by Jesse Jordan
Table of Contents
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
Epilogue
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
Epilogue
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
Epilogue
Rock Me Baby
Jesse Jordan
Edited by
Teresa Banschbach
Contents
Newsletter
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
Epilogue
Joey & Andrea
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
Epilogue
Ian & Mary
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
Epilogue
Newsletter
Copyright © 2017 by Jesse Jordan
All rights reserved.
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.
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Chapter 1
Cora
“So, while most of the prom is going to be DJ'd, Mr. Gabineau thought that it'd be cool if there were a few different acts doing some live performance stuff too,” Rocky tells me as we chew our sandwiches inside the music room at Sequoia High School. I really don't know why they call the place Sequoia High, we're in Simi Valley. Ah well, I guess it's better than being boring old Simi Valley High, our rivals on the other side of town.
Rocky's looking at me like I'm supposed to respond to something he just said, and I realize that I've been daydreaming again. It's hard not to around Rocky. It's the only way that I'm able to keep my cool around him. Rocky Blake, best friend, and boy of my dreams, all six feet of him, with his longish black rock-star hair and ripped body that's not just the product of a lot of playing the guitar. We’ve been hanging out together ever since junior high school, mainly bonding over our love of music. Today, he's wearing jeans that hug his butt very, very nicely, along with a long-sleeved t-shirt that half tucked in on his right side. While I can't see the bulges of his shoulders and biceps in it, I still know they're there. In fact, the image of them, along with thoughts about his butt in those jeans, and those sensuous lips of his, have been dominant in my thoughts.
Too bad for me, Rocky seems to only think about his music. To him, I'm just a friend. “Cora? Earth to Cora Clearwater?”
I shake my head, chewing the next bite of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Don't knock them, they're cheap, they taste good, and best of all, I can keep crumbs off the stuff in the music room, which is important if Rocky and I are going to be allowed in here during lunch hours by Mr. Delgado, the music teacher. He doesn't like that 'rockers' want to use his music room. He thinks that music begins with the marching band and ends with the glee club, with no space for an electric guitar anywhere in between. “Sorry Rock, guess my head was somewhere else. So, Principal Gabineau wants to have some live acts?”
“For sure. Anyway, I'm so going to put my name in. The guys and I can do something, just a little three song set, but it's live work. Anyway, I could really use your help on this, picking out what we're going to play,” Rocky says, sipping his protein shake. Those and his constant working out keeps him looking like a model. However, he knows that his future isn't tied up in his attractiveness or the rigors of school. “So I was thinking… you want in on it too?”
“I don't know Rocky. I mean, me?” I ask, trying not to bite my lip. Of course, I want to hang out with Rocky! I've worked with him on a bunch of music projects since we started high school. The National Anthem for the football team's homecoming and helping the glee club to do a rock routine last year were just some of the highlights. Delgado hated that one, let me tell you. When the club started discussing what to do for the routines this year, rock was immediately and firmly taken off the table, end of discussion.
“Of course, you, Muse,” Rocky replies, unknowingly using one of the little nicknames that just makes my crush on him all the more difficult. To make it worse though, he plays with my hair, and when he does it, my heart starts racing in my chest. Rocky chuckles then continues. “Seriously, every time we work together, you end up kicking me right squarely in the butt, and I end up doing awesome. You were the one who helped us dial it in for the Christmas jam, and you did all the editing on the YouTube video, remember?”
“That was playing around with an equalizer,” I protest, but I'm still warmed inside. I never told Rocky, but I put a lot of my spare hours into these little music projects of his, leaving me too busy to have an after-school job. Not that I care, I love music as much as I love Rocky. I just have never let him know, and I feel too shy to take credit for my work now. “Seriously Rocky, it can't be all that hard. I just produce your stuff a little, that's all.”
“Producing is why Dr
. Dre made a ton more money behind the boards than as a rapper,” Rocky says. It's one of the things that I give him credit for. He might be solidly in the American white-guy rock genre, but his knowledge of music is extensive. His iPod is like a library of good stuff, starting at ABBA and ending at ZZ Top. Rock, pop, jazz, rap, hip-hop, even classical, Rocky's found the best of it and studies it endlessly. He knows so much musical theory and history, and it’s all self-taught. “Come on, Cora. I need your help for this one. It's the last big jam before we graduate high school.”
I hum, not happy about that. It's been the main thing on my mind since the New Year's vacation wrapped up, our upcoming graduation. “I know, I know. Okay, fine. You got yourself a tuner and all- around gofer for the train-up.”
“And backup singer?” Rocky asks, maybe half-teasingly.
“No way in hell. I'm not freaking out in front of the whole school, and I'm not going to ruin your prom,” I protest, finishing off my sandwich. “You know what happened last time I tried public speaking. Seriously, Rock, I'd just screw it up for you guys.”
Rocky shakes his head and finishes off his shake, screwing on the top of the cup tightly. Rocky has gym last period, so he'll get a chance to rinse the cup out then. Until then, he doesn't want protein powder funk to soak into his locker. “You never screw it up for me, Cora. Someday, we're gonna make millions of dollars together; you working the boards for me while I make the magic on stage.”
The bell signaling the end of lunch rings, and I gather up my trash. I'm smiling, it's an old promise that Rocky and I have made to each other a thousand times over the past few years, but it still makes my heart flutter to hear him say it. “Right, millions of dollars, Rocky. Before I do that though, I've gotta get through trig class. Catcha later.”
The Shattered Dreams is probably not the worst name ever for a rock band, but then again there was a rock band that once called themselves Mookie Blaylock. Sure, they had to change it because there was a basketball player in the NBA with that name. But I’d say Pearl Jam was a good second choice.
The garage of the Blake home is perfect for practicing. Mr. Blake, Rocky's dad, has long time accepted that the two-car garage would be his son's private practice studio, and both of Rocky's parents park their cars in the wrap around driveway. The house has been in the family for like, thirty or forty years. It's one of the older houses in the area with a larger lot than the place I live. The garage is even semi-detached, and the open door opens onto Tapo Canyon, which means that when The Shattered Dreams want to crank up the volume, not too many people complain. Who knows, maybe we do the neighborhood a favor, there's supposed to be coyotes in Tapo, but the noise likely keeps them away.
“Hey guys, what about Dethklok?” asks Chris, the band's drummer. “I mean, 'Go Forth and Die' is fucking awesome! And it is all about school, you know.”
“Yeah, but Rocky can't do the death metal growl for seven minutes,” Tim, the bass guitarist, comments. “Fuck's sake, Chris, you know anything overly metal is going to be shot down anyway. Gabby's one of those true believer motherfuckers, he thinks that metal is the devil's music and that Bon Jovi is about as hardcore as students should be allowed to listen to. Edited, of course.”
“Guess that means no Semblant either,” Chris whines, giving me a look. “Even if we could get Cora here to sing female vocals.”
“I'm just here to run the computer and make sure you're in tune,” I defend myself, holding up my hands and hooking a thumb at my laptop. “Hey Rock, what're you looking at?”
Rocky, who's been absorbed in his phone while sitting on top of one of the boxes that are full of the Blake’s Christmas stuff, looks up. “Here. This can be one of the songs. It's definitely not what other people are going to be playing.”
Rocky gets off the box, his phone held out. He hands it over to me, and I see he's on YouTube, to one of the channels that I've listened to before. I see the song and plug the title into my laptop since I've got better speakers than a smartphone.
“Do You Feel Alive?” Chris asks, looking over my shoulder. “Hmm.... guitar, drums, male vocals.... but that sounds like a synth or piano in there, Rock. None of us play that. Also, the singer's doing that whole British accent thing. You sure you want to give that a run?”
Rocky gives me a look, and I feel my stomach flutter. How he doesn't know how I feel about him is beyond me, but that look basically stops me from any sort of protest at all. “I might be able to lay down a background track if they'll let you guys have that,” I say, and Chris throws his hands up, walking away in frustration. “What? You guys can use it as an instrumental backing.”
“We're a live band, not fucking One Direction!” Chris protests. “Come on, isn't there anything else that we can do? And don't tell me the fucking Beastie Boys. If I have to sing Fight for Your Right one more time I'm shoving a drumstick up someone's ass!”
“Chill, dawg,” Rocky says, his charisma cutting through everything. It's probably the strongest thing about him, even more than his body or his powerful vocals. Rocky's just the type of guy that when he speaks, people listen. It carries over to his stage presence too. “There's a lady in the room. Look, there's plenty of choices and ideas to draw from. Cora, can you pull that one up? Then this one next?”
I see what Rocky's pointing at, and select one of the other recommended videos from the list on the side. “Get Up? Pretty simple, three instruments needed only,” Rocky says, as we sit back and listen. The band's called All Good Things, they play pretty hard. “The lyrics are all positive Mr. Gabineau can't complain about that. Or maybe this one, but we'd need you, Tim, to drop the bass and pick up another guitar. Bring Me Back to Life.”
“You gotta do a slow song too, guys. This isn’t a rock concert, it’s the prom.”
Rocky nods, giving me his not-quite-duck-lips that say that what I said is making him think, and then grins. “Hey, what about us doing an arrangement of My Immortal?”
“You want to do Evanescence? Are you out of your fucking mind? Amy Lee's a soprano, man!” Chris, ever the pessimist, says before he stops, thinking. “Well, if we change the key a little, maybe....”
“Let me do a key search, I can play with the E-Q and see if we can shoehorn something together. That's still a hell of a reach for you, Rocky. You sure?” I ask, already downloading the song. I know that sometimes the record companies can go nuts about going after people, but still, it's helpful.
Rocky, despite my worries, nods. “Sure. I mean, we'll make it the last song, so I can go balls out if I need too and not worry about trying to actually being able to talk afterward. We've got four weeks still, we'll get it down. First, let's start getting the chords down for Get Up.”
Thankfully, Rocky plays pretty well by ear, and Chris can pick up the drums easily too. Tim takes a little longer to copy some of the opening electronic sounds, but by the time eight o'clock comes around, he's got the basics of everything but the opening. Finally, Chris puts his sticks down and pulls out his earplugs, he's really careful about keeping his ears good. “Okay guys, listen, I gotta jam. Spanish is kicking my ass, and I gotta go study.”
“You live in Southern California, and you struggle with Spanish? Isn't your girlfriend Mexican?” Rocky asks, and I have to smirk. He's right, Chris has been dating a girl who looks pretty Hispanic, I think her name is Elena even, although he's never brought her around any sort of practice.
“Ex-girlfriend, and we live in the whitest part of Southern Cali outside of Beverly Hills, man,” Chris protests. “Besides, it's not like I can't speak any Spanish, I can call soccer games like it's nobody's fucking business. I just can't conjugate 'I went to New York last week and saw a movie' properly.”
“Fui a Nueva York la semana pasada y vi una película,” Rocky says, causing Chris to flip him the bird. “Face it, man, you gotta be able to say more than just 'gooooooallll' if you want to pass the class.”
“Guess that's what you get from listening to all that Shakira,” Chris gripes.
“Whatever, guys. I'm out, see you tomorrow.”
Tim decides that it's a good time for him to bounce too, and soon enough I'm left alone with Rocky, who's winding up the cords from his guitar to his amp. I grab the big broom and start sweeping the concrete, so the guys to have to deal with any dirt or dust on their equipment when recording their stuff for videos. “Nice job today, Rocky. That was good stuff.”
Rocky grins and comes over, ruffling my hair. “Thanks, Muse. Hey, I had a question for you. You got a date for prom yet?”
I think my heart skips a beat as I turn and look into Rocky's green eyes, trying not to blush. “Uhh... no Rock, why?”
“Well, I was thinking, I'm going to be focusing on the set, and I don't want to be taking someone who I can't chill with,” Rocky says, grinning that heart-stopping grin that I sometimes pretend he's reserved for just me, “so I figured taking my best friend would be the right call to make. What do you say? I'm not even saying we need to dance or do anything stupid like that, just we can buy our tickets together, do stuff like that. But you know--”
“We might get one dance in. You know, to keep the groupies off you,” I joke, trying to deflect the hurt. Best friend. Why not just shove a dagger into my heart some more, Rocky? “Someday you're gonna must learn how to deal with the groupies, you know.”
Rocky grabs my hand and gives me a kiss on the knuckles, and even though I know he's just being 'buddies,' I can't help but tremble inside as his lips rest on my skin. “Thanks, Cora. Seriously. So... you wanna help me study for math?”
“Sure,” I agree, trying to calm my pounding heart. Who needs to work out, I get all the cardio training I need just hanging around with Rocky. “But only a little bit, I gotta take a look at that E-Q for you guys if you want it to get done by this weekend's practice.”
Lying in bed after getting home, I can't get Rocky off my mind. My hand still tingles where he kissed my knuckles, and the rest of my body is feeling it too. My breasts feel heavy, and between my thighs is an ache that I've felt for years, ever since changing from a girl to a woman. Even when Rocky was still in his skinny boy phase, I've had feelings for him. But now that he's growing into a man's body... my body wants the same thing as my heart.
