Serenade Me: A Rockstar Romance (Rock Chamber Boys Book 3)

by Daisy Allen

  “What?” Jez asks.

  “I mean, Marius is nice, for offering to help. With my problem”

  “Um, yeah. Yes, he is. Don’t forget to thank him.”

  “I won’t. Night, Jezzy.”

  “Night, Anca.”

  I think I’m asleep even before he leaves the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marius

  She’s trying to kill me.

  Like kill me dead.

  With a heart attack.

  Like in a film noir, with me clutching my chest and lying prone on the grass in a Parisian garden while a camera zooms out and up, filming me from above while it spins. And she’s standing to the side, silently cackling, her mission accomplished.

  I’m telling you, she looked up “the perfect murder” on the internet, on how to kill me without leaving a trace of her guilt, and now’s she implementing her plan, perfectly, step by torturous step.

  How?

  By wearing skin-tight, baby pink yoga pants, a G-string and bending over to reach her toes. Stretching. Right in fucking front of me, with that ass, that cock-instantly-hardening-like-a-baseball-bat fucking ass, barely three feet from my face.

  Of course, now I can’t stand up and stretch because of the tent pole in my pants, after I agreed that I’d go through the yoga routine with her. A trade off, her yoga routine for my meditation session to help with her stage fright. Except the only thing that might frighten her now is my passing out from blood deprivation to the upper part of my body.

  Fuck.

  Please stop.

  God, no. This isn’t happening.

  Now she’s lunging. Lunging in those flimsy excuses for yoga pants should be considered illegal. I’m bloody sure there are parts of the world where it is.

  Seriously? This is NOT funny, love-god, or sex-god, or love/sex-devil. This is hell.

  Hell not to touch, that is. But fucking heaven to look at.

  When I knocked on her door this morning and told her to get dressed, I should’ve been more specific.

  A garbage bag, should’ve been one of the suggestions. Granny jeans pulled up to your neck and socks with sandals, would’ve been another helpful outfit idea.

  Though, with her body, I’d probably still want to fuck her anyway, garbage bag, granny shorts combo and all.

  Fuck.

  “Marius.”

  “Huh, what?” I look up, half shielding my eyes in case she’s decided to do the splits, in which case, the murder mission would be complete.

  “I’m done stretching,” she says. She’s done. Thank the bloody heavens. “Are you just going to sit there like a lump? You’re going to get stiff.”

  “Er, yeah. I stretched this morning. In my room.” I stutter, wishing I was in my room right now. Alone. Taking care of my stiffness problem.

  Jabba the hut wearing nipple tassels, Jabba the hut wearing nipple tassels, I repeat to myself, my go-to hard-on killer.

  It’s working at least.

  I get up, pulling my t-shirt down to hide the remnants of my erection and wave her over to a cool spot under a tree.

  I tell her to sit on the ground, and she does, even though she looks a little wary.

  “Have you ever meditated before?”

  She tells me no and crosses her arms. It’s more for protection from failure than just pure defensiveness, I think. I can’t really see her expression behind the sunglasses, so I take mine off, and tell her to do the same. She hesitates so I reach over and gently take them off. She doesn’t protest but doesn’t look happy about it.

  I ignore her and hold out my hands. “Anca, put your hands in mine.”

  “What? Why?” She looks down and frowns at my hands outstretched towards her.

  I smile gently and say softly, “Just do it.”

  She sighs and then unfolds her arms and rests the tips of her fingers against mine. I don’t push for more, it was mostly to get her to unfold her arms without just telling her outright to do it, that would’ve only made her more uncomfortable than she is.

  “Close your eyes,” I say, and wait for her comply. I know it’s hard for her to let me take control; she’s still fighting every request, but I know by the time we’re done today, she’ll feel better and by tonight’s performance, her outlook may change completely.

  “Now, I’ve been where you are, and I’m going to help you. Do you trust me?”

  She doesn’t say anything, and it’s almost like she’s holding her breath.

  “Anca? Do you trust me? There’s no point doing this if you don’t.”

  She lets out her breath, slow and long before she responds. “I trust you.”

  “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anca

  It’s just me. And him.

  Him. Marius.

  Not Him… the Maes-…

  No. Don’t say his name.

  It’s Marius.

  He’s sitting in front of me, my hands in his and he guides me.

  He’s telling me to breathe.

  He’s telling me I can do this.

  He’s telling me I’m talented and beautiful and strong.

  He’s telling me to breathe again.

  Why do I keep forgetting to do that? He’s asking me, even as he’s laughing.

  I can feel my mouth laughing with him.

  Just as I can feel my heart pump so loud and fast in my chest, I think I need to hold my palms against my sternum to hold it in.

  I can do this.

  “I can do this,” I hear myself say out loud.

  “Yes, you fucking well can.” He tells me again.

  “No matter what anyone has said in the past,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  There’s a flicker of a frown, but he lets it pass. His hands are on either side of my face.

  “Deep breath, babe.”

  I close my eyes and fill every single cavity of my lungs with air.

  “Don’t worry about anyone else. Listen to me. Trust me. You are a fucking ROCK. STAR. Do you hear me?

  “I hear you.” I hear every word, Marius.

  “Just don’t forget to breathe.”

  Just don’t forget to breathe, Anca.

  Breathe. And forget.

  Breathe, he mouths the word to me and nods.

  I nod back.

  It’s time.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Marius

  “Anca! Anca! Anca! Rock Chamber Boys! Rock Chamber Boys!! YEAH!!!!” The cheers from the ten thousand strong audience thump in my ears, ricocheting off the edges of my skull and fill up every inch of my brain. Anca grins as she blows another kiss into the crowd and then joins us as we take each other’s hands and bow in unison.

  “Merci, Paris. Je t’aime!!!!!” Sebastian yells and I can see him wipe a tear away. He always gets like this when we perform in his hometown, and they love him for it. I run over and jump on his back giving him a big sloppy kiss on his cheek and the crowd roars. The other boys join in the bear hug and I can’t help grinning at the sweaty faces of these men I love so much. Jez holds his arm out to his sister and Anca runs over, letting herself be pulled into the love fest.

  Then the lights go down and we rush off the stage. The inevitable chant starts up again.

  “ROCK CHAMBER BOYS, Encore! ROCK CHAMBER BOYS!”

  We look at each other on the stair leading backstage, grin at each other and run back on stage. Grabbing our instruments, Sebastian yells out, “Bohemian Rhapsody!” and Jez nods, breaking out into a face splitting grin.

  I look around, and she’s not there. That’s not right. She should be here.

  I turn to the wings and she’s standing there, face gleaming like an angel’s. I wave to her and she shakes her head, laughing. I run over and pull her on stage and push her onto her harp stool. The crowd’s cheer grows even louder and I lean in and whisper, “You see? They want you.” I don’t add what I really want to say, that I want her too.

  I join my guys and we raise o
ur arms, ready to play. We play with everything we’ve got. For those who gave us everything.

  ***

  “Oh my god, that encore was truly inspiring, guys.” Dennis says, sinking into the couch in our communal living room.

  “Um,” Sebastian looks up from his phone, forehead furrowed, “Did someone spike Dennis’s drink?”

  “What? No, why?” Brad asks, his head lifting off the couch head rest.

  “Then why did he…” Sebastian leans in and says in a conspiratorial loud whisper, “say something nice to us?”

  “Oh hush, bluefromagefucker,” our manager retorts, rolling his eyes, but still smiling. “Can’t I compliment my band when they do something well?”

  “Ha, of course. We’ve just never heard it before. Did you lay all the money we made you on the bed and roll around naked on it this afternoon, Denny?”

  “Ew, guys, gross.” Hailey says, not able to look her father in the eye.

  “And Anca, you were great tonight,” Dennis says to her kindly. “You had someone look at your harp pedal? It didn’t seem to give you any trouble tonight.”

  She turns to me. “Well, right at the beginning, it might’ve been a little touch and go, but someone gave me some tips on how to deal with it and it seemed to work, so no, no problems. I think… I think I might have found a way to fix it.”

  And the smile she gives me is like a million people chanting my name at once, except that I can only hear her voice.

  ***

  “Marius.” Jez comes with me when I wish everyone good night and make my way back to my room.

  “Yeah, man. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to say thanks,” he says, surprising me.

  “Thanks for what buddy?”

  “For helping Anca. With her… with her problem.”

  “Well, firstly, it’s not a really big problem, nothing a few good, deep breaths couldn’t solve, and secondly, no need for thanks.” I give him a pat on the back.

  “Okay. But I still wanted to say thanks... for helping. My little sister.” He says the last part slowly and pointedly, putting his hand on my shoulder and looking me in the eye.

  Ah.

  I nod, returning his look.

  “I got it,” I tell him.

  And I do. Get it. Whether I like it or not.

  ***

  “Whose bright idea was it to take the train?” Sebastian grumbles the next morning at 7 a.m. as we walk down the long train platform at Gare de Lyon to get to our carriage.

  “Yours, fartbreath.” Brad reminds him, pulling his shirt collar up around his neck. “Oooh, vous must see se country-side on ze train, eet ees soo bootifoool,” he continues, imitating Sebastian’s French accent.

  “Well it is. Just not at 7 a.m. Why don’t we ever leave at 1 a.m. when I am most awake?”

  “Yeah, I love looking at the view out of the train window after midnight,” Jez taunts him.

  “We’re here. Stop complaining. People will think we are over-privileged rock stars who can’t wipe our own asses,” I tell them, helping Anca onto the steep step of the train.

  It’s a three-hour train ride to Lyon, and while the view for first hour or so is gray train tracks, gray train tracks, and more gray train tracks, once the city opens up into countryside, it really is quite lovely.

  We spread out over three carriages and take turns wandering around between them, annoying each other. Jez and Brad never really were the best at sitting in one spot for too long.

  Anca sits by the window in one carriage, earphones firmly planted in her ears, her stockinged feet up on the opposite seat bench, an unopened journal sitting in her lap.

  I stand by the carriage door and take a mental picture.

  Her hair is loosely bundled into a wild knot, fine wisps framing her face and neck. Her red cotton knee length dress is matched with a blue woollen cardigan and black stockings. The outfit is colourful, sweet and slightly quirky, just like she is. The morning sun reflects in her eyes which in turn are reflected back onto the dusty train window. And it looks like her reflection is staring at me, as I stare back at her.

  In my mind, I can hear our music that first day, playing The Power of Love together.

  Together with this image of her, it’s art in motion. She is art. Living, breathing. Breathtaking.

  “Hi,” I say, reluctantly, not wanting to shatter the moment.

  She doesn’t turn and just keeps staring at the fields of muddied crops.

  I go over and sink onto the tattered leather seat next to her, tugging gently on her ear phones.

  “Hey, little girl lost,” I say and she smiles, not turning to me. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, really. If you were Brad staring so intently out the window, I’d say he was thinking of a double cheeseburger. You? It’s probably something a little deeper.”

  “A triple cheeseburger?”

  “There you go.”

  “No, I was just… just thinking about last night’s concert.”

  “What about it?”

  “I was thinking… I was thinking how easy it was. How I had a little problem getting started but then I got through it.”

  “You more than got through it, you crushed it,” I bump her with my shoulder.

  The corners of her mouth twitch, like a tiny little feather is tickling them, “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. You did.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. When I pull away she doesn’t let me, her fingers stiffen and take hold of mine.

  “It’s all because of you, Marius. All you. You and the meditation techniques you taught me to do before going on stage. They made all the difference.”

  “You would’ve figured it out eventually, I just helped you get there a little faster.”

  “No. Listen.” Hey eyes fix on mine and they are glistening but not sad. She looks content. Wondrous. “You don’t… you don’t know what this means. This… problem that I’ve had, it’s crippled me. I thought… I thought I was never going to be able to perform again. I didn’t want to numb myself with sedatives every time I performed. With them I don’t feel anything. I can’t make music that way! What’s the point? So, I told myself, yesterday, if this meditation wasn’t going to work, I was going to give it up. Forever. It just wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Aw, Anca, no. Never ever give up! Especially after only trying it once. Your gift is so extraordinary. There’s always another way.”

  She turns back to the window and traces a tiny crack with her finger. “You gave me that way, Marius. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  There’s no reply to that. I didn’t do it for the thanks. We stare at the canola fields whizzing by, blurring into a bright yellow haze.

  “No wonder you were so nervous when we started,” I say after a minute, understanding more now, what was at stake for her.

  “You saw that?”

  I don’t want to embarrass her, so I just squeeze her hand and she grips it tighter.

  “Of course you did, you see everything. You see me.”

  “Just what you’re willing to show me, Anca.”

  She leans against me and her cheek is against mine. “I want to show you everything.”

  Her words fill with me hope and fear all at once.

  Because I want to see everything she has to give me. I want to see the world through her eyes, and her through the world’s.

  But it’s not for me to see. Not in this lifetime. Not for the life I’ve chosen, and the friends I’ve chosen to be in it.

  Not now, not ever.

  I take a long, deep breath, her vanilla scent intoxicating me.

  Extracting my hand from hers, I pull away and it hurts, physically. Tearing at a strand that binds us, woven when I wasn’t watching

  “I’m sorry. I… I told you, I… can’t,” I stammer. The words struggling to form. I look at her one more time. The wondrous look on her face crumbles, one sparkle at a time. The tableau of the girl in the windo
w has changed. And now I’m on the outside looking in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Anca

  I was never supposed to excel at harp.

  I wanted to draw things and write things and paint them in all the colors of the rainbow from my imagination.

  Even as a child I’d see girls with their sketch books and journals sitting against tree trunks, losing time as they found themselves in the lines they drew on paper, words or doodles, something that flowed from mind to hands to create tangible art. I craved the day I could live such a romantic, bohemian lifestyle.

  But as I progressed in music, those earlier dreams were forgotten, and I realized that my art did flow from my fingers, it stimulated the ears and penetrated the soul that way.

  I spent hours in my room, reading music like it was Austen, Steinbeck. Those little notes were like words, rising and falling. Drama and pain, beauty and joy, they were all contained in those little black lines on paper. It was just my job to read them aloud with my hands on my harp. To tell the story how I interpreted it.

  When I realized there was freedom in my gift, I thought my life was set.

  And then everything changed.

  And everything I believed about my talent was gone.

  Because of one person.

  Not the Mae- Maestro.

  I can’t even blame it on him.

  Because I let myself believe what he was telling me.

  No, the only person to blame, was me.

  When Jez called me that night, to offer me the position of playing with his band, my instant answer was no. No, not just no, but no no no no no no no. Not a soft serve cone’s chance in the seventh circle of hell was I going to perform.

  He’d pleaded, he’d begged. And I’d never been able to refuse my brother before.

  So I came.

  And I listened to them. And for the first time in years, I yearned to be on stage.

  With them.

  And with him. Marius.

  That need to be a part of the music he was creating trumped my crippling panic and fear, and it wasn’t until I was on that stage, a crowd of fifteen thousand waiting, hungry for what I was supposed to give them, that I felt I couldn’t do it.