Along for the Ride

by Katrina Abbott

  No, she’s hanging out waiting for him—he went out earlier. Not back yet.

  Okay, I sent, not sure what else to say. I was relieved on Sandy’s behalf, though she must have been going crazy waiting for him.

  So I’m just being paranoid about the shoot?

  As I thought about Dave and what had happened earlier (what felt like a million hours before, now that it was well into the evening), I examined how I felt about him and the almost kiss. The one that had turned into a kiss. But not a real kiss. So yeah, it was weird. But did he have a legit reason to be concerned? Did I feel weird about him now?

  Probably.

  Okay, yes, definitely, but not in a bad way. Unless you call sudden curiosity about kissing him again and in a more private venue without cameras and my dad watching a bad way.

  No, no, no, I told myself. He is a musician. He is in your dad’s band. He is Dave. You are not interested.

  I pushed all that away and looked down at the screen. Even if I was mildly curious after that staged kiss, it didn’t mean anything. And it wouldn’t make me avoid him. Anyway, there were only a few more days in town before we would have our weekend in the Hamptons and then they’d be gone. After that, curiosity and weirdness would fade away just like their tour bus disappearing over the horizon.

  Yes, being paranoid. Not avoiding you, I sent.

  Good, he returned, followed by a smilie face.

  I waited, but after several minutes, it became obvious he wasn’t going to text back. Telling myself I wasn’t disappointed, I put the phone down and slid down in the water until I was almost completely submerged, only my nose poking out above the surface.

  I lay there for a while, thinking about the events of the day until the water cooled. Then I sat up and added some more hot and a little bit of the lavender bubble bath, watching as the bubbles began to form under the cascade of water, releasing their relaxing scent.

  I let out a long exhale and was about to slip back down under the water when I heard my phone again.

  I leaned over and saw it was another text from Dave. Sorry. My turn to grab a shower—with 5 guys must take my turn when I can.

  I dried my hands and sent back: np. I’m in the tub.

  Dangerous, he sent back. Don’t tub and text!

  I laughed. Do it all the time.

  Don’t tell me that, he responded.

  I wondered why and was about to ask, but then realized after the shoot this morning and all that had happened since, probably best not to know.

  Instead, I sent back: gtg rinse. See you tomorrow.

  I emerged from my ensuite bathroom in my bathrobe after toweling off and blow-drying my hair to find Sandy sitting on my bed, fiddling with her phone. She looked up, and a wave of relief washed over me as she smiled. It wasn’t a huge everything is sunshine and roses smile, but it wasn’t a he didn’t forgive me and still hates my guts grimace, either.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “It went okay, I presume?” I asked, sitting down beside her.

  She took a deep breath, her shoulders rising as her chest expanded. Once she let it out, she nodded. “I guess. He’s…wow, he’s really raw, you know? Maybe he hid it before, or I just didn’t notice, but he’s…I think he’s pretty messed up over it.”

  “Did you talk about it at all?”

  “No,” she said with a decisive shake of her head. “Not even a little; I’m basing my assessment purely on body language and facial expressions. I apologized, he accepted, he apologized, I accepted, and then after about two awkward minutes of forced small talk, I left.”

  I cringed on her behalf.

  She laughed. “I know, right? Ugh. Well, whatever. At least we called a truce. Though I’m not sure how much of his apology he really meant. I think he was just phoning it in because Tony told him he had to.”

  “Not much more you can ask for,” I said, a little disappointed myself at how Max had treated her. She had been bitchy but didn’t deserve his reaction. “Anyway, at least now you’ll be more understanding of his moodiness and won’t take it personally.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Of course, but if he’s going to be like that with—”

  “They’re on it,” I interrupted. “Dad and Linda spoke with him about how he comes across. I’m sure they’re going to file down his edges before this week is over.”

  She nodded and crossed her arms. “Good.”

  Something in her demeanor made me feel like I had to defend him. “They say he’s a good guy. It’s just still pretty fresh, obviously. Losing your girlfriend like that would mess anyone up.”

  She screwed up her face. “Probably. And I’m sure your dad’s right and everything will work out.” She lowered her voice before saying, “I still don’t like him, though.”

  “You don’t have to like him,” I said, thinking it was probably best if she didn’t, considering how much she’d been ogling Dave and the other guys. “You just have to get along with him. And anyway, it’s just for this week and that first week on tour, right? You can manage two weeks, can’t you?”

  She got up off my bed and started toward the door. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said over her shoulder before she left the room.

  Where There’s a Will…

  I had planned to wake up late and then do some shopping around SoHo on my own the next day, but when my sleep was interrupted by Sandy coming into my room, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. At least she’d come in carrying a coffee that smelled like heaven in a mug.

  Foiling my plans yet again, she promised she would ask for nothing from me for the rest of the week if I just came with her to watch the guys practice this one day because she was still feeling weird about Max.

  Easily bribed with a fine cup of coffee, (and because I sort of wanted to see what he would be like after yesterday) I agreed that I would spend the day with her and the band.

  “I can’t stand it,” Sandy whispered to me later that morning, her eyes still up on the stage where the five boys were playing one of their upbeat songs, Above the Clouds. “They’re too freaking hot.”

  They’d moved rehearsals from my dad’s studio to the rented warehouse in Brooklyn where their first gig would be (and fitting, since their first single would be Brooklyn Girl). There was more space, and the guys could practice being on a real stage and start to get comfortable with the venue, though that was a luxury they wouldn’t have for most of the tour. Sandy was taking video and stills so she could post a few (Linda-approved) photos and short clips to her social media.

  So far, her followers were loving the boys, and why wouldn’t they? They were everything a boy band should be: good-looking and talented. Plus, the songs were all amazing and catchy, exactly what would rocket them to superstardom quickly.

  Even before the tour started, they were becoming a thing and not just because of what my dad was doing; Sandy had engaged a few of our friends from Rosewood to share some of her posts to build some buzz, talking about the new band that they got to see first at the school’s end of year party. We’d even sent out a bunch of free tickets to the upcoming concerts because getting butts in seats for those first few shows was so important, and it didn’t matter how we filled them.

  While Dad, Cliff, and Linda worked on the guys’ stage presence, a whole publicity team was literally out on the street, building buzz with free tickets and promos.

  “They’re supposed to be that hot,” I said with a snort, keeping my voice low, even though Dad, Linda, and Cliff were standing close to the stage, while we were sitting at a table about fifteen feet back. “That’s the whole point. Though Tony will appreciate your compliment.”

  Finally, she looked at me, and her eyes widened because apparently I wasn’t taking her seriously enough. “I’m not even kidding, Vanessa! I can’t go on tour with them being that hot. How am I supposed to focus?”

  “You focus on being a professional.”

  She blew a raspberry.

  “Real mature,” I said.
<
br />   She told me to shut up, but the corner of her mouth was twitching up into a smile.

  “Obviously you’re fine with Max,” I said. “So that’s not an issue, at least.”

  She shrugged; her fear of drama had been for nothing. While Max hadn’t exactly turned into a snuggly teddy bear overnight, he obviously wasn’t holding anything against her after the day before. Or he was an excellent actor. Either way, they seemed fine.

  The boys finished a song and a lull came over the room, filled only with my dad’s voice as he debriefed what they’d just played. “I’m not talking about Max,” she hissed. “Just…you know, all the others. Well, not Andres, of course, since he’s yours.”

  I let out a long-suffering sigh but refused to take her bait about Andres. “Sandrine, you can resist them for one week on tour. Just think of them as your brothers.”

  “Don’t make me start justifying incest, Vanessa,” she said and then gave me a goofy cross-eyed look that made me laugh.

  Of course, I couldn’t blame her too much, because I was secretly right there with her, dazzled by the boys. In fact, as I watched the band, I was doing my best to make it look like I was watching them critically so I could take notes and offer feedback to my dad. But the truth was, my notebook was filled with swirls and doodles and the guys were doing exactly what they were meant to do, which was play great music and look amazing doing it.

  Especially Andres, I admitted only to myself. What had already made him a star before he’d even joined Wiretap—his confidence, energy, and dark, swarthy looks—were coming out in spades as they rehearsed. I couldn’t find one flaw with his performance unless making me secretly drool on my notebook could be counted as a flaw. Though perhaps that was my flaw and not his.

  So as we sat there, watching them get better and more polished with each song, steps closer to their launch, it was impossible not to get caught up in it.

  Even for me.

  We ordered in lunch and once the guys were settled at the table and were done grumbling over the healthy meal of salads with grilled chicken, Linda went through some of the details of the debrief they’d gotten that morning from the publicity company.

  “So we gave them some of Rex’s footage to show to test audiences,” she said, holding the stack of papers in front of her as she scanned her eyes down the pages, “and you guys have tested really well so far.” She smiled as she looked up and drifted her gaze over the boys.

  “We asked them to rate each of you individually on a bunch of different variables: musical ability, stage presence, wardrobe, etcetera. Graeme is out front, which is no surprise since he’s lead singer—always the biggest factor.” She paused as she returned her gaze to the pages, the smile turning into a slight frown. “Most of the rest of you are very close, with one exception.”

  “Me,” Max supplied, looking unsurprised.

  Linda nodded. “Yes, they said you were too…” she looked down at the paper, “melancholy. Like you didn’t want to be there, and that you were just going through the motions. Sorry, those are direct quotes.”

  “Working on it,” Max said with a nod. He didn’t seem angry about it, though chances were that Linda and Dad had prepared him for this kind of feedback. Certainly Sandy had, though not on purpose.

  “How do you feel about doing that interview with Sandy today?” Dad said. “We were going to ask you to do it later in the week, but let’s get in front of it earlier.” The way he said it was framed as a request, but as I watched the subtle shifts in Max’s expression, I could tell he recognized it for what it was—a demand. It was a polite one, but non-negotiable nonetheless.

  He nodded and looked at Sandy, resigned, though clearly not thrilled. “Okay.”

  “Good,” Dad said. “Why don’t you do that after lunch and then we can maybe even cut it this afternoon and post it tonight.” He looked over at Sandy. “Linda will send you the revised interview questions once we’re done here.”

  With a curt nod of her own, Linda moved on. “The music tested great, and we have every reason to believe with our media push, the album should do well out of the gate and will build from there. As well, the test audiences liked your outfits and images, though they thought Andres’s hair should be a little shorter.” She smiled wryly at the guy in question. “I feel it necessary to note that your stubble got high marks across the board. So that stays, but I’ll get Kiki in to tidy you up.”

  “Should the rest of us grow some facial hair?” Darren asked, the corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk. “I mean, mine will never look like his,” he jerked his thumb at Andres, “But maybe some girls are into the patchy look?”

  Dad laughed. “I think probably clean-shaven is a better look for you, but a day or two’s worth of growth is fine if you want to look more manly.”

  Darren flexed a bicep. “I’m already plenty manly.”

  Anything for a laugh, that guy.

  “What about a goatee?” Graeme asked. “Would that be okay? For me, I mean, not Patches over there,” he added with a nod toward Darren.

  Dad tilted his head as he looked at Graeme. “I don’t know. I think I like you baby-faced.”

  Graeme’s expression scrunched up as he clearly didn’t like the baby face comment.

  “It’s a good look for you,” I said, putting down my fork. “The effect of having a young face is offset by your really deep voice. I think it works in your favor.”

  “Right, then.” Graeme smiled at me. “Clean-shaven it is,” he said, adding a wink at the end.

  I suddenly hoped no one was looking at me to notice the hot blush that had to be coloring my face. Someone should tell these guys that things like winks and heavy-lidded looks could be very dangerous weapons. I was not that someone, however.

  “We did have one other thing come up, though,” Linda said, her eyes moving over the paper. “Dave,” she said, looking up at him.

  His eyebrows lifted as he chewed, surprised at being singled out. “Hmm?”

  “The test audiences didn’t like you calling yourself Dave.”

  He snorted. “That’s my name.”

  “Technically a nickname, albeit based on your last name,” Dad said.

  Dave blinked a few times. “Really? This is a thing; that people rate my name?” He didn’t seem mad, just surprised. “My grandfather went by his nickname; the stupid one his bandmate gave him when they were all drunk one night. No one ever complained…”

  “Things are different now,” Dad said. “And you’re not in a garage band that was lucky enough to hit it big time. The way we do things is more deliberate; we need to ensure success.”

  “As much as success can be ensured,” Linda added. “Nothing is guaranteed, but we need to use every advantage we have. That’s why we test all these things. To be fair, we did the preliminaries with the guys earlier in the process, but with you just coming on board...”

  Dave shrugged. “All right, so what, you want to use my first name? Will, I presume. Please not Willmont, I beg you.”

  “Wilma?” Darren suggested.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Monty?” Andres said.

  “Full Monty?” Graeme suggested, causing even more laughter.

  Once that died down, Linda smiled and said, “Will tested very well. I think we should go with that.”

  Dave screwed up his face but then shrugged. “I guess I can be Will for a few weeks. Since the test audience liked it so much.”

  “Great,” Linda said, grabbing a pen off the table and scribbling something on her report. “We’re getting down to the wire, and things are going to come at you fast and furious, so I’ve put together a dossier that I will e-mail to you with all pertinent information. Things that probably seem silly—like that we’re now calling Dave Will, dos and don’ts, that sort of thing. But as we’ve told you, this stuff is important, and we need to all be consistent, especially as you’ll be doing more interviews. I don’t need to remind you that the contents of the e-mails and dossiers are
for your eyes only.”

  She looked around, seeming to wait for everyone—including Sandy and me—to nod in understanding.

  “All right,” Dad said in his authoritative tone. “We’ve got the rest of today, tomorrow, and Thursday to rehearse, and then Friday morning we’re taking off for a weekend of R and R.” He paused while a couple of the guys hooted. “There will be some unavoidable debriefing over the weekend as Linda and I will have some last-minute things to take care of, but for the most part, you guys will be able to just chill and enjoy yourselves on the beach. Then Monday night is your first gig right here. Tickets have been sent out, so whatever you requested for your families are on their way.”

  The energy around the room was electric, and it was clear that the guys—even Max—were eager to start tour. They were nervous, that much was evident but more than that, they were excited. Dreams were about to come true.

  But first: several more days of rehearsal.

  Oh, the Horror

  Later that night, after Linda and Dad had dropped us off so they could go meet the publicity team at the studio (because pre-tour prep meant long days and working at all hours) I was in the condo, standing in front of the microwave, waiting for the popcorn to finish when I got a text from Dave…er…Will. I should have started thinking of him using his first name, but it just wasn’t sticking yet.

  Are you in the tub?

  I smiled and hovered my thumb over the screen, contemplating if I should tell him I was. But that would be not only dishonest, but probably a little too flirty. He had started it, but still…

  No, I sent back. Making popcorn. Sandy’s watching Saw and I needed a distraction.

  Scared? he sent, which I think was meant as a taunt, but fell short since I was not at all ashamed of my cowardice when it came to movies.

  Completely and totally, I sent back. I’d never been a fan of horror films, but Sandy loved them. She was currently watching the film for about the eight-millionth time. She’d said after the horror show that was her interview with Max that afternoon (she would reveal exactly zero details about it other than it was awkward and she hated every second of doing it) she deserved to watch her favorite “comfort film.”