Along for the Ride

by Katrina Abbott

  I nodded, unable to come up with anything that might help ease his grief.

  He exhaled loudly and looked up, unshed tears still in his eyes. “So yeah, that’s what’s holding me back. He gave me my first guitar, taught me to play, but he never wanted that life for me. He warned me against it, told me to enjoy the music for myself—that going into the biz would ruin music for me. Or worse, obviously.”

  I’d seen it happen, so I wasn’t surprised a former star would have warned his grandson away from the dark side of the business.

  Dave laughed without humor. “He probably would have lost his mind if he knew this opportunity was even on the table for me. I said yes to the one-time thing because what could it hurt, you know? It’s not even off campus. But going on tour?” He shook his head.

  “If it wasn’t for the bad stuff, would you want to do it?” I asked. “Like, forgetting all that happened to him and just thinking about the music; do you want to play?”

  He looked up at me, and I could see the shadows move across his face as he worked his jaw before he finally admitted it. “Yeah. I really do.”

  “Then you have to,” I said, holding up a palm toward him when he opened his mouth to protest. “Look, Dad runs a really tight ship. There will be no drugs or drinking or big parties. If he hasn’t briefed you about all that, he would before you sign on to make sure you’re on board. There are contracts you’d have to sign that stipulate you can’t turn into a party animal, or you’re out of the band. He wants a successful band that isn’t going to be in the tabloids for wrecking hotels or collecting paternity suits—while it would result in press, he doesn’t want bad press. If there’s too much negative stuff going on, parents are going to think twice about sending their kids to a concert.”

  “Right, the squeaky clean image.”

  I nodded. “He’s serious about it, too. If guys want to be hard-core rock stars where they can use their fame to score girls and drugs, going through the rehab revolving door, working with my dad is not the place for them.” I looked into his eyes to make sure he understood what I was saying, what it meant for him. “That means you’d be safe from all that stuff. He’d make sure you’re insulated from a lot of it, assuming you’re committed and want to work with him. He takes care of his own, but doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

  Dave snorted. “What does that mean?”

  “That’s like his favorite saying,” I said with a chuckle. “It means he doesn’t take crap. He’ll go to the ends of the earth to make you a star, but he won’t put up with you if you act like an idiot.” Especially not after what he went through, I didn’t say.

  The car turned to the left, and a glance through the window told me we were pulling into the Westwood driveway to drop him off first.

  We were running out of time and while I could send Gary on another drive, we all needed rest. “So what did you tell him?” I asked.

  “That I’d sleep on it.”

  I thought about what he’d told me about his mother and what she’d been through because of his grandfather, her father. “What about your parents?”

  He took a deep breath and pushed his fingers through his hair. “That’s part of it, too.”

  “Dad’d be happy to talk to them and reassure them of the same things I just told you,” I said. “He’s great with parents. And he is one, so he gets it—he treats everyone like they’re his own.”

  “He’s a good dad, huh?”

  I smiled, my throat getting thick as I thought about my dad. I couldn’t have picked a better parent had I been given the opportunity. “The best.”

  The car rolled to a stop then and even though I felt like we could have talked for a lot longer to help him decide, maybe it was enough.

  Dave reached for the door handle and then looked back at me. “Thanks for this, Vanessa. Really for everything. This is…you’ve been really great.”

  “I don’t want to see you throw an opportunity like this away,” I said, holding his gaze. “You’re a rare talent.”

  He looked at me sideways. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like musicians, you’re tossing a lot of compliments my way.”

  Thankful it was dark so he probably couldn’t see my face heating up, I waved him off. “My Dad told me to do whatever it takes to get you on board. Obviously, that includes shameless flattery.”

  Dave cocked his head. “I thought you didn’t know he’d asked me.”

  Busted.

  “Errr…. Shut up,” is the super smart comeback I came up with.

  He laughed. “Fine, whatever. I do appreciate it, though.”

  The way he was looking at me was awkward or maybe it was me that was awkward. Either way, it made me want to push him out of the car before he tried to give me a hug or something. “Whatever. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. Go get your beauty sleep, Boy Band.”

  “I’m not in the band yet,” he said.

  But we both knew as he got out of that limo, before the end of the next day, he would be.

  Decisions, Decisions

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: So?

  Message: Have you decided yet?

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: So?

  Message: I left you like 3 minutes ago.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: So?

  Message: 6 minutes, actually. Plenty of time to make up your mind.

  I smiled as I looked down at my phone and hit send just as Gary pulled up to the Rosewood building. “Here you go, Nessa,” he said as he put the car in park.

  “Don’t get out,” I said, opening the door as he went to undo his seatbelt. “I got it.”

  “Thanks,” he said on a sigh. It had been a long day for him, too.

  I got halfway out of the car and then stopped to ask, “Hey, are you going to watch the show tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, which was no surprise since he was a music lover, too. “See you tomorrow.”

  After I closed the door and began hauling my exhausted body up the Rosewood stairs, I heard my phone go off again.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: So?

  Message: Are you going on tour?

  I stopped in my tracks as I read his message. Why would he ask that? Did it mean he wanted me on tour? And if so, would my not going affect his answer? Not that it mattered, since there was no way I was going on tour no matter what.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: No.

  As soon as I hit send, I slipped my phone back into my pocket and went inside the building, signing in before I started up the stairs. I was suddenly too tired for the stairs, so I did an about-face and took the elevator up to my floor. I got to my door and opened it, finding Sandy sitting on her bed with her laptop on her thighs.

  She was smiling at me. “So? How did the rest of the day go?”

  I dropped my bag on my bed, wishing I could just faceplant myself onto it, but no way would Sandy let me get off that easy. “Really good,” I said. “They’re going to be great tomorrow.”

  “I got some great video,” Sandy said. “I just wish I could have done some interviews, you know?”

  I dropped onto the bed and toed off my sneakers. “That’ll come in New York. Give them a chance to get settled. Plus, my dad told you he’s going to have to okay any interview questions through publicity first.”

  She pouted. “I know. I’m just super excited, you know?”

  With a sigh, I got bac
k up. “I’m going to grab a quick shower and then fall into bed.”

  “You don’t want to see the video?” Sandy asked, looking so hopeful that I couldn’t bring myself to say no. I did want to see it, just, I was so tired.

  “Of course,” I said, coming over to her bed to take a spot next to her.

  As soon as I dropped a knee onto her mattress, she said, “You look wrecked. You know what? I’m still working on it, so why don’t you go take your shower and I’ll show you in the morning.”

  “You’re the best,” I muttered and took myself into the bathroom. The second I lay my phone on the counter, a message came in from Dave.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: why not? You sold it so well before, you should go.

  I thought about my response as I got undressed and stepped into the shower. Did I really need to explain? It’s not like I had even considered going on tour, but the Andres thing just compounded the reasons why I wouldn’t. Though I knew Sandy would love it if I did, if only for the week she was going.

  But did I owe Dave an explanation since I’d been the one who had petitioned so hard for him to join the band? I halfheartedly lathered up my hair, realizing I was probably overthinking what was a simple explanation filled with several valid reasons: I had summer plans elsewhere. I wasn’t working for my dad. Plus the real reason that trumped everything else in my mind: I simply didn’t want to go.

  A few minutes later I emerged from the shower, dried off and wrapped my hair up in a towel before I grabbed my phone, ready to tap out a thoughtful and thorough answer, but instead, I decided to take a page from his book.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: Not interested.

  I received his response almost instantly.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: Touché. Anyway, I’m going to do it. Tell your dad that your convincing did the trick. Especially the shameless flattery.

  I did a mental fist-pump at that, but something was nagging at me.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: Great news.

  Message: He’s going to be thrilled. Make sure you tell him about Strutts, ok? He needs to know.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: Great news.

  Message: I will for sure. Thanks for everything. Better hit the sack. C U tomorrow.

  I sent back a smilie face and then hovered my finger over my contacts, about to send my dad a text but then reconsidered. I didn’t want to take away the opportunity for Dave to be the one to tell him he was officially joining Wiretap.

  The Show

  To call the next day crazy was an understatement. For starters, there was the afternoon performance of Romeo and Juliet, which meant campus was filled with parents and alumni. Not to mention staffers hell bent on making sure everyone was entertained and well fed.

  That meant people running around like headless chickens and, inevitably, a delay in getting into the gym. Then there were a few scary moments when we couldn’t find the guys’ equipment (security had locked it in a different storeroom than we’d expected) and after that, there was a power outage and a long time in the dark before we could find someone from maintenance to get it fixed. It was standard operating procedure for gigs—this sort of stuff happened all the time on tour. For us, it was normal.

  But for the guys, it was chaos. All the things going wrong compounded with their nerves over the imminent performance—their first—had them frazzled. Max didn’t say anything but stood against the wall, hands in pockets, clenching his jaw. Andres kept crossing and uncrossing his arms, pacing the length of the gym and then plopping himself down in a chair, only to get up again. Graeme kept going to the bathroom—making me think he had a nervous bladder. Darren was at least sitting, but his legs were constantly in motion, making his chair squeak which annoyed everyone (or maybe that was just me).

  I almost sent them all to the fitness room to run off some steam on the treadmills, but knew they’d get sweaty enough later on and tiring them out now was not a good idea.

  Only Dave seemed somewhat calm as he sat in a corner with his earbuds in, eyes closed as he listened to who knows what.

  Dad was fiddling with some of the equipment after a less than successful sound check and Kiki and Ginny hadn’t arrived yet to get the guys ready, so I decided it was up to me to get them calmed down.

  I passed out bottles of water and started to tell them about our house in the Hamptons where they’d get to spend a few days before tour. I babbled incessantly about the beach, volleyball tournaments, Jet Skis, cookouts, and all the other things that no one really cared about until they actually got there, but it seemed to work. Darren stopped fidgeting so much (enough to make the squeaking stop, thank God), Andres sat down and stayed in his chair, and Max came over and took a seat, too. Once he was out of the washroom, Graeme came and took a chair also.

  Dave took his earbuds out and chugged a water, watching me with amused interest. Funny how he was the calm one, even over Andres who had experience playing to big crowds. I didn’t have a chance to think on that too much, though.

  Eventually, when I couldn’t think about anything more to add to the Hamptons travel brochure that I was obviously writing, Dave took over and went through the set list, talking about each of the songs and engaging them all in something of a pep talk. That helped them focus, which seemed to get their minds off what was going on around them.

  By the time everything was set up, and the guys had their guitars tuned up and ready to go, we only had an hour before they’d need to go into the locker room so Ginny and Kiki could work their magic.

  But after the day before, the guys were ready and an hour was more than enough for them to warm up and find their groove.

  After rehearsal, I herded them toward the locker room that we’d blocked off and commandeered as their dressing room. Dave fell to the back of the group behind Darren and came beside me. “You’re a natural, you know.”

  I frowned. “At what?”

  He nodded toward the guys in front of me. “Managing things. Managing people.”

  I shrugged. “They were a little freaked out after everything. I just passed around waters and distracted everyone.”

  “You saw what needed to be done, and you did it. You didn’t freak out.”

  “There was nothing to freak out about. This stuff happens. It’s all part of it—they’ll learn after they get a few gigs under their belts.” Then I dropped my voice and added, “You’ll see.” I smiled, though pressed my lips together to hide it—the other guys weren’t supposed to know about Dave joining the band until it was official and papers had been signed. Though they had probably guessed already. Or would soon.

  He was shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “Stuff does happen, but staying calm isn’t always easy, especially with everything going on and so much on the line. It obviously comes naturally to you to ride things out. I’m guessing you get that partly from your dad and partly from experience, but you’re good at it, Vanessa.”

  I was about to argue with him, but looking up at his smiling and intent expression, I decided to take the compliment as it was intended. “Thanks.”

  He nodded. “All right, I guess I need to get into those super-special rock star jeans that look just like all my regular jeans.”

  I snorted. “But they’re not the same,” I said with great authority. “They’re special fabric tha
t will keep you cooler, and the rips are strategic and reinforced so you won’t have any wardrobe malfunctions.”

  Darren suddenly turned around. “And they’re tighter in the crotch.”

  I nearly choked. “They are not!” I said, my face going eight thousand shades of red, probably because he might have been right.

  Darren winked at me and then grabbed the handle to the locker room. “You coming in?”

  “Um, no thanks,” I said, hanging back. Not that I thought his invitation was serious, but the last thing I needed was to see those five boys in their underwear as they got ready and changed into their concert clothes. It was bad enough I was now going to have to make a point to not look at their crotches.

  I was almost jumping out of my skin by the time Emmie and that Karl guy got up on stage to introduce the band after the dean did a spiel about the play and fundraiser.

  “Let’s go,” I muttered, never so impatient as I was in that moment.

  “I’m not going to talk for long,” Emmie said, though it was already too long to wait for the guys to come out. “Because I know we are all excited to hear this brand new band that is definitely going to be the next big thing. But I did want to mention that if it wasn’t for Vanessa Capri, we wouldn’t even have a band, so thank you to her for bringing us Wiretap.”

  That dragged my attention from the side of the stage up to where she stood at the mic. Emmie scanned the crowd and saw me, giving me a nod as I smiled at her and mouthed, you’re welcome.

  “Also, a thank you to the guy whose appendix burst, giving Westwood’s own Willmont Davidson his big break!”

  A thunder of hoots and applause broke out then, almost drowning out Emmie as she said into the microphone, “WIRETAP!” before she gestured toward the big curtain and the guys came flying out from behind it. Amid the cheers, they took their places on the stage.