Tone Deaf

by Olivia Rivers

  “I’ll wait for you in the parking lot,” Avery chirps, breaking into my thoughts. She tugs on my sundress, straightening it a little, and quickly signs, “You’re gorgeous and he’ll love you!” Then she waves and walks away, my good-bye trailing after her.

  I officially have the best friend in the world. What other person could lose their chance at their life’s dream without a spark of jealousy? She’s amazing, and I vow to tell her that later.

  But, for now, I have a rock star to hang out with.

  Tony taps my shoulder to get my attention, and I quickly step away from his touch. I shoot him an apologetic smile, but he hardly seems to notice. He’s frowning now, although I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done to upset him.

  Tony leads me toward the stage, and this time it’s much easier to make it through the crowd. He’s obviously an expert at navigating packed stadiums, and I follow carefully behind him as he nudges people out of the way and sidesteps the more intoxicated concertgoers. Tony gets us to the stage fast, and then he leads me up the stairs at its side and into the back. His shoulders grow tense as we pass people carrying lighting equipment and microphones.

  I let my eyes roll. What is it about me that has Tony all anxious? I weigh a grand total of one hundred pounds. Even if I were some rabid fan, it’s not like I could ever do any damage to a musician who’s six foot two.

  We turn a corner, moving down a small staircase and into the hallway behind the stage, and there he is. Jace Beckett, lead singer extraordinaire. Suddenly, my chest feels all tight and my stomach feels . . . fluttery. What the hell? Sure, the guy is hot, but that’s no excuse for my stomach to turn traitor.

  Jace is leaning against a wooden panel, his electric guitar clutched in his hands. His body language is casual and cocky, but he holds the guitar carefully, like it’s some sort of Stradivarius. Well, at least he respects the instrument that made him famous.

  He’s talking with a blond dude, who I recognize as his backup singer and guitarist, Arrow. Arrow is tall—just a tiny bit shorter than Jace—and his hair is shaggy and styled into a messy look. I filter through all of Avery’s past babbling, trying to remember something about the guy. All that pops into my head is: he’s the oldest member of the band at twenty-one, and he’s Jace’s cousin. I mentally curse myself for not being able to remember more; maybe I should have paid closer attention to all of Avery’s ramblings about Tone Deaf. If I’m going to avoid coming off as completely clueless, it’d help to know more than just his age.

  My mouth starts drying out as I approach the two. I stumble, and then bite my lip to keep a curse from escaping. What’s wrong with me? I used to be in these guys’ shoes; I was the musical prodigy, the one performing in front of huge crowds. I have no excuse for being so anxious.

  Jace and Arrow both lean over the guitar, and Jace gestures excitedly to a tiny box clipped to the instrument’s fret board—probably some sort of fancy gadget to enhance the guitar’s sound. Tony must call out a greeting, because Arrow looks up at us, but Jace keeps his attention steadily focused on his instrument.

  I walk toward them, emerging from behind Tony and keeping my hands at my sides. I want them to know that I’m not going to go all fangirly on them, trying to tackle-hug them or dropping down on one knee to propose. Arrow shoots me an approving look tainted with surprise, like he was expecting me to do both those things. Jace glances up from his guitar just long enough to give me a small wave.

  I urge my hand to work. Move, move, move! But I’m frozen. I’m only two yards away from Jace, so close to the music icon and . . . I can’t move.

  Suddenly, I get it. Like, really, really get it. In that frozen moment, it makes total sense that Jace has so many thousands of fans. He’s stunning—tall frame, lean muscle, sharp facial features. Piercing eyes so blue that I wonder if he’s wearing colored contacts. Black hair styled into a fauxhawk, with the tips dyed cyan.

  But it’s not just his looks. Actually, it’s the way he handles his guitar that really grabs my attention. Standing there with the instrument in his hands, he looks ready to burst with confidence. Not cockiness, but confidence, like he knows the music, and he’s sure the music knows him.

  “Hey,” he says. And just like that, he sets down the guitar, and his expression changes. Now it’s that pained, fake smile he was wearing when he announced the raffle. “I guess you’re the lucky girl.”

  I nod and do my best to smile. “Um, yeah. I guess I am.”

  He laughs. “You guess you are? You’re not sure you’re lucky?”

  I blush and then quickly look at my feet, knowing my freckles are about to pop out like polka dots. Even makeup can’t hide my Irish blood when I get flustered. But I force away my embarrassment and look back up at him, carefully watching his lips.

  “I know I’m lucky,” I amend, and I let my smile grow.

  Arrow chuckles and elbows Jace in the side. “Looks like you’ve got a live one here, Jace.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Live one?”

  Jace rolls his eyes at Arrow and then turns back to me. “Yeah, a live one. You know, a girl who isn’t trapped in la-la-Jace-land, where they’re married to me and we make passionate love twenty-four-seven.”

  “Oh,” I say lamely.

  Jace cocks his head. “Are you English? You sound like it.”

  Tony speaks up. “No. Jace, she’s . . . deaf. ” He cringes as he says it and shoots me an apologetic look.

  I’m about to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, but then I see Jace’s expression change. His smile disappears. His chiseled jaw snaps shut. His eyes narrow into an accusing glare. And he’s staring. Right. At. Me.

  “Oh,” he says, echoing my previous response in cold mockery. He whips his gaze to Tony, and without even trying to hide the words his lips form, he says, “Today of all days you want me to deal with some deaf chick? Seriously?”

  “Take it easy, Jace,” Arrow says. “It was a random raffle, it’s not like anyone knew.”

  I edge back a few steps. I’m used to all types of frustrating reactions to my deafness—pity, concern, ignorance. But hostility? This is a new one.

  I cross my arms over my chest and straighten my shoulders. Just because I can’t pull off an intimidating look doesn’t mean I’m going to cower. I scan Jace over, mentally cursing as I take in his all-too-familiar body language—clenched fist, tight jaw, wide stance. He’s officially pissed, and I officially need to get the hell out of here.

  “She’s the winner, Jace,” Tony says firmly. “Just give her the tour and be done with it, okay?”

  Jace doesn’t reply; he just keeps glaring at me, like he thinks that if he glares hard enough, I’ll explode into bits of pitiful, useless dust. My eyes keep shifting to his clenched fist, watching for even the slightest twitch. My instincts scream at me to bolt, but fear claws at my brain, setting off all sorts of sirens and turning my legs shaky.

  “Do you sign?” Jace demands.

  Arrow groans and elbows his bandmate in the side, sharper this time. Jace cusses and shoots him a dirty look. Then his attention is back to me, giving me an even dirtier look.

  “Dude, let’s go,” Arrow says. “If you’re not going to give her the tour, just leave the girl alone.”

  Jace ignores Arrow, his eyes laser-focused on me. “I asked you a question. Do you sign?”

  I nod, unsure how else to respond. “Yeah. I sign.”

  His lips curve into a tight smile that looks more like a snarl. “Then read this.” Jace holds up both his middle fingers, points them at me, and then turns away. He strides off without another word, his fists still clenched and his shoulders stiff with tension. Arrow pauses just long enough to give me a pitying look, then hurries after Jace.

  I stare after them in shock. For a second, warm relief floods me as Jace disappears around the corner. Then the warmth rises into heat, and my face burns with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Tony places a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I shrug him away.

&nb
sp; He shakes his head, a mortified expression widening his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry about that.”

  “What the hell is his problem?”

  How dare Jace treat me like that? I don’t even know him, and he’s just going to act like I’m a freak? That’s not right. Not right at all.

  “He can be, um . . .” Tony nervously shuffles his feet and clears his throat. “Touchy.”

  “He’s a total asshole,” I snap. I point to Tony. “I want out of here, okay? Forget the tour. Take me to the closest exit.”

  I grit my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose, trying to keep from exploding. But, seriously, what just happened? Jace puts up with dreamy girls who are completely obsessed with him, yet he refuses to offer even a shred of respect to me. A normal, non-obsessive girl who just happens to be deaf.

  “Here,” Tony says, and he nods toward the stairs we’d used before. “Let’s go.” He walks toward the steps and then falters. I almost bump into him, and a curse erupts from between my gritted teeth. Tony bites at his lip. “Maybe . . . maybe one of the other band members could give you a tour? Arrow is a nice guy, and I’m sure he’d love to do it.”

  I shake my head. “No. Thanks, but definitely not.”

  Tony opens his mouth in a sigh and guides me away from the stage. Away from the humiliation, the hurtful words, the obscene gestures.

  But the anger stays.

  3

  JACE

  I BLAST THE latest Fall Out Boy album through my headphones, letting the pounding bass beat down the dark memories clawing at my mind. I force a couple of deep breaths and try to focus on my laptop, clicking through Twitter and reading the messages left by fans:

  Rocking out downtown at the @ToneDeaf concert! Still can’t believe I scored tickets!! #biggestfan #truelove

  i’ve got the new @ToneDeaf album on repeat. #love i’m sooooo jealous of every1 at the LA concert!

  Maybe if I tweet @ToneDeaf, Jace will reply . . . ;) #hopeful #futurehusband #love

  I scoff at the last one and mute the girl’s profile. It’s strange how often I hear that word thrown at me—“love.” Fans love my music, love my lyrics, love my looks, love everything about me. Everything except the actual me. They don’t know me, and that’s how I like it.

  Of course, that doesn’t let me off the hook when it comes to Tony’s strictly enforced marketing efforts. Successful bands require fans, and fans require attention. It’s a simple equation that forces me to spend at least a couple hours every week answering messages on social media.

  I still haven’t figured out if Tony is a genius at marketing or torture, but whatever you call it, Tone Deaf owes its fame to his skill. If it weren’t for that, I’d ignore his advice and stay away from social media like the plague that it is. I got into this industry for the music, not for the vapid comments about my hair and fashion choices.

  The RV door slams open, and Killer comes prancing inside. He looks like he always does after performing a concert—all smiles and light footsteps and happy-rainbow attitude.

  I yank off my headphones and pin him with a glare. “Killer, what the hell? Have you ever heard of knocking?”

  He walks over to the couch across the room from my desk and collapses in it. “Yeah. I think that’s the word in the dictionary between oh-my-god-dude and get-over-it.”

  I turn back to my laptop screen and roll my eyes. On first inspection, Killer looks pretty harmless: super thin and kind of tall (but he still totally sucked at phys ed), nerd glasses that he’s convinced are cool (he’s blind without them), and skin he says is “a shade between cocoa and burnt umber.” But, in reality, he’s not harmless. Far from it, actually. He’s a gigantic thorn in my side.

  “You on Facebook?” Killer asks.

  “No, Twitter.”

  “Then tweet Arrow. Tell him to get his pretty ass over here.”

  “I am not publicly calling my cousin’s ass pretty. Use your own phone and text him.” I shoot him a look as I stretch my arms above my head, trying to ease the pain in my ribcage. Jumping around onstage is expected of rock stars, much to my bones’ despair.

  Killer lets out a loud, put-out harrumph. With his high voice, it sounds more like a sneeze. There is a very, very good reason Killer is our keyboardist and not the lead singer. Sure, he has an awesome London accent, and he would have taken the spot, but the world has endured enough chipmunk imitations with that Bieber kid.

  Killer pulls out his phone, although he’s probably still going to tweet Arrow instead of sending a private text. I shake my head. When we first came into the media spotlight, Arrow had wanted to keep his bisexuality quiet. That lasted about three days, until Killer kissed Arrow onstage.

  Killer is about as subtle as a bullhorn.

  I hear a deep grunt and the click of nails against tile, and a second later, Cuddles comes trotting in the from the kitchen. My pit bull wags her tail madly as she shoves her head into Killer’s lap, demanding an ear scratch. She has a strange love for Killer, even though he was the one who dubbed her with her ridiculous name. Cuddles weighs nearly as much as I do and has jaws that could intimidate a lion. But Killer clearly doesn’t care as he pushes his face up against her nose and coos a hello, making my dog’s tail wag even harder.

  “What are you doing in here, anyway?” I mutter at Killer. “This is my RV, you know. You can’t just barge in whenever you want.”

  “Arrow told me about your run-in with the deaf girl,” Killer says, patting Cuddles on the head. “We thought you might want some company after what happened.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him, but he just grins his dorky smile at me, like he thinks my glare is the ultimate portrayal of undying love.

  “Sooo,” he says, drawing out the word in the annoying way he always does. “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” I mutter, but I can’t stop my eyes from drifting to the little calendar in the corner of my laptop screen. June fifth. Why the hell did I have to run into that girl today of all days?

  “Arrow says you gave her the finger. That’s something.”

  “Do you two always gossip behind my back?”

  “Jace, Arrow is my boyfriend.”

  I scoff. “Yeah, believe it or not, I’ve noticed. So what?”

  “Webster defines boyfriend as ‘a man who becomes deader than meat upon withholding gossip from his true love.’”

  “Make that reason number twenty-one thousand eight hundred and ninety-three I’ll never enter a serious relationship,” I mutter.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” he says. Cuddles lays at his feet with a heavy thump, and Killer turns his attention back to his phone. He types a little and then repeats, “What happened with the deaf girl?”

  “I was just in a bad mood.”

  “Don’t try to fool me, Jace. You’re always in a bad mood when it comes to deaf people, but not that bad.”

  “It’s June fifth.”

  He stares at me blankly. “Huh?”

  I rake a hand through my hair and hold in a frustrated groan. “How the hell can you have the first thousand digits of pi memorized, but still forget what today is?”

  Killer squints at me and blinks a couple times. Then his eyes go real wide. “Oh. Shit. June fifth.” Then, as if he thinks I’m the one who needs reminding, he adds, “Your mom died on June fifth.”

  “Correct,” I say, offering him a slow, sarcastic clap.

  There’s a long minute of silence after that, the only sound coming from the humming RV generator and the soft whirring of my laptop. Then the door bangs open again.

  “Hey, guys,” Arrow says as he walks up the last step and into the RV.

  Killer disgustedly throws his phone across the couch, where it lands safely on a cushion. “Seriously? I tweet you three times, and that’s all I get? ‘Hey, guys?’ Not, ‘Hello, my darling love,’ or ‘I missed you bunches, sweetie’?”

  Arrow grimaces. “Since when do I call you sweetie or darling?”<
br />
  “Well, you could always start.”

  I groan. “Guys, seriously, take it up with a marriage counselor. Preferably not in my RV. ”

  Arrow hesitates as his gaze settles on me, and I know he’s debating whether or not to bring up the anniversary of my mom’s death. It’s been six years, but that still doesn’t make it an easy topic. Arrow never knew my mom very well—my dad shunned anything and anyone non-Deaf, and since Arrow doesn’t know sign language, he just never got a chance to communicate much with her. But I know he hasn’t forgotten about his aunt’s death, and I give him a little shake of my head, sending a silent message: Let’s not talk about it now. Please.

  Arrow nods and collapses on the couch next to his boyfriend. He tosses an arm over Killer’s shoulders and kisses his cheek, and just like that, Killer forgets that he’s supposed to be grumpy. He throws both arms around Arrow’s neck, closes his eyes, and nuzzles his face into Arrow’s T-shirt.

  “Good god,” I mutter. “You two are sickening.”

  Killer sticks his tongue out at me without opening his eyes. “We make you horny, and you know it.”

  I turn back to my laptop screen, absently refreshing the page. “Killer, how many girls do I have to be with to convince you I’m not gay?”

  He yawns and says, “At least one.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be the genius around here?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at Killer. “I thought an IQ of 140 would be enough to help you figure out I’m not a virgin.”

  Arrow barks a laugh. I shoot him a sharp look, but he just says, “Dude, no one needs a high IQ to know you’re not a virgin. Anyone smart enough to read a tabloid can figure it out.”

  “Then go buy Killer a tabloid,” I snap. “Get him off my back about being gay.”

  Killer wags his finger at me. “Sleeping with girls isn’t the same as being with them.”

  I scoff. “Don’t get all romantic on me, Killer.”

  “He has a point,” Arrow says. “You’ve never had an actual relationship with a girl.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “One-night stands don’t count as relationships, Jace,” Killer says. Then he scrunches his face and looks around the RV. “By the way, where’s your company for the evening?”