Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  “Hey, you,” I start. “You been good?” which is short for “I hope to god you haven’t hung out with Troy.”

  “Who’s asking?” she says, not sounding like she’s joking.

  I pull my phone out to glance at the screen. Caller IDs work in the Bahamas too, apparently. She knows who’s calling. “Is your phone broken?”

  “Nope.”

  “All right... are you okay then?”

  “Of course I’m okay. Are you, hot shot?”

  Hot shot?

  I don’t know what to say to that—except, “You care to elaborate on the hot-shot part?” and, “Wait, are you mad at me?”

  “God, Shandor. Just... where are you right now?”

  “Heading into the lobby. Had to get stuff for Mariana.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone! I have no idea what your deal is right now. Where are you?”

  She snorts, and it’s not an amused snort. “I’m in the breakfast restaurant trying to eat. All the Clown Irruption guys are here, and—”

  I feel myself frown deeply, thinking of the bright-eyed drummer with the long dreads. She shouldn’t even sit next to him. “You’re not at their table are you?”

  I’m close. Two more doors, and the breakfast hostess is smiling me in.

  “Oh no, no, this isn’t about me or Clown Irruption,” Aishe says, still on the phone with me. “I’m just saying they’re all laughing their butts off while trying to hide it from me.”

  I see them now at the big, round table in the middle. Bo, Troy, Elias, and Emil. They’re all there with Aishe between the two girlfriends Zoe and Nadia. Aishe is leaned back in her chair, behind their little group. She talks low on the phone as if she doesn’t want them to hear.

  “There you are,” she mutters and hangs up.

  I lift my hand in greeting. Nod curtly, because what the fuck? They all look at me with various degrees of suppressed humor. Bo, Mr. Mysterious and Inscrutable Band Leader, keeps that straight face of his, but a glint of humor flashes through his frosty greys before he bobs his head back to me. Troy gets up when he sees me and walks out. I didn’t have a chance to peruse his response, but I’m glad he took off.

  For a second, I contemplate choosing another table, but the restaurant is bursting with the last-minute breakfast crowd, and I don’t have many choices. Plus, Aishe is there. I sigh, drop a few muffins with some scrambled eggs on my plate, and lumber over. Ready for the music, so to speak.

  “Hey, man!” Elias says first. “’Sup?”

  “Nothing much, man. You?”

  Elias has patented vampire-white, undead man-beauty. It’s a bit unnerving paired with those seriously green eyes that pop like he’s wearing contacts. I worked with Clown Irruption long enough to get used to it though. He’s honey to bees for the fangirls. Unfortunately, he’s not focusing on chicks now. I’d be stoked if he were.

  He grins a full-on wolf smile. “You know, just watched everyone play last night, and then we all went to the after-party. T’was cool.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  The waitress pours me coffee and sets a small tray of creamers and sugars down next to my cup. I thank her. There’s clearing of throats around me.

  “Sooo, where were you? Did you go to bed early or something?” That’s Emil. Elias’ corresponding snort runs into a barely contained laugh.

  “Cookie,” Zoe admonishes Emil. “Let it go.” If only she too weren’t so amused. What’s with the freaking amusement?

  I take a long sip of coffee to center myself. Then I look up to meet Emil’s stare. “Nope, didn’t go to bed early. Just did some sightseeing with a friend.”

  “Hmm. And was that friend Holland’s little sister by any chance?”

  Call me crazy, but it sounds like they’re laughing at me spending time with Sylvie. I mean, sure she’s young, but she’s clearly an adult. I’m seriously confused about the vibe at this table.

  “All right, so I didn’t hide my tracks well,” I offer.

  Emil does some cowboy move. He pulls two imaginary guns from his hips, aims them at me, and lets out a quick little playful pow for each time he hits the trigger. And the band laughs. Again. I’m so freaking lost. When have they ever laughed at Emil and his guns? Even his girl laughs.

  “Emil, quit it,” she still goes through the motions of saying.

  “Anyway, no you didn’t. She seems like a nice girl. A talker, for sure,” Elias says.

  Talker?

  It’s Nadia, Bo’s girl’s turn to admonish. “Come on guys, let it go. Poor Shandor. It’s not his fault.”

  “No? We sure about this?”

  Elias’ question makes Emil double over with laughter and Bo stands and turns his back to us in a clear effort to hide how even he is cracking up. I’m the laughing stock of the entire fucking Clown Irruption gang, and Aishe’s glaring at me like she wishes Emil’s imaginary guns had been real.

  “All right. I guess Sylvie’s been talking. Care to tell me what she’s said?”

  “Actually, I think that breakfast is over,” Aishe half-barks, gets on her feet, and starts packing up my muffins. She grabs Zoe’s napkin too and literally pours the scrambled eggs into it before she folds it into some parachute version of a lunch bag. “Thanks, guys—see ya later.”

  Aishe is rarely bossy with me. That’s my job, and only because she needs it. Yep, so I’m unprepared when I follow her mad back stomping us down the hallway and up the stairs. She must be too angry for the elevator. Her room is on the third floor, so she’s winded when we get there and she swipes us in.

  “Sit,” she hisses, pointing at a chair. “What the hell were you thinking sleeping with Holland’s little sister?”

  He hates me. It’s the only possible explanation. And believe me, I’ve been through them all, like, six hundred times.

  Shandor ran out shortly after we finished. Almost literally. Threw on clothes, said he had work. Something about bridges and pickup… trucks? I don’t know, but who does that? People who hate you, that’s who. Said he’d text me later. Liar. That was over an hour ago.

  I went back to my room alone. Walk of shame, I guess, although at the time I bought his routine, so it was more of a skip of epicness. Even while I showered and changed, I recapped every detail, maybe even imagined him there with me for the briefest of moments. Not too long, because who wants to be that needy?

  All right, fine, me. The answer is me. I don’t journal because, ew, but if I did, this would totally be eight pages of gushing. Makes me relieved I don’t journal.

  But then, he didn’t show up for breakfast. Not even a cup of coffee or bagel. No sexy nod as he passed, all knowing and I had a great time. Which, okay, was probably good since Holland has a hit out on him, but he doesn’t know that. He should have come, faced off with Luke like the knight he is, and then, group date! Bonding and crap. But no, instead he left me alone to blurt all kinds of crazy and now my sister is on a rampage. This is his fault.

  My efforts to track him down haven’t been any more successful. He wasn’t in his room. He’s certainly not in the lobby, nor has he been for the twenty-seven minutes I’ve been sitting here acting like it’s totally normal to sit in a lobby for twenty-seven minutes. I pretend I’m doing things on my phone for the sake of the front desk attendants, but really I’ve been staring at the empty message window, going through evidence of how much he hates me.

  “Sylvie? Hey.”

  O.M.G. I swallow the instinctive crazy rising in my throat. It’s...

  “Oh hey, Casey.”

  Perfect. Pronounced his name and everything.

  “How have you been? You having a good time?”

  I nod, totally cool. “Where’s Callie?” Also smooth as I search the lobby. Everyone is pretty sure they implanted magnets or something when they hooked up. I’ve never seen one withou
t the other.

  “She’s with Holland, talking through some stuff.”

  Crap. I know all about that stuff. I wonder if he does.

  “Yeah. She’s pissed right now.”

  He gives me that smile that tortured me for years. Casey Barrett of Night Shifts Black is talking to me, alone, in the Bahamas. Before Shandor X, I would have dissolved into a puddle of weeping fangirl right here in the atrium, but now? I keep glancing at my phone for evidence of a certain guitar tech.

  “Well, I have to get going. Just wanted to say hi.”

  Wait! Marry me! I want to have your babies! old me would have shouted.

  New me does some strange hand wave, bordering on a salute. “Thanks, Casey. Tell Callie I said hi.”

  “I will.”

  And with that, Perfection saunters down the hall while my nervous eyes shift back to the screen. Shouldn’t Shandor sense my old crush’s presence? Guys should have a sixth sense like that. Jealousy, right? That’s a thing. Too bad I didn’t get a selfie with Casey to show Shandor. No, that would have been weird.

  Still nothing.

  I so didn’t want to resort to the clingy text-whore, but here we are. His avoidance has left me no choice.

  I pull up his number, except, oh crap. What’s the least text-whorey thing a person can say?

  The pineapple was good, don’t you think?

  No! How do you take back texts? A Google search assures me I’m a moron.

  Shit!

  I bite my lip and tap blue nails on the side table next to my fancy lobby chair. It was a good pineapple. Maybe he’ll take me at my word. I should have explained why it was so good. The texture, the taste, just. Magic. Because that’s what’s torturing me right now. Citrus fruit. Not the images of his powerful body flexing and arching over mine. The sensation of hard muscles pressing against my skin. Blistering tension exploding into the most mind-blowing eruption of pleasure. Nope, I need to make sure he understands how good the pineapple was.

  Gosh, this is so annoying. I thought maybe I’d be normal again after finally getting what I wanted, but if anything, I’m worse. My body protests now, craving something it didn’t know it could want, and now that it’s tasted it…

  I glance back at my phone, hoping I’d been too distracted to feel a vibration, but nope. Nothing. Still hates me.

  Sorry. You probably didn’t try the pineapple since you didn’t make it to breakfast. It was amazing. Oh, also, Holland knows.

  I really need to do the world a favor and flush my phone.

  Another Google search. Still no way to take back texts. I’ll just have to fix it with more words.

  I’m sorry, Shandor. I’m not trying to be that girl, it’s just, I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to see you. I didn’t mean to tell Holland, I swear. It just slipped out. I doubt anyone else heard though. Um, except Luke. Don’t be surprised if he finds you, but he’s cool. Don’t worry I assured them it wasn’t a big deal. That it went really fast.

  That should do it. Send.

  I think I might be in love with you.

  Nope, delete, because I’m not an idiot.

  I stare at my long square of words, waiting for little bubbles to appear below, but nothing. Blue nails now find their way between my teeth.

  Would our kids have Gypsy names? Or something super awesome and musical like Lyric? Symphony for a girl, Bach for a boy. Ugh, no. Everyone would screw it up and call him Batch or something. No way a man like Shandor has a son named Batch. Forte. Yeah.

  I suddenly want to, have to, hear his voice. Not speaking English, but any of those other languages he probably knows. Something I can’t understand but get to claim anyway because he’s mine. If other girls can hear it, even better. They can drool while I dissolve into a puddle of need right there at his feet. Begging him like the text-whore that I am.

  And there! Bubbles!

  I draw in air as I study the tiny circles. A testament that his hatred isn’t the kind that ignores people, at least. Nothing worse than that. But geez, this is either the longest paragraph of all time or he’s the worst pointer finger texter ever.

  Can’t talk right now, sorry.

  O.M.G.

  My disappointment is audible. Seriously, shattered heart fragments ping all over the tiled floor and everything. Fears confirmed, and even worse, sister confirmed. There will be no Symphony or Forte. Not even a damn Batch because apparently Holland was right. I was just another groupie, he’s just another hot guy looking for an easy lay, and we’re just another awkward one-night stand.

  Um, except Luke. Don’t be surprised if he finds you, but he’s cool. Don’t worry I assured them it wasn’t a big deal. That it went really fast.

  I stare at my phone. Blink and stare again.

  Is she for real?

  Shaking my head, I snort out loud, and as I do, I register Luke Craven walking toward me. Dude’s not in a hurry, that much is clear, but his eyes are fixed on me like I’m his target. Bo and Luke know each other so we’ve been introduced, but that’s about it. I know why he’s here. Thanks for the heads up, Sylvie!

  Is that Holland standing in the back by the fountain, arms folded and glaring my way? Hell hath no fury, etc. Not sure of the rest, but it sure feels fitting.

  Can’t talk right now, sorry, I type out to Sylvie before I put my phone away. Then I wait for Luke to catch up with me by the elevators.

  Sylvie’s text messages certainly explain why I’m the laughing stock of Clown Irruption. I concoct a loose plan of making sure that bothersome little hottie can’t walk straight tomorrow.

  Hmm. The plan solidifies. I’m sorry, but once I’m done with Sylvie, no one will doubt that she’s been bedded good. Oh she’ll be limping into the breakfast restaurant. I’ll give Emil new fodder for his wild west routine: forget the imaginary guns. The new rage will be the cowboy walk as demonstrated by Miss Sylvie Drake—you’re welcome.

  I hide a smirk at the infinite options popping into my head. Positions, places, gymnastics, all great means to an end.

  Does this island have a toy store? Never mind, we’re better off forgetting toys until Sylvie A) learns how to suppress intimate details from the world, or B) knows how to express them truthfully. I can only imagine what she’d make out of a measly little butt plug or a simple pair of hand cuffs.

  Luke’s here. He presses the elevator button like that’s what he came for. I nod in greeting and wait for him to speak.

  “Shandor, I presume?” he asks politely.

  “You presume correctly,” I answer, matching his politeness.

  Luke blows his cheeks up and releases the air immediately. “So... nice resort, huh?”

  “Sure is.” I rock on my heels. The elevator numbers glow yellow on their way down, and the silence quickly becomes awkward. By the time the elevator light flashes on the second floor, he cuts to the chase and says—

  “So my girlfriend and I were wondering if you know her sister. Sylvie Drake?”

  I flatten a palm showing him into the elevator before me. I wasn’t going up, but I guess we’re having this talk at some point anyway, so why not now?

  “Sylvie? Yeah, I do. She’s an incredible girl.” He already knows I’ve liked her hard and all the way. Apart from that, it sounds like there are a few misconceptions about last night. Not that I’ll be prodding Luke Craven about them.

  “She is. Young too,” he manages at the same time as he clears his throat.

  “Nineteen, right?”

  “Yeah, she turns twenty in March.”

  “Right,” I say. “So practically twenty.” Judging by Luke’s expression, our talk is going against his plan.

  “No, definitely nineteen.” He nods to hammer in that fact, and I have a hard time not smiling. “So you... hung out last night, then?” he continues his half-cocked interview.

 
His shirt is open at the top, and now he stretches the collar wider as if he’s warm. I get it now. It’s the sister who’s sent him. Luke is so not interested in this confrontation. Maybe I should cut his misery short?

  “Yeah, we went sightseeing. Checked out the pier.”

  “Oh that’s nice. And... then a sleepover, maybe?” Funny how his distress makes me relax.

  I lift my hands in a you-got-me as we exit on the top floor. “Yeah, well, that girl is pretty special,” I say. “I’m still trying to figure out how her brain works. It’s creative impulsivity on steroids, I think.”

  Luke stares, surprised. “I think you’re onto something there. But she’s also very innocent. You need to treat her... Be...” and there it is again, the discomfort.

  “Careful with her?” I help.

  He coughs out his discrete confirmation. Idly, I consider going into detail on how that’s what I did yesterday.

  The roof bar looks inviting. Without discussion, we walk in, the only guests here this early. We don’t order drinks. Instead we head to the north corner and watch the beach from there.

  We could talk about music. Guitars. Sound, work in general. But I think we both have girls on our brains right now. A pair of sisters, apparently.

  Is he snickering? I swing away from the beach and find his attention thoroughly glued to the downtown area on the right side. When he catches me staring, he can’t hold back a tilted grin.

  “So quick, huh?”

  “What?” Is Luke Craven of Night Shifts Black heckling me? There’s no doubt what he’s referring to, but I’m trying to gain time, here. “That what she claims?” I add.

  “Yep. I believe she said it was just in and out.”

  Jesus freaking Christ.

  Speaking of the devil, my wettest dream just sauntered in from the elevators. Her sister appears behind her, and the two of them are too busy arguing to see us.

  “Uh-oh,” Luke mutters. “They’re trouble.”

  “Beautiful trouble,” I agree.