by Tara Brown
I sigh and pick up the pace. “How the hell did you find bass and drums already?”
She grins. “The great James Holland draws a crowd. Everyone wants to be in a band with you.”
“That’s not even funny. You never said a single thing about a band.”
Her eyebrow lifts, mocking me. “Honey, you’re cute but you’re not that cute.” She does a pretty good job with my accent when she wants to be annoying.
“Now that’s a bold-faced lie. My momma said I am the cutest boy she ever did meet, and I have enough charisma to charm a snake.”
She smiles. “You calling me a snake?”
“Maybe.”
“You don't stand a chance at charming me, cowboy.” She nudges me playfully. She isn’t pretending to be nice. She’s actually being nice. Shit, is she high again?
I grab her arm and look into her eyes. They look normal, bright even. “You doing drugs?”
She shoves me back as old Lana rears her ugly head. “What are you, my father?”
I don’t budge. She sighs. “No, okay? I haven’t touched anything since the kid. My dad meant business, James. He cried, okay? He doesn't cry. Ever.”
I don't want to talk about her father so I change the subject. “Weaver woke up.”
Her eyes widen. “He did?”
“He’s fine. Nick says Weaver told the police what really happened. Told them about the penthouse and the fact he was in the room with Nance Hensley.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh shit. No way.” There is something in her eyes, something burning. I imagine it’s the cold sting of betrayal.
“Yeah. Guess you’re off the hook. Want to quit the whole band thing?”
“No. The show must go on, now move it. I’ve asked Mr. Sherman if we can use a room to practice in and he said yes. So that’s the plan.” I open my mouth but she shakes her head. “No. That’s the final plan. We’re going there now. We just need a keyboard player and we’re set. If you all play well together, that is.”
I want to groan and grumble, but a small part of me wants to see who the other guys are. I haven’t played with a band in years, not since I got here. Not to mention it is the perfect way to rope her into opening up to me so I can fulfill my end of the agreement with Lars Webber.
“Did you just say you’re looking for a keyboard player?”
I look back to see Nick standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face.
Lana narrows her gaze. “You’re one of the little shits who said I was the one who brought the drugs? Nick, right?”
He nods. “Hensley came to my dad and threatened him. When he left I was told what I was saying. I didn’t hang you out to dry, Lana. My dad told me to say that I was so drunk I didn't remember a thing. I did the same thing any of us would do. My dad was pissed I tested positive for coke and hash, and I didn’t even do any. I drank, that’s it. Your fucking party was a gong show but I didn't tell the cops shit.”
“It wasn't my party and I’m over it. Whatever. I’m even more over talking about it. If you want to play with us that sort of shit isn’t going to be tolerated. It’s a team effort of hard work.” She sounds like she’s going to say yes to his sorry ass, a move I would not make. I don't trust the kid. He has an agenda.
“Wait.” She pauses. “No. You’re going to have to vacation this summer, and your dad will never say yes to you being in a band on a show.”
A grim smile crosses his lips but his eyes are filled with determination. “My dad telling me to lie and stay out of it was the last advice he’s giving me. Hensley is an ass and Nance is a liar, and I look like a douche and a druggie to everyone.”
She chuckles. “Fine. Do you have the keyboard?”
He nods.
I just can’t see it but she can. She holds her hand out. “Phone.” He gives it freely and she enters in her number and an address. “Be there in an hour.”
His eyes dart to mine. I shake my head, but he nods and smiles wickedly before he turns and walks away.
“That was a mistake.”
She looks up at me. “We’ll see.”
“Do you actually know anything about the music industry?”
She shakes her head. “Not a ton, nope. I know what I like and what I don’t.”
“You know it’s more work than that, right?” I feel sick. I have a terrible feeling we’re going to go on national television with a shit show.
“We’ll see.”
“You keep saying that but the only thing I think we’ll see is us making a fool of ourselves.”
She winks at me and I see the cold hateful bitch smile return. “We’ll see.” She walks away, shouting back at me, “Go get your guitar and meet me at the place I just texted you.”
I feel the vibration. “How’d you get my cell phone number?”
She laughs, it’s evil and exactly what I expect from her. The sweet look had me worried, but I’m relieved to see the return of her evil ways—she won’t have me turning my head anytime soon, caught by the swing of her miniskirt. At least if she can keep being bitchy I can focus on the music, and if I’m lucky her dad’s favor will be more like revenge and less like helping her.
Chapter Eleven
Save a horse, throw your undies
Lana
When I get to the room, Mr. Sherman is there putting the drums together with Brandon, the guy who plays them. Mr. Sherman sees me and stands, smiling. It’s weird. My teachers rarely smile at me. “I’m excited to see what kind of sound you’ll get.” His dark-brown eyes sparkle with glee and maybe Prozac. Please say he’s on Prozac. God help someone this high on life. “This contest is a brilliant idea.”
“My dad seems to think so.”
“You think he’s wrong to make you work hard for something?”
I pause, giving it actual thought since the question didn't seem to be mocking me. “I guess not. It makes sense to help me see if it’s actually something I want.” I have a horrid feeling it’s not.
Brandon shakes his head. “My parents are going to murder me when they find out about this.”
My insides tug. He had said he was a student-loan kid. Why would his parents have expectations? “You’ll be out of school by the time the show starts, it’s the summer. And as far as I understand it, we will all be staying at a hotel in LA. All expenses paid—flights, meals, and hotel.” Even me. That hurts a little. Dad won’t even let me come home.
Brandon’s face strains as he reaches under the drums and screws something in. “They hate my love of music. My dad wants me to go into sciences like him. He’s a chemist.”
Mr. Sherman chuckles. “It could be worse, Brandon. You could be making meth in a lab to pay for school or prostituting yourself out.”
I cough, clearing my throat.
Brandon nods, ignoring my flushed face. “Yeah, playing in a band is pretty tame, considering I know how to make drugs.”
It’s Mr. Sherman’s turn to cough.
Simon, the bass player, comes in with an expectant grin and a skip in his step. He’s a math student so this is probably the most exciting moment in his life. He looks too excited. Jesus, he’s a virgin.
“Hello there, Simon. Welcome!”
Simon gives Mr. Sherman a grin. “Thanks, sir.” Like Brandon, Simon has dark hair but where Brandon is probably Jewish, Simon’s Indian. I assumed his parents would never allow him to be in a band because most foreign parents have standards for schooling that our American parents don't. But he said they’re cool with artistry. He’s tall and slim and super dishy, but he totally doesn't know it. He’s going to be a big hit with the screaming girls in the crowd when we get him into a decent pair of jeans and a cute-boy-in-a-band tee shirt. To be honest, all of them will make the girls squeal once we get them made over a little, especially Nick. He’s got that perfect Hollister mannequin hotness to him. He has a Cali surfer-boy look—but with money. Lots of money. His dad is what we call diversified rich. He’s good at investing, obviously. He’s crazy loaded.
Speak of the devil.
Nick comes strolling in with his keyboard. He gives me a sly grin and starts setting up where the guys are getting their things ready. I can’t help but notice his eyes constantly darting at me. Finally, he comes over to where I’m sitting. “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out with me?”
Is he fucking kidding?
My lips spread into a truly evil grin as a thousand witty retorts fly through my mind. Of course I can’t use a single one if I want him to perform. “I’m so sorry, Nick. I can’t. I’m still recovering from everything that's been going on. I need to focus on this. Maybe when the show’s over.” And hell freezes and pigs fly and your mom admits she’s gay ‘cause everyone knows she is.
I totally remember him and his family now. It took me a bit, but I know exactly who they are now.
“One date.”
I part my lips but my answer comes from the person walking through the door late. “She can’t. She’s going out with me later.” I turn and scowl at James. He’s grinning like he just learned how to do it.
Nick fires back with a super cheesy wink that's so bad I expect the finger guns are going to follow it. “When you get tired of mopey and responsible, let me know.” He tucks tail and walks back to the front of the room where they’re setting up.
I give James a look. “What was that?”
“He’s eighteen and you can’t exactly be breaking his heart without him quitting. Seemed like the natural response.”
“Let’s pretend you never said that.” I drum my fingernails along my cheek, thinking about Nick’s comment and how getting to know James has sort of killed off the nasty sex image. He’s actually nice but in an annoying, uppity sort of way. Definitely not a hot, rock-star sort of way. “You know Nick has a point. Lochlan Barlow is the most successful front man since Mick Jagger and The Stones. There’s something dark and seedy about Lochlan that I don't think you have. You are responsible and sweet and funny. Before I met you I had a certain notion about you. The whole raging soccer star with tats and muscles is hot. But I see that you don't actually act like that, now that I’ve spent more than a second with you. From a distance, you have this whole badass soccer-star thing, but up close it’s sort of lacking . . . it’s not so great. You need more . . . you know—uhhhh.” He interrupts my attempt at not hurting his feelings.
“You’re sort of bad at trying to build me up. But I think I get it, so please stop before I end up crying in my beer.”
I don't know that he gets it. “I can explain what I want nicer if you want?”
“You want me to metaphorically steal the underwear of every girl in the crowd?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Yes and no. I want them to throw them at you whilst thinking some incredibly dirty thoughts. You need moves to be the front man. Not soccer moves either, but like ‘I fuck like a beast’ moves.” It makes me grin and blush just saying it. “Chicks dig that.”
He winks. “Well, you just have a seat, little lady. You can take notes and give me pointers for after. And stop saying fuck so much. Mr. Sherman still hides under an illusion you’re a nice girl regardless of what the media says.”
I roll my eyes and plop into a seat.
Mr. Sherman comes to the back of the room and sits next to me. He is smiling like he might actually be a teenage girl and Lochlan Barlow might actually be on the stage. He grins at me. I almost scowl back but I have to remember he’s helping for no reason at all and he likes me.
The guys huddle, talking about all the things band people talk about. I don't know what it is, but I’m sure I should know.
I should know a lot of things but I only know music, that's it.
They start to laugh and look back at me. I almost sneer, but somehow there is a desperate hold on my hate of everything in my life. They have given me hope and that’s ruining my snotty attitude.
James doesn’t turn around, but I can only imagine what he’s said that was mean and spiteful to make them laugh. “Today ladies!” I clap my hands impatiently.
They look at James and nod. Brandon climbs onto the seat at the drums while Nick cracks his fingers a few times and nods his head from side to side. Simon winces like he’s realized he has something very important to do or he’s crapping his pants at that very moment.
Who was I kidding? I’m screwed.
Who forms a band out of a bunch of opposites at Harvard?
Please, don't let them suck! Please, don't let them suck!
Mr. Sherman jumps up and hits the lights so only the front of the class is lit up, right over their heads. He hurries back to his seat before the magic starts. I nearly yawn and pull my phone out, but this is my golden ticket.
A nerdy kid from the mathletes.
A pervy freshman who can’t hold his cocaine.
A drummer who looks like he runs more dungeons than ladies’ phone numbers.
And a front man who has an amazing voice, but is a little too preachy for the stage, if you ask me. He’s a little too Kelly Clarkson and not enough Adam Levine.
I know he has tats. I’ve seen them on the soccer field when he tears his shirt off and runs around screaming or gets into a fight. He’s infamous for his soccer, but that's not going to win the show for me. He needs to be badass off of the field too. His man-whore vibe is weak and not at all the dirty sex I imagined, regardless of the noises Andy’s mom was making.
Gross.
James grips the small microphone from the stand and moves ahead of the other guys a bit. He lifts his guitar, plucking a tiny bit and then letting it go—letting it sit on his waist. My eyes are drawn to him suddenly. It’s like he’s a different person under those lights.
Nick starts the song off with the keyboard. He’s actually pretty good. Color me stunned.
James leans into the microphone, singing with a voice so soft, and yet high pitched that it should be being sung by a fourteen-year-old boy, not a man. His words are slow at first. The delicate notes make me forget my doubts for the smallest of seconds.
They’ve chosen “Fix You” by Coldplay.
It’s not just a brave song, it’s near impossible for someone who isn’t a damned seasoned performer.
My mind gets lost as he winks at me and then lowers his lips to the microphone and closes his eyes. He’s singing like it’s just for me.
Brandon drums lightly, rounding out the sound and Simon brings the depth with the bass. I start to see and hear the individual parts of the song. James is almost a perfect match for Chris Martin, only his sexy factor is more intense.
Mr. Sherman leans into me. “He’s an amazing performer. Whether he’s on the field or on the stage, he has the act. You know? It’s so hard to find that.”
And there is the answer to the question.
He is something I never expected—a performer.
His dark-blond hair and deep-green eyes are no longer just soccer-star hot, he has all the right moves for frontman sex appeal.
Color me fucking stunned.
I not only believe the rumors about him, I want to be next in line. He moves his hips in a way that draws my eyes and when he lands on the last words, he stares at me like he’s bared his tormented soul to me.
They finish the song and I honestly don't know what to say. Mr. Sherman is clapping. “Wonderful job, guys.”
James cocks an eyebrow at me. “What do we think, miss diva?”
I shrug, pretending I’m not swallowing hard and fighting the urge to lick my lips. I want his hands on me, stroking me the way he did the guitar.
He smiles wider and turns around. “You ready?”
They start to laugh, even Simon.
I don't know what to expect, but “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” by Big & Rich is not it. Not after Coldplay.
Brandon hits the drums and they start off with the dum da dum part at the beginning, and then like it’s a real show—they all explode into action. I feel like I’m watching Mumford and Sons, before they broke up.
Jame
s’ voice is completely different. Diverse is the word I would use for them all.
Holy shit.
James sings into the mike with Nick, each gyrating and playing their hearts out. It’s not in perfect sync and the bass sounds a bit off, but for four guys who have never played together, it is holy-shit good.
When they get to the middle of the song, James leans right into the mike, speaking with a deep country voice and his eyes search out mine. His stare never leaves mine and I can’t tear my gaze from his face as he sings.
Goddamn. He’s eye fucking me.
I’m sweating and I want to take my undies off and throw them on the stage. I almost have to check to make sure I’m wearing underwear.
So does Mr. Sherman, regardless of being hetero—painfully so. His socks and sandals gave that away instantly.
The song ends and the guys cheer themselves on. The smile on my face is unavoidable.
James cocks his head to the right. “You wanna toss them undergarments on up here or what?”
I laugh and it’s genuine bliss. “You guys fucking rock! I am so winning this shit.”
James sighs. “You mean we? We are winning this shit?”
“Yes. Now let’s see about finding a fifth member.”
“I got that one.” James nods at me.
I don't even care if brings his overweight grandma to be the fifth member—we are made and my ass is saved. Not to mention, tingling for a good ass spanking from Mr. Not-So-Nice rocker up there. If he doesn't have the sexist hands I’ve ever seen.
Damn!
I don’t know where it came from, but the sound and moves are epic. Nick gives me a cheerful look. “With practice we’re going to be kicking some ass at that competition.”
Simon and Brandon nod along, excited to be with Nick and James no doubt. I give Mr. Sherman a sincere smile. “Thank you for finding Simon and Brandon.”
He shakes his head. “My pleasure. I can’t believe how well they all click.”
“Young, attractive, talented, and diverse. It’s a win on all levels.”
He agrees. “What will you get them to play at the show?”
