Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  “So, Sylvia,” I murmur while Kat initiates a new song. It starts with a sexy whisper and no instruments. “Can I get you a drink?”

  She bites her lip. Looks excited and unsure at once. Obviously, I’m not asking for the drink itself; if she wanted one, she could have picked up free booze in the back. No, thanks to the promoter, this event is run according to U.S. laws, and no one under twenty-one gets a wrist band. I can’t see any on her.

  “Um. I had... champagne in the green room. I’m good, thank you.”

  “How old are you?” I ask straight out now, because she’s fucking adorable and courses straight to a dude’s dick.

  On impulse, I lift her hands and hold her fingers up between us, stretching them open. “How many years? Show me.”

  She rolls her eyes like I’m embarrassing her, but then Kat’s whisper onstage turns into a growly mewl, and the drums and guitars kick in. I keep our hands between us, waiting for a reply, but she twists one of my hands toward my face and straightens my index finger.

  You? she mouths, and I’m suddenly pointing at myself.

  “Funny.” I lean in against her temple and whisper, “Twenty-five, little girl. You can’t handle me.”

  She sucks in a breath that goes all the way to my groin. Then she says, that smartass, “You need a handler?”

  I feel myself chuckle. “Just tell me your age already, and I’ll answer that question. How old are you?” I’m already my friends’ entertainment for not being able to keep my attention off her. Gotta clean this mess up before it erupts.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She crosses her arms and tips her chin up. “Am too. Okay, fine. I’m twenty.”

  “When’s your birthday?” I fire the question off real fast, giving her hand a quick tug to show her I want her to answer quickly too.

  “March fifteenth.”

  “And that’s when you turn twenty?”

  “Yeah. No! Crap.” Face glowing with embarrassment, she makes me laugh again.

  “Busted,” I say. “You’re nineteen. Shit, you’re a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby. I’m in university!”

  I drop her hands and playfully back off, palms in the air and shaking my head. “No, no, no, you’re practically jailbait.”

  Sylvia huffs, exasperated, and keeps saying stuff I can’t hear over the country nightmare we’re trapped in. I bite my lip. She stops talking at that, eyes sinking to my mouth.

  It’s crazy how lighthearted I feel. I need to ensure that my cousin doesn’t make good on her promise to have an awesome time here. I need to triple-check Courtney’s and Mariana’s guitars backstage. But before I do, I shake my finger in warning to this girl, and I enunciate slowly, clearly—

  This is not over.

  Did that just happen? No way did that just happen. My skin still tingles from the contact with his. Gosh, his fingers were so perfect, so warm, so freaking strong. Of course they are if they spend all their time fiddling with guitars. Oh how I want them to fiddle… Enough with the metaphors, Sylvie! They’re not even good.

  Kat finishes her set and makes a grand display of thanking, well Eli, because the few others in the room have already resumed previous conversations now that the dramatic wailing has come to an end. I’ve never been so relieved for house music.

  I really don’t get Eli’s fascination with that woman. Not only is he in Night Shifts Black, he’s got an incredible sense of humor that drags groupies away from Luke and Casey on occasion. And yet, there he is, flirting with the lady who was probably belting out ballads on the radio while he was being conceived. Ugh. Why does my brain do this to me?

  I shake off the nauseating image and try to peek through the curtains leading backstage for a glimpse of something much less disturbing. I raise myself on my toes for a better view, but all I get is fabric and a few indecipherable shadows.

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  I jump at the voice and pretty much choke on my own vocal cords when I spin to meet the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. She was gorgeous from a distance, but is certifiably flawless up close. No way she’s real. And she smells like angel laughter. I don’t know.

  “Hi. Going well.”

  “You here to see The Thalias?”

  “Um... yes?” No. Geez, I can’t even think. Except about chuckling angels. Do angels even laugh?

  “Oh, okay. I saw you talking to Shandor, that’s all.”

  Shandor? Shandor! No freaking way. Of course he’d have a name like that. As if everything about him didn’t already make me melt. I would have been heartbroken to learn he was Tom or Steve or Billy. Shandor is just. Perfect. And also perfect for this fiery angel who’s…oh crap, probably here to bitch-slap me right in front of everyone.

  “Just talking about guitars,” I explain quickly.

  Her raised eyebrows don’t seem to believe my story, even though it’s actually kind of true. For once.

  “Crap,” she mutters, glancing at her phone. “I have to go. Just…” Her dark gaze locks with mine, but she doesn’t finish the thought. Instead, she takes off toward the exit, and my hand instinctively soothes my hot cheek, now burning from pounding blood instead of the slap I’d expected.

  I stare after her, in awe at the phantom tingles that have moved from my palms to my cheeks. I bet there’s a voodoo doll somewhere.

  O.M.G.!

  His girlfriend made a voodoo doll!

  She’d do it too. Angel laughter my ass, she’s already got the dark forces coming after me to snap off all my hair or put spiders in my coffee. Gosh, I know nothing about voodoo, but that stuff would totally suck.

  Shandor. I so wish I didn’t know his name. He was already off limits, way hotter than a person has the right to be, and now? His name is freaking Shandor. I’m so getting burned by this fire I’m toying with, but my gaze is still glued to the curtains as The Thalias take the stage.

  For a brief second, I think I catch a glimpse of those amazing hands passing a guitar. Those hands that I want sliding over my body even though they belong to the voodoo queen. It might be worth the spiders. Not the hair though.

  I’m relieved to finally see Holland enter with Luke. With? Hanging on, maybe, but I don’t care. I need a distraction, definitely protection, and suddenly want to hover around my big sister for quite possibly the first time ever.

  “Hey, guys!” I chirp, cheery because they don’t need to know I’m already caught up in something that will piss her off.

  “Hey, Sylvie,” Luke greets. That smile. It’s no wonder half the planet is obsessed with him. Thankfully, my sister is way too sweet for those same people to hate her. It’s impossible to be jealous of Holland Drake because she’s just as perfect. Luke and Holland are a simple fact that everyone accepts. A law of the universe like Newton’s First Law of Motion. Inertia: apathy, a tendency to do nothing. Geez, what I wouldn’t do for a few hours of that and not being me for once. Because right now, all I want is to run headlong into that disaster waiting for me backstage. Shandor.

  I wonder if Luke knows him. The question lingers for three seconds until I realize that what Luke knows, Holland will know, and there’s no way she can know about this.

  “You staying out of trouble?” She’s such a big sister.

  “Sure. I guess. You missed The Country Experience 2005.” They exchange a smirk, and I shrug. “Well, you did. Your bass player seems to think they’re pretty spectacular,” I direct to Luke who rolls his eyes.

  “Eli? What, do he and Sweeny have a bet going or something?”

  No? Probably? I don’t know. “I’m not sure, but she’s been all over him and he hasn’t exactly pushed her away.”

  As if on cue, our gazes shoot to the main entrance where Kat emerges, Queen of Outdated Mediocre Twang. I love that she hasn’t even changed from her w
ild stage getup.

  Luke lets out a surprised cough, and Holland whacks him.

  “What? Choked on my water.”

  “They’re both adults, Luke.”

  “You need to get your hands on that outfit, babe,” he teases which earns him another smack.

  He laughs and silences her objection with a kiss that makes me want to puke. I don’t know why I thought they’d be better company than my crush’s girlfriend. I’m only too relieved when the house music fades and The Thalias launch into their opener.

  Our sponsor insisted on crimson stage curtains, which is awesome for The Thalias’ theatrical show. Now the curtains have parted, and I’m hunkered down next to Mariana, who’s the most particular about her sound. The girl has perfect pitch; it’s physically painful for her to listen to the slightest imperfections from her guitar.

  Mariana stands, some gold-and-white, old-fashioned dress with fluffy skirts fanning out behind her instrument, and the audience dances while she belts out “Bloodied Heart” at the top of her lungs.

  Interesting how this room has filled up. It almost makes me feel bad for Kat Kontry and The Country Experience 2005. Strangely, she seemed on top of the world though when she squirmed her way offstage. Made me think she’s living in an alternate reality, in which she’s still the one-hit wonder bombshell she was thirty years ago.

  Miss TCE2005 fired a deep wink at me in passing, and I choked on a little something in my mouth. Of course Elias saw it and burst out laughing. Clown Irruption isn’t on until after Limelight and Tracing Holland, so I’m not sure why he was backstage already.

  Two songs in, and Mariana disappears for a costume shift. We’re getting ready for Courtney’s solo, but she holds her guitar up to me. That girl plays hard and breaks strings left and right. I run behind the drums and to her side with a freshly tuned backup.

  I do my best to stay out of the limelight, but I always wear all black just in case. It doesn’t do me any good tonight though, because that little hottie, Sylvia, has spotted me from the audience. I crouch down, waiting to make sure Courtney’s got what she needs. In the meantime, I can’t resist remaining a few inches within the spotlight so that Sylvia can see that I’m onto her.

  I bite my lip, amused at her awed expression. Then her gaze slides from me to the left side of the stage, and she looks a little less awed. I wonder what she’s staring at.

  Hmm, am I getting this straight? She looks anxious and annoyed at the same time. Part of her allure for me is that incredibly expressive face. I wonder if she’s even heard the expression “poker face.” She’d lose her shirt fast in strip poker.

  I peer toward the left of the stage where Mariana is returning in a red gown full of silk bands and lace. Maybe Sylvia doesn’t approve of the outfit?

  As Mariana strides back onstage and starts strumming her guitar, Sylvia’s attention remains fixed. The only one left in the back is Aishe. Okay. She’s glaring at Aishe. I feel my forehead wrinkle in confusion. What does she have against my cousin?

  The drummer is the only guy in the band. Seems I’m neglecting my job, here, in favor of studying the cutest almost-jail-bait ever, because he jerks his chin in the direction of our third Thalia girl, Violet.

  Violet is not happy with her sound. That much is clear. I walk out onstage. She’s center and up front. Her floor wedge has been rocked off-axis, and for Vi to hear herself properly, I need to adjust the monitor so that it’s facing her correctly.

  It’s an easy fix. As I lift my stare again, I find Sylvia with a finger in her mouth. Her focus has switched back to me. She might be nibbling on a nail, but whatever the reason, she needs to pull that finger out of her mouth so I can think clearly and with my brain. If she doesn’t, I’ll be jumping off the stage for a taste myself.

  This is the first night of three in the Bahamas. Can I stay clear of full contact with her for three nights straight? Do I want to? Or should I just not give a shit and enjoy whatever she wants me to enjoy and then move on?

  The girl might be young, but she’s legal. We’d be consenting adults. And to be honest, it’s rare that a female fires me up as much as this little lady does without as much as a kiss.

  Yeah. Fuck it.

  I’ve seen her talk to Jesse, the front man of Limelight. My guess is they’re closer in age than she and I are. Not that it matters. She’s just going to be an after-show fling.

  But Limelight’s on next, so I’m surprised that she’s backstage with her all-access pass dangling around her neck when I step off. I’d have thought she’d be waiting in the mosh pit to watch them play.

  “Hey,” she hums out, eyes glittering. Her finger goes to her lips again, and I drop the cables I’m holding so I can stop her mouth from closing around it. God almighty isn’t it just the sexiest—

  “No, no, don’t.” I shake my head and watch surprise spread all over her face.

  “What?”

  “Your finger. It’s going to get wet.”

  Whoa, clever comment, Shandor.

  She giggles. “I don’t care.”

  “Okay, listen.” I’m not going to be stern or go all fiery Gypsy on her cute ass. No, I’m under control. But I am going to tell her the pure, unadulterated truth. Then we’ll see how she takes it.

  “Shandor! Are you grabbing the monitors?” Courtney hollers.

  Shut up, Courtney. “Yeah, gimme a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  I secure my fingers around Sylvia’s wrist and scoot her out of the way, toward a table situated next to the ladies’ room. She’s all eyes and shallow breath. Her behind hits the table, and I crowd her... politely.

  “Sylvia.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “When a woman puts a finger into her mouth like that, do you know what it makes a guy think about?”

  She shakes her head quickly, her drop-dead gorgeous stare growing impossibly wider. I fake a sigh.

  “Do you want me to tell you?” I whisper, mouth so close to her ear she shudders. It’s hard work, but someone has to reveal the dirty minds of men to her.

  “Yes...”

  I turn my face so that my mouth brushes against a pink section of hair covering her ear. When I speak, her mane moves with the friction and parts for me, and my lips touch bare skin while I answer.

  “Men have very good imagination as it pertains to women. When you put your finger in your mouth, I don’t see your finger. I see your beautiful lips around me. I see my hands supporting your head. And then, what I see is you bobbing over me.”

  There. That’s your final test, Sylvia.

  What do you do with that?

  Something just happened. Something epic. I’m still blushing like a twelve-year-old after Shandor pulls away and I don’t know why. He just said something sexy, maybe even downright offensive. I know I’m supposed to know what it meant—because, adult!—except all I can think about are apples. Bobbing for apples, but there’s no way that’s what he was talking about.

  Crap! What else bobs?

  Those stupid dolls from baseball games. Boats! No, there were lips involved. Has to be apples, but that makes no sense. There’s no way that guy bobs for apples or participates in any kind of fall-themed activities.

  I stare in the direction of his retreat. He’s doing something with a monitor now and doesn’t seem to be as urgent in his task as before. I’m about to go track him down when every single one of my girlie-parts notices the way his muscles strain at the sleeves of his shirt. That strong back ripples beneath thin fabric as he effortlessly tosses around monitors like they’re… apples. Guys typically look weird in all black, but this one. Damn… No, that’s it. Damn!

  I have to finish this, whatever it is.

  “That looks heavy.”

  He shifts the monitor in his arms at my approach, his grin making me want to slap it, and lick it, off his face. My gaz
e tries to shift to his jeans again, but I don’t let it.

  “You’re back,” he observes, and I can’t tell if that fact pleases, surprises, or annoys him.

  I’m not sure what to say now that I have his attention. I just know I’m not supposed to put my finger in my mouth. I wonder if that applies to all finger-related functions, or just unnecessary ones. Like, what about flossing? Or biting at a hangnail? I decide not to ask for clarification on those points.

  “Do you like apples?” I blurt before realizing that’s way worse than anything about flossing.

  “Apples? Like, the fruit?”

  I nod. Oh gosh, here we go. “Yeah. Like, Macintosh, Honey Crisp, Granny Smith…”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  The stupid part of my head was probably trying for a clue, but now the rest of it is demanding a retreat. There’s no way apple data is helping me right now.

  “Okay, never mind. I just…”

  RETREAT!

  “I need to retreat—go! I need to go.”

  Ugh! Seriously? I practically run past him, so mortified I know I will never recover from this. This is one of those moments, maybe the moment, that will always be accompanied by a wave of nausea when it pops onto the memory screen at the most random times. Sitting in the waiting room at the gynecologist’s office? Sick. Checking out in the grocery store fast lane? Sick. Seeing any attractive guy that remotely resembles this one? Oh god, I’m gonna have to carry a puke bag with me from now on.

  Do you like apples?

  Who says that? Besides apple farmers and people who make apple pies. See, that’s what I should have asked. Do you like apple pie? Because then there’s at least the possibility of tying it back to a date invitation if I can figure out a good reason why there’d be apple pie at this event. But apples? No one goes on dates to eat apples. Except for apple-picking! Crap, should have used that.