, no matter how hard I tried.
Distracted, I nearly choked on the food, which wasn’t just humiliating, but made me instantly angry at myself. Luckily, no one seemed to notice as I forced the food down and took a long slug of my lemonade.
“Oh good,” Dad said, putting down his sandwich and glancing toward me. “The boys are back. I’ll go get them so you can meet them.”
Linda shook her head. “They’re fine. Let us eat and we’ll go out when we’re done.”
I gave her a grateful look as Dad dropped back into his chair. Not only did I not want to meet these guys while I had a mouth full of food that was obviously a choking hazard, but...no, that was pretty much it.
They are musicians, I told myself. You knew they were going to be hot, there’s no reason to get all flustered. Remember what happened last time you got mixed up with a musician?
I felt my face heat up, so I bent my head, intent on my food, hoping no one noticed.
No one knew about the musician I’d hooked up with at last summer’s Fourth of July music festival in a rare moment of weakness.
Andres Castillo had just finished his set and was coming down off the stage when we locked eyes in one of those crazy movie moments when you just know. Like there’s an instant eye chemistry or something.
He hadn’t been one of Dad’s guys and didn’t know who I was, assuming I’d gotten backstage by being a particularly persistent groupie. I guess letting him believe that was mistake number one (or two, since making eye contact with him in the first place would have been the first), but who’s to say it wouldn’t have ended the same way if he had known?
He’d handed off his guitar to a roadie and had pulled me into a quiet corner backstage where we could talk and kiss a little. We’d spent the weekend together, my father busy enough with his own musicians that he hadn’t even noticed I’d been sneaking off.
Andres had been cute and sweet, saying all the right things and acting like I wasn’t just another groupie dazzled by his fame. I honestly thought he was different than all the rest. I honestly thought he’d liked me.
Until I’d come back from the washrooms to see him making out with an actual groupie. The worst part? When I’d busted him, he’d grinned like it was no big deal and invited me to join them.
Right. Like that was happening.
I’d been angry at him, of course, but even more, I’d been angry at myself for falling for it. I knew better. I’d seen enough of that crap over the years—first hand even. But I’d gotten duped by a teenager who was already well-versed in how to get whatever he wanted. It was humiliating and made me pity his future conquests because last summer was just the beginning of his career. Since then, he’d had a couple of chart-toppers, and I’d heard he was breaking hearts not just at local festivals, but all over the world.
I was just glad we’d never gotten past first names. Well, my first name, anyway. In retrospect, it should have been a red flag that he’d never bothered to ask my last name.
But his was no mystery, and there was no way I could escape the name, Andres Castillo, since he was all over the radio. To rub salt on my wound, he happened to be one of Sandy’s current favorites, and I even had to see his face staring at me from the wall over her bed.
I’d gotten somewhat used to it, throwing it mental daggers every time it caught me by surprise.
Thank God I’d never have to see him again in person.
Introducing Wiretap
About ten minutes later, we finished eating and tossed our garbage into the bin in the corner of the boardroom. I followed my dad and Linda (Cliff had already left, since he didn’t seem to need to chew his food) out and down the hall to the studio. We went in through the back door to the musician side.
As the door opened, it was obvious that the guys hadn’t started rehearsing and were chatting, other than one who was tinkering at the piano.
They looked up when we came in, and I felt all their eyes on me, making me suddenly very self-conscious, wishing I’d worn something a little nicer than my jeans and Rosewood sweatshirt.
A beat later, Dad began to introduce me to the guys:
Graeme Boone the lead singer, who also played keyboards, was first and came around the piano and right up to me with a big smile. I was very familiar with the name as he’d been on Dad’s radar for a long time. In fact, he was the reason Dad even started putting the band together since he’d auditioned Graeme in the fall. He didn’t think Graeme was quite strong enough to be a solo act but didn’t want to lose him, either. Plus, he had that pretty boy look and British charm that was perfect for the boy band formula. I hadn’t heard his demo, but dad said he had a rare vocal talent and a deep, soulful voice; Dad saying that meant a lot and seeing him now just validated that he was a good choice for lead.
Darren Hill was a clean-cut African-American kid with chocolatey brown eyes and a killer smirk. He shook my hand with a strong grip, which was fitting since he was the drummer.
Max Lindstrom was the youngest-looking of the guys and had a Scandinavian look with blonde hair and almost ice-blue eyes. There was something haunted in those eyes, making me wonder immediately about his backstory. I made a mental note to ask my father later what the deal was with this bass player as my eyes slid to the next band member.
Andres...wait. Seriously? I did a double take and looked at my father, wide-eyed. No, wild-eyed. Because I just couldn’t believe it.
How could this be? Andres Castillo, the guy who had permeated my nightmares for weeks last summer, was already a star, what was he doing in Dad’s fledgling boy band?
The blood rushed through my ears like my body’s own white noise until I realized people were staring at me, and I’d clearly missed something.
“Huh?” I said because I’m super smart like that.
Dad chuckled. But it was Andres who was standing there with his hand out for me to shake. “I said it was nice to meet you, Vanessa,” he said politely, but there was mischief in his eyes.
So we’re going to pr
etend last summer’s thing never happened, I thought, resisting the urge to kick this guy in the Castillo family jewels.
I reluctantly slid my hand into his and was then sorry when he held onto it a fraction too long, a silent message that said: I remember you. All the humiliation that I’d finally gotten over came rushing back in that moment. I pulled my hand away and turned to the last band member, eager to get out of Andres’s clutches.
“...Chris Blair,” my dad was saying. “Our second guitar.”
I gave Chris what I hoped was a polite smile, which felt more like a grimace, but whatever. It wasn’t like I’d be spending much time with these guys (especially now, because: Andres) so it didn’t really matter what they thought of me.
“Nice to meet you,” Chris said, giving my hand something of a clammy shake. At least he wasn’t total arrogance personified. Though Andres had enough for the both of them. Hell, he had enough for the whole band.
“So now that you’ve met everyone, how about we let them get back to it and you can listen from the booth?” Dad said.
Eager to get away from Andres, I nodded and beelined for the door, knowing my father would be right behind me. As I left, I heard the clatter of the guys grabbing their instruments as they made ready to play.
We were barely in our seats in the booth when I turned to my dad. “Why on earth do you have Andres Castillo in the band?”
He blinked at me a couple of times before he said, “He’s a good musician,” like that was explanation enough.
It wasn’t. I gave him a withering look. “Come on Dad,” I said, cocking my head at him. “There are a lot of good musicians out there. Why him? And more importantly: Why would he even want to be in your boy band?”
Dad sighed before saying, “He got into a bit of trouble. He hit it big so fast that he couldn’t handle it—you know what it can be like. He didn’t have a good handler and things got out of control.”
The Rosewoods Rock & Roll Box Set Page 3
