Along for the Ride

by Katrina Abbott

  So sweet. I thanked him as I went through.

  “You know,” he said as he came next to me on the short path out to the library building. “I thought it would be simple melodies—sugary, catchy tunes, syrupy tween love ballads. But they’re all really great songs. I’m impressed.”

  I nodded. “My dad really wanted the band to be talented in their own right. He says that will give them more crossover appeal, and people will respect them and know they will have earned it. Plus,” I paused as I rushed over to grab the door to the library to hold it for him this time. “He loves launching careers.” I meant it, too. The launching careers part was what my dad loved best about the business and was what made him such a great producer, especially for young musicians. He loved finding the raw talent and coaching them to be amazing, giving them opportunities to shine. His guidance came at a price, and not just a monetary one, but for those who signed on, they were pretty much guaranteed stardom if not superstardom.

  Dave smiled at me as he made his way into the library named for his ex’s family.

  “Let’s try the music practice rooms first,” I said, hoping to get one of those so as not to disturb any studying students since the music rooms were soundproof. Luckily, there were two free, so we went into the first one, and I took one of the chairs in the corner. I sat waiting for him to get out his guitar, cursing my racing heart, telling it that there was no reason to be pounding; I was just doing him a favor.

  Of course, I was lying to myself, eager and at the same time nervous to hear him play, but I pushed all that away and pulled out my phone as a distraction. There were no new messages, so I slipped it back into my pocket, figuring it wouldn’t take him long to get ready, and I didn’t want to insult him.

  Before he pulled out his guitar, he handed me a set of on-ear headphones. I looked at him in question as I took them, wondering what I was supposed to plug them into.

  “I’ve got a headphone amp,” he explained. He took the guitar from the case and pointed at the small device plugged into it. “Easier than bringing over a big box amp. You’re going to have to get a bit closer, though, the cord isn’t super long.”

  I shifted my chair over, thinking that it would be slightly less awkward to sit beside him rather than in front of him, but I probably needed to watch him in case he needed some pointers on his stage presence. So, after I handed him the connector end of the cord so he could plug it in, reminding myself I was acting as an objective agent of my father, I sat facing him, as far away as the cord would allow without it being obvious.

  He smelled nice, a hint of cologne or maybe aftershave (living with and sometimes shopping for my dad meant I knew the difference)—something spicy and warm. Thinking of aftershave caused my eyes to drift up to his face as he took out his own set of headphones and plugged them in. I couldn’t tell if he’d shaved recently, not that it mattered, I told myself, dropping my eyes again, watching as he then connected his phone to the little amp, too.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “I’ll keep the recording fairly low so you can hear me above it,” he said, obviously unaware I was wondering what made him smell so nice. Not like it mattered; I was only here to critique his performance, not his scent.

  Swallowing, I nodded at what he’d said, barely remembering what it was.

  He scrolled through his phone. “Okay, I’m going to start with Pieces of You. That one is the most complex, musically, and I want to make sure I’ve got it down.”

  It was also the band’s big love ballad, a fact I wasn’t about to bring up.

  I put the headphones on and looked down at my fingers fidgeting in my lap, waiting for the song to begin. When it did, I looked up to watch his hands as he played.

  Within a few seconds, it was obvious he was as good as I remembered. Relief washed over me, making me realize how worried I’d been about his skills, hoping I hadn’t exaggerated them in my own head (and to my dad). But as I listened to the opening bars of the song, it was clear that he was even better than I’d remembered. Or maybe he’d improved since, but either way, he was good. No, not just good: amazing.

  And he’d learned this song practically overnight by ear—there was no sheet music in front of him. That spoke to how good a musician (even if he didn’t consider himself one) he really was.

  With my semi-trained ear, I followed along as he nailed the music, incredibly impressed that his technical skills were nearly flawless.

  I looked up into his face and was thankful that his eyes were closed as he played, the headphones snug on his ears. He was absolutely adorable, and I had to resist the urge to get out my phone and take a picture, worried about being caught.

  He swayed a little as he played, hunched over the guitar, his facial expressions moving with the music like he was inside it, or—probably more accurately—it was inside him.

  In the recording, Graeme (I’m pretty sure) began to sing, and I admit, I got caught up in the song, mesmerized by what I was hearing, even catching myself with my eyes closed as I focused on the music. Dave was right—the music was good. I had no doubt this song about love lost and found again was going to be a huge hit. Tween and teen girls were definitely going to cry, squeal, and sigh over the Wiretap posters taped to their walls, imagining them as their boyfriends. Dave would definitely fit in with the other guys. He’d look great on a poster, too.

  I tried not to think about that, refocusing on the music and letting it drag me down into the melody. Pride in what my dad had created washed over me, making my chest feel tight with emotion.

  But then I remembered I was there to critique Dave, not get all weepy about my dad. I forced my eyes open.

  He was staring at me, a lopsided smile on his face while he played automatically, like his hands weren’t even a part of him. I felt a hot blush creep up my neck to my cheeks.

  This guy is going to break hearts, I thought, knowing with every fiber of my being that if he wanted the gig filling in for Chris, my dad was going to give it to him. He had that special something that Dad said was one in a million.

  He was going to be a star.

  If he decided he wanted to be one, that is.

  First Impressions

  The next morning, my father texted when they were about a half an hour away from Rosewood. That gave me just enough time to finish getting dressed, run down to the dining room for a Danish and a double espresso, and head toward the main doors to greet him, the band, and Linda.

  Sandy tailed me down to the dining room, moaning on about how she wished she could join me, but had to get to biology (her worst class), sparing the band from her fangirling while they were trying to rehearse. She was going to join us for lunch to reacquaint herself with the guys, now that she’d gotten the okay to do her vlog series, so she couldn’t complain too much.

  I’d gotten special permission from the dean to skip my morning classes (which were mostly review at this point in the year anyway) to give them something of a tour and help get them set up in the gym.

  On the way from the dining room, I got out my phone to text Dave to let him know they were on their way, but as I got to the big marbled foyer, I saw him standing at the desk with his guitar case on the floor at his feet, signing in. I slid my phone back into my pocket, and as soon as he put down the pen, I said his name to get his attention.

  He turned toward me and gave me a relieved smile. He was out of school uniform, wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, looking starched and scared with slightly messy hair—which translated to adorable.

  Nope, do not think about how cute he is. He’s a musician who is hung up on his ex, I told myself. Plus, my love life was currently non-existent, just the way I liked it, and it was going to stay that way. I mean, maybe I would meet a boy in the Hamptons and have a summer fling with no future and zero complications, but right now, romance was definitely not on my to-do list.

  “Hey,” he said, picking up his guitar case and coming over toward me.

  “Ready to meet the band?” I a
sked, realizing too late that asking might rattle him even more.

  He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. I’m…I’m a little nervous.”

  No kidding. “It is a big deal,” I said, hoping validating his feelings would make him feel a little better. “But you are totally going to crush it.”

  “Nervous, about meeting your dad, I mean. But yeah, I guess the band thing, too,” he said with a chuckle.

  I waved him off. “My dad’s cool. He’s like a big teddy bear. And as long as you’re committed to the music, you’re good, and there’s nothing to fear.”

  “If you say so,” he said on a long breath.

  “They’ll be here any minute,” I said, jerking my thumb toward the door.

  “It’s sunny out; why don’t we wait outside?” he suggested, adding, “I might just go crazy standing in here.”

  With a nod, I led him to the door and held it open for him. “Thank you, m’lady,” he said with a tilt of his head and a wink as he walked through.

  “You flirting with me?” I asked, incredulous.

  He looked down at me, screwing up his face a little. “Sorry. I’m just trying not to freak out.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Just then our attention was drawn by the limo coming down the driveway, glinting in the sunshine as it approached.

  I heard Dave take a deep breath, but didn’t comment, instead going down the stairs to wait at the curb.

  The second the car stopped, Gary jumped out and gave me a smile. “Hey, Nessa,” he said as he came around the car and opened the back door closest to me for my dad. At the same time, the door on the other side opened, and guys started pouring out.

  Gary then went around to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and started unloading guitars. I knew that the amps, speakers, and microphones were already set up in the gym, thanks to an AV rental company, and Darren would be using one of the school’s drum kits, but of course the boys would all bring their own instruments where possible.

  Before the car emptied of bodies and guitars, my dad pulled me into a hug. “Nessa,” he said into my ear. “It’s so good to see you.”

  A wave of guilt washed over me like it did almost every time I saw him and was reminded that I was his only family. I missed him too, but in a different way—he was my dad, and I loved him, of course, but he wasn’t exactly the center of my universe the way I suspected I was his.

  I smiled over his shoulder at Linda who kept her eye on him for me. At least he had her. She winked back at me as she hitched her bag up higher on her shoulder.

  I pulled out of the hug and looked at my dad. “How’s it going?”

  He had that twinkle in his eye, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Great. Really coming along. We’re almost ready for the album release.”

  He looked past me, so I took a step back and turned toward Dave to make the official introduction. “Dad, this is Willmont Davidson—he goes by Dave.”

  “Great to meet you in person, sir,” Dave said as he stepped forward and stuck out his hand.

  “Call me Tony.” My father put his palm into Dave’s and shook heartily, the smile reaching his eyes. “And it’s good to meet you as well. Nessa sent me a note this morning to let me know you’re completely up to speed on the music. I have to say I’m very impressed.”

  Dave nodded, still looking nervous. “I’ve been working hard at it.”

  That was exactly the right thing to say to my father.

  “Great. I’m looking forward to hearing with my own ears. Not that I don’t trust Nessa, of course,” he said looking down at me with a smile.

  What Dad hadn’t said was that I’d told him just how good Dave had gotten in such a short time and how I’d suggested he look at him to be a replacement—even if only a temporary one—for Chris.

  “Come, meet the other guys.” He reached out his arm as a gesture to the four guys to come over. “Boys?”

  I carefully avoided Andres’s gaze—though I felt it on me—instead watching the others as they approached Dave. I was very interested to see how they would accept him, just in case this turned out to be more than a one-time gig.

  Graeme came up first. “Graeme Boone,” he said in his charming British accent.

  Dave nodded. “I’m Dave. You’re lead singer—your vocals are awesome, man.”

  Graeme smiled and tipped his head. “Cheers.”

  Andres was next, and since my eyes were on Dave, I saw him fidget nervously. “I know who you are—Andres Castillo,” he said as they clasped hands. “I’m a big fan. Great to meet you.”

  “And you,” Andres answered in his deep voice that I refused to acknowledge was sexy.

  Darren came forward. “Darren Hill, drums,” he said. “Great to meet you and thanks for saving our butts, we would have been fu…screwed without you,” he said with a quick look at Dad.

  It might have been a weird thing to witness him censoring himself, but I was very familiar with dad’s rules for the guys that included no swearing in public. They were obviously working on their bad habits to clean themselves up before tour. If they hadn’t started already, they’d be doing interviews soon, and that meant portraying a wholesome image that parents wouldn’t mind supporting with album and ticket sales.

  While there would be the illusion of a bad boy or two in the group (thanks to carefully constructed media ‘leaks’ of some mild ‘behavior’), they’d still be squeaky clean and mostly above reproach—that was the number one rule of the band, what they’d signed up for.

  Dad was done with scandals and after what had happened to him in the past, I could hardly blame him.

  Dave shook Darren’s hand. “Wow, good grip—I would have guessed drums.”

  Darren chuckled and smiled at Dave, who was clearly making a great first impression with the guys.

  Finally, Max, the quietest guy in the group, came forward. “Max Lindstrom,” he said. “Bass.”

  “Good to meet you,” Dave said, his smile easier than it had been even just a few moments before—he was obviously calming down as he saw the guys were just normal people.

  Max ended the handshake and didn’t say anything else. He glanced over and looked at me, giving me a polite nod in greeting.

  I nodded back, wondering again about his backstory. I hadn’t asked Dad much about the boys’ lives, not wanting to appear too interested. But if I knew my father, he’d done background checks on all of them so there would be no surprises in the media when they got big. Whatever made Max so quiet and broody, Dad knew about it, and it obviously wasn’t a deal-breaker.

  Or maybe he was just that kind of guy. Bass players tended to be a bit more subdued—at least that’s what my somewhat limited experience told me.

  “It’s been a bit of a long ride that started with a Starbucks,” Linda said pointedly, coming up beside me. “Maybe we should start with a bathroom break?”

  “Of course,” I said, pointing over toward the recreation center building. “The gym’s in there, and there’s locker rooms, so that’s probably the best place to set you guys up as something of a home base.”

  The boys grabbed their guitars and other assorted bags, and we said goodbye to Gary (who was going to check into the hotel where the band and crew would be staying) before we began walking toward the building.

  I glanced over to check in on Dave, but he was deep in conversation with Graeme like they were old friends. I had a feeling they were discussing the music, both passionately involved in the conversation. It made me smile, glad he was fitting in already.

  I leaned toward my dad, “This is going to be good,” I said to him quietly, tilting my head toward Graeme and Dave.

  He nodded. “I think you’re right.” Then he looked down at me. “You have the gift of the scout, daughter of mine. Sure you don’t want to join the family biz? I’d even pay you.”

  I knew he was only half joking so I was quick to shake my head. “Nope, thanks for the offer, though.”

  He let out an exag
gerated sigh as though it wasn’t the millionth time I’d refused. “Fine. Anyway, about this gig…” He went on to tell me the important details: that a second car was on its way from New York, carrying wardrobe along with his hair and makeup person, their image stylist, and a professional photographer so they could take some action shots of the band with an actual crowd in front of them. He’d already cleared it with the dean who’d been fine with it as long as he promised not to include any student’s faces in any pictures.

  “So they’re all getting along?” I asked quietly.

  “Absolutely.” His smile faltered a tiny bit, which told me a lot more than the one word.

  “Who?” I said, knowing already.

  He did a double take at me. “Who what?”

  “Who is causing problems? Is it Andres?”

  He cocked his head. “No one is causing problems.”

  “So why the face?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, but we were ahead of the guys by several yards. “It’s Max, actually. He’s not causing problems, but he’s…” He sighed before saying, “I’m not sure he wants to be in the band, to be honest.”

  I frowned. “What does that mean?”

  He lowered his voice even more, so I had to lean in to hear him say, “He’s seventeen, so his family had to sign the contracts, but I am learning more and more that…after some things happened…let’s just say I don’t think he was so keen to join, and I think they coerced him into it.”

  I was going to turn back to look at Max, but didn’t want to make it obvious. “Wow,” I said, not sure what ‘some things’ might entail. “But he could just mess up, and you’d kick him out. Or he could just leave, couldn’t he?” I’d heard horror stories of families pushing kids to success so they could be the breadwinners for the family. But my dad was all too familiar and was careful not to get involved in those kinds of situations where kids got exploited like that.

  He sighed as we got to the door of the rec center. “It’s complicated. I’ll fill you in later. As it is, he’s committed to the music and seems to have a good work ethic, but I’m a little nervous nonetheless.”