There wasn’t much I could do to get the story out of him now, as the boys all filed into the building, so I nodded, making a mental note to catch up with him later.
I led them all down the hall to the boys’ locker room so they could stow their stuff and use the bathrooms before meeting us out in the gym.
I then turned to lead Linda back to the girls’ locker room, but she seemed to have disappeared. As I looked around, I found myself alone in the hallway.
Well, except for Andres, who was coming straight for me.
Crap. It had taken great effort, in some instances, but I’d successfully avoided being alone with him at the studio on spring break and the weekend since when I’d visited. But here and now, he’d blindsided me, and there we were, just the two of us in that long, otherwise empty hallway.
Without a word, I turned toward the girls’ locker room, but a firm hand around my arm brought me to a halt.
“Wait,” he said. “Nessa.”
I whirled around, shaking out of his grip, suddenly angry in a way I hadn’t let myself be since seeing him that first time in my dad’s studio. “Don’t call me that.”
He tilted his head and frowned, clearly confused.
“Only my friends and family—people who are close to me—call me that. You call me Vanessa. Or better yet, don’t talk to me at all.”
“I’ve wanted to speak to you for a long time,” he said, ignoring that last part about not talking to me, being the arrogant jerk he was. “About what happened last summer between us.”
Oh God. Of course he remembered—I’d known it from that first second at the studio, but as long as we’d never discussed it and I kept avoiding him, it didn’t seem real. Like a dream that had happened to some other unfortunate sucker who got caught up in his lies and sweet words. Now the reality of him humiliating me so completely came screaming back to me. “There’s nothing to say,” I bit out.
“Not true,” he said. “I need to apologize.”
I crossed my arms and sighed. “Fine. You’ve apologized.” I nodded toward the locker room door. “Now you’d better get in there.”
He took a step closer until he was in my bubble, but there was no way I would back up from him. He could pressure me with his arrogance, broad chest, and cocky confidence, but I would never back down. Instead, I craned my neck to look up at him, defiant. Thankfully, there was no way for him to know how hard my heart was pounding. I hoped.
“No,” he said, his eyes half-lidded as he looked down at me.
Crap. I’d forgotten how impossibly long his inky eyelashes were, damn him. I narrowed my eyes, focusing on his big pupils that were no different than anyone else’s.
“I want to clear this up,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. My resolve didn’t waver, in fact, it turned into rage. This guy, this arrogant jerk, was trying to seduce me into forgiving him! Had he no shame at all? Clearly not.
“Oh right,” I said, delivering my best incredulous scowl. “I see, it’s all about you. You want a guilt-free conscience before you go on tour so you can be free to wreck hearts all over. Well, forget it, jerk. I don’t forgive you. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for how you treated me. How do you like that?”
He recoiled as if I’d hit him. “But…we were just messing around. It wasn’t anything serious…we knew each other a matter of hours.”
I opened my mouth to say that it had been more like forty-five hours which was almost two full days, but thankfully my dad’s head popped out from the boys’ locker room, saving me from blurting out that telling little fact. “Andy, come on.”
“He’ll be right there, Dad,” I yelled down the hall, giving my father a big smile. “I’m just giving him some pointers.”
Dad nodded and disappeared, thankfully clueless.
“Pointers?” Andres asked.
“Yes, on how not to be a douche,” I said, dropped the proverbial mic, and walked away.
Of course, it would have been a lot cooler if I didn’t have to see him in the gym six minutes later and pretend our conversation hadn’t happened.
The Style Posse Arrives
“You were right,” Dad said, his eyes on the stage. Well, to be accurate, his eyes were on Dave. We were sitting in the short row of folding chairs that we’d set up in the gym in front of the stage.
The guys hadn’t wasted any time and after a few minutes of tuning and warm ups, they started playing after Graeme counted them in.
Even knowing how nervous Dave was, he looked like he belonged there on the stage. Was born to it, maybe.
When he’d played for me the night before, he’d been relaxed, sitting in a chair across from me, but now, he stood on Graeme’s right, legs spread wide, rocking with the music. Looking every inch the rock star.
“Told you,” I said, hiding my relief. Even though I’d been mostly sure Dave would live up to the hype, there had been that little doubt nagging at the back of my mind, even after I’d heard him play. I did have a good ear, but I wasn’t Tony Capri.
“I wish he’d auditioned earlier.”
I knew what Dad meant: that he totally would have put Dave in the band. Though who would he have beaten out? Andres with his current fan base and Latin lover vibe? Or Chris with his sweet face and great personality. Based on what I’d seen, their skills were about equal—they were both good. But there was no denying that Dave was better.
I didn’t ask because it didn’t matter at this point anyway. “His grandfather was ill,” I said. “And I think there’s more to why he wasn’t interested, but he wouldn’t say.”
Dad gave me an amused glance. “You close with this boy?”
There was no reason for me to blush, but my face didn’t seem to know that. “Not really,” I said. “I approached him about auditioning when I saw him play at the talent show. After that…” I shrugged, trying to be casual. “We’ve sort of kept in touch a little. It’s nothing.”
My father’s eyes searched mine, looking to see if I was telling the truth or if I was holding stuff back. After several long seconds, he nodded and turned back to the stage. I resisted the urge to exhale in relief, which would just make me look guilty of something.
We continued to watch as the guys finished the first song of their set. They’d opened with Brooklyn Girl, the song that was going to be their first single. Dad had written the music even before the band came together, but once he’d heard the melody, Graeme had written some lyrics. Dad had loved them and tossed out what he’d been working on, and Brooklyn Girl was born.
Listening to the song now, I loved it too. To hear it, you’d never even guess that the two parts of the song weren’t written together. I guess that’s the key to a perfect arrangement and great songwriters.
Plus, there was no denying that Graeme was crushing it, his soulful voice fleshing out the melody while the other guys sang backup.
Dave even chimed in, which was a testament to his abilities.
“Are you sure you didn’t leak the album to him in advance?” Dad said, making me turn to look at him. His serious expression told me he wasn’t even joking.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “He really is that good.”
Dad exhaled and nodded, and I could see his mental gears turning, his I’m going to make him a star gears.
I turned back toward the band pressing my lips together to try to hide my smile.
Seconds later Dad pulled his vibrating phone from his pocket and unlocked the screen. “Ginny and Kiki are here—they’re checking in at the security booth.”
“I’ll go get them,” I said, popping out of my chair before he had a chance to ask me to. While I was reluctant to leave, wanting to hear the rest of the set, it was more important that Dad stay and listen. Plus, I’d have lot of opportunities to hear the guys over the next couple of days.
As I made my way to the front of the main Rosewood building, I took out my phone and saw several texts from Sandy (no wonder she was flunking biology) mos
tly asking about the guys: had they arrived, how did they sound, was Dave fitting in, were they as hot as she remembered? I stopped and quickly sent a note back to the effect of: yes, great, yes, and of course, yes. I put the device away as I rounded a corner and saw the Range Rover idling in the drive.
I went right up to it and as I did, Kiki—Dad’s hair and makeup stylist—jumped out of the front passenger seat and gave me a big hug. I laughed as I got a mouthful of her long electric blue hair that had been electric pink last time I’d seen her (and electric purple the time before that). “Good to see you, too, Kiki!” I said as she muttered a greeting into the side of my head.
She pulled out of the hug and held me at arm’s length, giving me the once-over. “You look great, Nessa. It’s been a long time. What, like two years?”
I nodded, smiling at her because it really was good to see her. She wore a faded pair of boyfriend jeans with rips at the knees and a cute plaid sleeveless top, showing off her fully tattooed arms. “At least two years.”
“All grown up. Where does the time go?” she said with a cluck of her tongue and a big shake of her head. I knew for a fact she was barely thirty but was suddenly sounding like a grandmother—though she hardly looked like one. Or acted like one, for that matter; she reached up and grabbed a lock of my hair. “Who butchered this?” she demanded, letting out a string of curses while I rolled my eyes.
“I’ve missed you, Kiki,” I said, laughing.
Ginny, the image stylist, was more subdued in both demeanor and clothing, wearing a very businessy beige pantsuit and low heels to match. I guess it was her job to look put-together, but I’d always wanted to see her cut loose a little. Still, I was happy to see her. She’d worked for my dad before but wasn’t a full-time staffer, only coming on as needed when Dad was launching a new act. Only Linda and Cliff were full-time on the payroll.
Ginny gave me a hug, too, but it was less of a bear hug and more of a polite greeting. “How are you doing?” she asked. While her hug was less exuberant than Kiki’s, her expression was of genuine interest, which made sense, since she’d known me pretty much forever.
“I’m great,” I said, turning away from her searching eyes that were asking more than a polite question. She really wanted to know how I was related to stuff that had happened in the past. But I took her question at face value, ignoring the deeper inquiry behind it. “Let me take you to where they are.”
Ginny turned back toward the SUV, and I followed her gaze to see what could only be the photographer emerge. He was handsome in a middle-aged kind of way with salt and pepper hair and smiling eyes. He also had a big camera bag that he was slinging over his shoulder.
“Rex,” Ginny said. “This is Vanessa Capri, Tony’s daughter.”
He smiled at me and stuck out his hand. “Rex Kensington. Good to meet you.”
I’d heard of him before; he did a lot of music photography for things like album covers, tour posters, and merch as well as shoots for big magazines. If I wasn’t my father’s daughter, I probably would have been nervous about meeting him. But since I’d met plenty of the people he’d photographed, I was sort of immune to his celebrity.
“Likewise,” I said. “Why don’t I take you to where they’re rehearsing and then I can do a coffee run for everyone?”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Kiki said, draping an arm across my shoulders as we started toward the rec center.
“Does this mean you’re working for him this summer?” Ginny asked, meaning my dad. “He hasn’t mentioned you going on tour.”
Kiki looked at me, her eyes lighting up. “Are you? That would be great. Linda and me—that’s not enough girls on the crew, not to mention all that testosterone with the band. Although if Ginny would come to help offset some of it…” She looked wistfully over at Ginny.
Ginny sighed. “Kik, you know I can’t go on tour. I have thirteen-month-old twins at home. My husband would kill me. It’s amazing he gave me an overnight pass just to be here.”
Kiki looked at me. “They are the cutest, by the way—the twins, I mean. Have you seen them?”
I shook my head. “Not in person, but Dad sent me pictures of them at Christmas opening presents. Adorable.”
Ginny beamed. “Thanks, Nessa. They are adorable, but also the reason I get no sleep. Well, them and working for your father.”
Speaking of, I looked back toward the SUV. “Where’s all the clothes?”
“Ken is taking them to the hotel. We can go through everything tonight and decide what the look will be for tomorrow’s performance.” I wasn’t at all surprised that they were paying this much attention to details like the boys’ look; boy bands were all about choreography on and off the stage.
“What about Dave?” I asked.
Ginny frowned. “Who?”
I shook my head, having forgotten. “Sorry, I mean Willmont—the guy filling in. He goes by Dave.”
“Oh right,” she said, nodding. “He already sent me his sizes and a couple of photos, so we have clothes for him, too. I can nip and tuck whatever needs altering.”
“I can’t wait to get my hands on his hair,” Kiki said.
I looked over at her. “What are you going to do with it?” I asked, realizing too late that my tone was a bit more alarmed than called for. I mean, he had good hair, so I just didn’t want her to mess with it too much.
Kiki just raised her eyebrows slightly before saying, “Just a trim, maybe a few comb-in highlights. There’s not a lot of time to do anything else, but he’s cute as is, so he doesn’t need much.”
“It’s just a school gig,” I said with a shrug.
She gave me a withering look. “It’s a gig like any other. You know your father—they need to look great at all times. Anyway, with Rex here, the boys need to look their best. It’ll be great to get some action shots that aren’t posed. You can’t stage the energy that comes with a real performance.”
I wondered if Rex was going to take pictures of the band and then Photoshop Dave out and Chris in later, but we were at the door to the rec building, so I didn’t have a chance to ask.
Potato Betrayal. It’s a Thing.
When I’d first learned Dad was bringing the band to Rosewood early to rehearse, I’d tried to order lunch for everyone via the school’s kitchen, knowing they sometimes catered events, but I realized quickly that they were already overwhelmed with preparations for the weekend’s parties.
Being the resourceful person I am, I ordered in from a local deli (which I knew would be a hit, since deli was practically my father’s favorite food group) and had it delivered. Ten minutes before it was to arrive, I texted Sandy (who was still in her English class) and told her to meet me out in front so we could bring the food in.
She must have bailed early on class because within moments, she came bounding down the front stairs to where I was sitting on the curb, enjoying the sunshine, thinking I should have put on some sunscreen.
“Hey, girl,” she said, dropping down next to me. “Where are they?”
“Back in the gym, practicing.”
“I can’t wait,” she said. “How’s Dave fitting in?”
I stood up and brushed off my butt when I saw the catering van pull in and stop at the security booth. “Perfectly. It’s going to be such a great show.”
She smiled at me. “You don’t hate musicians as much as you let on.”
I snorted so hard it actually hurt. “Oh yes, I do.”
She rolled her eyes. “You just say you do. But really, you secretly love them. That’s why you say you hate them.”
“No,” I said as the van pulled up to the curb. “I really do hate them.”
“Oh yeah?” She asked, a challenge in her voice. “Why do you hate them so much? You can’t have a good reason, or you’d have told me by now.”
As I looked at my best friend and roommate, there was more than defiance in her eyes. I saw hurt. She knew I was holding something back. I looked away, ashamed that I’d lied to her all th
is time. But I couldn’t tell her the truth. Certainly not about everything.
I sighed as the catering guy got out of the van. “Two words,” I whispered to her. “Andres Castillo.”
She looked at me sideways. “That only happened last summer.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say anything more, so I pretended I didn’t hear her and approached the catering guy like I didn’t know she was onto me.
“It’s not that you hooked up with him that’s surprising…” Sandy whispered to me out of the side of her mouth.
We were in the gym, filling up our paper plates from the spread Kiki and I had arranged while the boys had finished up their practice. (Sandy took the opportunity to shoot some preliminary video.) We’d hung back until my father and the guys had loaded their plates, eager to eat and get back to work.
I glanced over at Sandy, waiting for her to finish.
She rolled her eyes. “No, okay, fine. That’s totally surprising. You’ve always told me you hated musicians, so I can’t believe you even got close enough to him that a hookup could occur.”
By always, she meant in the past two school years that we’d known each other. Technically, I hadn’t always hated musicians. It wasn’t like I was born full of contempt for them—they’d earned it.
“Can we please have this conversation later?” I practically begged. I mean, seriously, the guys—including Andres, the guy we were talking about—were just a few yards away, chowing down on their much-deserved lunch while Dad coached them on their practice.
“Oh, we are absolutely having this conversation later,” Sandy promised as she squirted a glob of mustard on her sandwich. It make a loud sucking noise, and we both giggled like toddlers.
Thankful that she was done with the discussion for now, I turned to the potato salad and scooped some out, quickly realizing it was too much. I scraped some off back into the container and then went to put the rest on my plate. It wasn’t budging. “Hmm,” I said with a grunt, trying in vain to shake the sticky mass off the spoon. Without warning, the physics of shaking the spoon worked, and the food gave way. Although instead of landing on my plate, it arced up into the air and landed high on my right boob.
Along for the Ride Page 8
