Sylvie + Shandor (Rocker Shenanigans Book 1)

by Alyson Santos

  The only good thing is that Sylvie will enjoy the crap out of it. Me, I’d rather have whisked her off early for another sleepless night together. At least we can make a few memories. Explore some local club for a minute before we return to the show.

  Oh. I haven’t danced with her yet. A few of Bo’s ballads are seriously danceable though. I’ll get her dancing.

  Where is she anyway? She mentioned something about “cleaning out her room,” but how long does that take? Canadians have weird expressions. I don’t understand why she doesn’t just let the maid clean her digs, especially considering her sad-face as she told me about it. Clearly, she doesn’t like tidying up.

  Idly, I wonder how much time she spent in that room. She’s been in mine for the most part. I guess some girls spread their wardrobe all over the place when they select outfits. Maybe that’s what she did. What will she wear when she returns, I wonder—another hot little outfit? I harden at the thought. Do I have time to peel it off for a quick round before the gig?

  Oh yes, I do.

  No, wait. Never again “quick,” because repercussions. Not from her though. She begs for quickies when we’re low on time. It’s her uncontrollable yapper spreading the news to the world, and then the repercussions come. I text her on the way out of the bathroom.

  TQ, where are you? It’s short for Teen Queen. She knows, isn’t even mad about it. She doesn’t answer right away.

  Hmm.

  The few times I’ve texted her, she’s responded so fast I’ve wondered if all she does is stare at her cell when I’m not with her.

  Ten minutes. Still no answer. Is she okay?

  I walk out of my room. Remember to bring my keycard before I take the elevator to the sixth floor. She’s in six-six-seven. I remember, because she giggled about the hotel not having a room six-six-six. “Makes sense too,” she said, eyes dark with the thrill of it. Sylvie finds excitement in things I’ve forgotten. It’s awesome.

  The door is open to room six-six-seven. A housekeeping chart keeps it that way, and I hear voices inside. Sylvie is easy to read for me, and clearly I was right this time too. She wanted to tidy up before she let the maid in. I bet she’s apologizing over her mess now.

  I knock once while I press past the maid’s cart. “Sylvie?” I call.

  “Mister?” A matronly maid with jeans and a small apron sets hands on her hips. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. The girl who’s staying here, is she in?”

  A glance past her reveals all sheets on the floor and an otherwise empty room. Just a few pieces of trash in a paper basket, which another maid empties into a plastic bag. My eyebrows knit together.

  “Actually, she left today. The girl with pink and blue hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mm-hmm, she checked out. Kept her room a little longer, but she’s gone now.”

  I feel my head shake. “Did she move to another room?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. She took her suitcases with her and left. We saw her, didn’t we, Marifer?” she asks her colleague.

  “We did see her. She left.”

  I still push the door open to her bathroom. Then I scan the interior of the hallway cabinet. Of course she’s not there, and my heart speeds up. She wouldn’t leave without telling me, would she?

  I stalk off without another word. Hit the first floor by stairs, because I can’t wait for the elevator. All I have is a phone number, and she’s not answering.

  In the lobby, I hit the bell for the receptionist. “Can I have Holland Drake’s room number, please.”

  “Sir, I’m not at liberty to give out room numbers to—”

  “Just call her up for me! Tell her it’s Shandor Xodyar. Her sister’s... Never mind. Just call.”

  The girl does, gaze averted while she waits for an answer. She doesn’t get one. “I’m sorry, sir. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Right, I’m sure.” My voice cracks the air between us.

  What the fuck’s going on?

  I stare at my phone. Nothing.

  The restaurant. No one’s there, too late for lunch, too early for dinner. The pool area. I stride through the backdoors, opening both as I go. Sylvie might just be laying out with her sister.

  I find Luke Craven in a cabana. He’s out of the sun, an iced coffee in hand and deep in conversation with Bo Lindgren. Sylvie isn’t there. Neither is Holland.

  I stop in the opening, my shadow falling over the two. “Hey,” I breathe. “Have you seen Sylvie?”

  Luke clears his throat. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” My pitch is gravelly with worry.

  “Shit. Holland was afraid of that.”

  “Ha.” My laugh is not humorous, not relieved, and I hike my hands up, showing my impotence to the sky. “Will you enlighten me? Because we were supposed to— Ah, I went to her room, and she was gone.”

  Bo’s eyes flick to his lap, to his beverage, giving privacy to my anxiety. He doesn’t excuse himself. No, Bo and I, we’ve been in the trenches before over Emil. Over Aishe. Over Nadia. These trenches are new though, and they’re mine and I’m worried sick.

  “I’m hoping she moved her shit to your room for the last night, but hey. Give it to me, Luke.” I stare him down.

  “I’m so sorry, man.” Luke sighs. I hate that sigh. “It wasn’t cool of her to chicken out like that. Holland figured she didn’t know how to tell you. Her flight for Toronto left half an hour ago.”

  There are three ways to cry. There’s the silent one that burns your ribs as you sit in an airport, stare through tiny plates of glass on an airplane, and hug your father when he picks you up after baggage claim. There’s the loud, obnoxious one you use when you unpack your suitcase alone in your room. Then there’s the combination one you use the rest of the time.

  My parents are concerned. Apparently, it freaks people out when their daughter sobs all the time and removes six years’ worth of Casey Barrett memorabilia from her walls. Even scarier is when she stops looking at her phone and buries it under a stack of shirts on a dresser.

  But they don’t understand how painful it is to see a certain name show up on the screen, the ache of guilt that’s too much for tear-burned eyes to endure. Should I have said goodbye? In retrospect, freaking duh. But I didn’t. It made sense at the time, and now, I don’t know how to fix it. Why should I even try? I’m just a fangirl, right? He’s probably forgotten about me already. Moved on to some L.A. beauty who knows even more stuff than he does.

  Okay, so I want to call him back. I do, but the thing with calling people when they’re pissed is that they usually end up more pissed. Besides, I still haven’t come up with a way to explain why I left without telling him. How am I supposed to call him when I have nothing to say? I mean, it made perfect sense at the time, but apparently my rock-solid logic doesn’t translate to out-loud reason because every time I practice the script it ends with his sexy voice telling me he hates me. Oh god, he so hates me. The messages he sent? Yeah.

  What the hell, Sylvie. You’re gone?

  So that’s it then?

  There was even a voicemail. “Do I get an explanation at least?”

  Right. See, that’s the problem. Because that would require me calling him back to tell him there really isn’t one. That I think I was too in love with him to say goodbye. That sounds like crazy-on-a-stick even to me.

  The messages have stopped at this point anyway. I’m pretty sure he’s given up and found some new girl by now. He’s had, like, a whole day. If I truly love him I have to let him go, right? That’s the grownup thing people do, and I’m gonna be happy for him. Happy that he’s happy.

  Bet they’re walking on the beach right now, doing that thing where their footprints sync up in a greeting-card trail behind them. Ugh, I’m so not happy. It freaking sucks. I hope she steps on a jel
lyfish.

  “Sylvie, honey, you want some lunch?” That’s my mom who still believes a grilled cheese sandwich fixes things like losing the love of your life.

  “I’m not hungry,” I call back through my door.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  “We spoke to Holland. We know what happened.”

  I legit scowl for four seconds before yanking it open.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’ll meet another boy. The right one, I promise.”

  Same thing she said after Dan dumped me. Also, I haven’t liked grilled cheese since I was seven. Moms know nothing about you.

  “He wasn’t just some boy,” I defend, but how do you describe Shandor to someone who hasn’t met him? He’s not someone you forget. There is no hope for boys after him.

  She sighs because instant forever-love will never make sense to a woman who believes in the healing power of grilled cheese.

  “You took all your Casey stuff down.”

  I shrug and point to the box in the corner. “Still have it.”

  She nods at my fact.

  “Have you tried talking to this boy?”

  “No. I did something horrible and don’t know what to say.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Didn’t say goodbye.”

  “That’s not horrible, honey.”

  “It is for us.”

  She doesn’t have an answer for that. She doesn’t know us. No one does except Shandor and me, and here come the tears again.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Her arms slip around my shoulders and pull me in for a hug that used to fix brush burns and school-dance snubs. I love my mom, but she can’t fix this.

  “I think I love him. I know it’s crazy, but I think this was real.” It’s so much worse to hear it out loud, and when she squeezes tighter the silent tears become downright obnoxious.

  “Then you need to call him, Sylvie. Apologize for whatever it is you think you did, and give him a chance to surprise you. If this was for real, he’ll forgive you.”

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “You don’t understand. He tours all the time, and I’m here. He said it would never work. There’s no way he’d try so hard for some stupid groupie. He hates me now anyway.”

  “You’re not giving him much credit. Has he contacted you since you left?”

  My lip is probably bleeding from my teeth at this point. “Yes.”

  “Once?”

  “Two texts and a phone call.”

  “Sylvie.”

  “I can’t! There’s no way to fix it.”

  She kisses my forehead and moves toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To finish lunch and give you some space. Do you want tomato in your grilled cheese?”

  I sniff. “Tomato sounds good.”

  And that’s when I learn about the fourth kind of cry.

  Los Angeles is surreal. Christmas twinkles everywhere. It’s beautiful, and I’ve got Aishe trying to get me into all the feels. She thinks we should hang out with Emil and Zoe who’re in town this year too, but I’m not so sure about that.

  Until now, the way Emil suffered in Zoe’s absence has seemed irrational to me. Aishe has forgiven him for what he did to her back then—that part’s fine—but it scares the crap out of me that I suddenly understand how he felt without Zoe.

  After Aishe got over him, I was elated. I let myself consider the Love Fire as a legend. Unfortunately, generations of Xodyar Gypsies weren’t wrong though, because Sylvie just fucking ripped my heart out of my chest.

  Damn her. Who doesn’t want sweet, hot-as-hell, and mind-boggling in bed. Fuck if she didn’t exceed my expectations there, but damn her for being all I never knew I needed too—innocent, ditzy, impulsive, big-mouthed, funny.

  We’ve only been back from the Bahamas for two days. Everything since Sylvie seems to rush at me on high-speed broadband: I feel like I haven’t seen her for months. I feel like I should have seen her every moment of those months. And I feel like that bleeding gash in my chest will never heal.

  What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

  Oh right.

  “It’s the Love Fire,” I admit to Aishe.

  “Just get out of bed. It’s four in the afternoon, and it’s Christmas Eve. We need to do something. Okay?”

  “We can do wine. It’s five o’clock somewhere.” I’m not going to become a pathetic loser who drinks himself to sleep over a heartbreak, though. I’d rather go legit insane from the Love Fire. Aishe can visit me at some psych ward. Or she can send me back to the clan and lock me up in an old-timey wagon. Ha.

  “Oh, good idea,” she mutters, tugging on my arm. “When did you shower last?”

  “Before bed.”

  “Bullcrap. When I left, you were asleep already, in those clothes.” She points down my body.

  Fine, so I slept in whatever I put on yesterday morning. I squint down at a pink t-shirt and Hawaiian shorts. I don’t remember owning a pair of Hawaiian shorts.

  Wait, pink?

  Oh, it’s the “gift” from Kat Kontry, a baby-pink double X, very flattering on me, of course, and it reads, The Country Experience 2005—Your forever Kontry faves ;-). I guess the winky-face indicates tongue-in-cheek?

  “And this here tells me you need no wine until wayy beyond five.” Aishe fans her fingers over a few bottles on my nightstand. Hmm. I don’t remember downing all that.

  “Deff yours. Thanks for polishing off my alcohol before you left.” I curl out a lazy smirk, but Aishe rolls her eyes, not finding me funny. I don’t either because my head just got attacked with a baseball bat. I let out a pained groan.

  “Just get up. Shower. We’re heading to Emil and Zoe’s. We’re having dinner with them.”

  “Sorry,” I sigh out. “You go. I’m gonna stay here ’cause I don’t feel well.”

  “Nope, hell no. Do you remember last Christmas? Remember Emil?”

  “Stop, I’m not Emil.”

  “True, but I learned a thing or two back then, that you don’t leave men with broken hearts home alone.”

  “Listen, I’d never do what he—”

  “I said, ‘I know!’”

  Aishe is yelling at me.

  Sluggishly, I get out of bed. Grab some towel off the floor and amble toward the bathroom. I’ll just go through the motions. Get fucking clean if that’s what she wants.

  What’re Emil and Zoe going to serve? Swedish ribs with Brussel sprouts, boiled potatoes, and gravy? I gag at the thought.

  Such a small woman. So much willpower. Aishe got me here all right, and now I’m draped over a chair at Emil and Zoe’s dinner table. They’ve got a few Swedish friends over too. Zoe is beaming, chattering and trying to pronounce new-to-her words. Notably, Troy isn’t here. Then again, his fam lives in L.A. so he’s probably busy.

  Aishe gives me the glare-down when I serve myself wine. I ignore her. I’m not going to drink five bottles again anyway, just a few glasses to clog the gash in my chest.

  “So, what’s with you, man?” Emil asks conversationally and loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re looking glum today. Oh hey, what’s up with that Canadian chick you hooked up with in the Bahamas? You planning on seeing her again? She was funny! Cute too.”

  It’s not like I didn’t expect this. On a scale from one to ten, Emil reaches a solid twelve when it comes to extrovertedness. The man is an open book and couldn’t hold a secret if his wife’s life depended on it.

  I wonder if he’d relate, considering his story. Probably not. He’s a been-there-done-done guy. Not that I’d pour my grief out to him anyway.

  “Nope, probably won’t see her again,” I mumble, then I excuse myself for the bathroom. My stomach churns. It’s the gravy. It’s the hangover from Hell. It’s Sylvie.

&
nbsp; I let my insides twist and curl in over my stomach like I’ve been punched. That’s not a bad idea, just a good old punch to the gut to alleviate the Love Fire. Physical pain dulls emotional pain, doesn’t it? I deliver some lumpy gravy mixed with wine to the toilet.

  Before I exit, I pay Emil back by using his toothbrush. Pretty sure it’s his since the other one is as pink as my swag tee. I’m sloppy when I rinse the blue toothbrush off.

  “Shandor.” Aishe is on her feet when I return. She’s got my phone held high, eyes wide with anticipation. I register Zoe’s gaze hopping from my cousin to me. “Foreign number, not Swedish though. I can’t see who it is.”

  Zoomed in on the screen, I stride to Aishe. The caller hangs up before I can answer. It’s not Sylvie’s number. I’m about to call them back when I receive a text.

  Shandor. How are you? When you get this message, please give me a call. It’s urgent. <3

  I read her name.

  And then I stalk outside and dial her right back.

  Christmas Day. Joy to the World and all that crap. I showed my Christmas spirit by showering today. Yay me. Even threw on a pair of jeans for the occasion. Holland came in late last night with Luke so we can do the family thing. The Merry-Christmas-here’s-an-NSB-tee-I-already-have thing.

  Gosh, that’s going to be humiliating this year with Luke Craven sitting right there. Even worse, I just know Mom and Dad are going to be looking on with their signature goofy grins. Maybe they’ll show mercy and give me a pair of socks instead.

  I’d be ecstatic for a gift card.

  Hannah got some mysterious phone call and is off dealing with that. Emma is all shy smiles because she made us stuff. Me, I’m on my third cup of coffee because Mom said no to any alcohol. Coffee sucks when it’s not booze.

  Emma is about to pee her pants waiting for Holland to meticulously peel back the paper on her gift when the doorbell rings. The room quiets, all the-authorities-have-found-us! style, and Holland tells me to get the door. I roll my eyes and grunt, not sure why they think I’m the best representation of Christmas cheer for guests. Still, it would take too much energy to protest, so I shuffle toward the door to accept the plate of cookies or whatever this is.