Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (9 page)

Chapter 12

~Gabe~

We wait in a small
cement room behind an outdoor stage downtown by the river. Across from me, Sam
is practicing a new riff, plucking silently on his bass. Justin stands on the
far end texting—most likely to Allie, knowing his whipped ass. Romeo and Riley
stand on the other far end of the long room. They’re practically
nose to nose
, and she appears as giddy as a groupie meeting
her long time rock crush. Her band just finished, and though they weren’t
perfect, they were better than the night I saw them in the bar. Yet, they have
an energy that transfers to the crowd and negates their imperfections. Plus
Riley
is
one hell of a drummer.

The stage is being changed over for the final
act—us—of U-Palooza, a concert of local bands put on by the sororities and
fraternities of the local university. They give half the proceeds to charity
and split the rest. We’re donating our portion this year too, since we got a
nice check during the summer, touring with two major bands and made—actually
are currently making—a nice lump of cash on our indie album. Fans know we went
on tour, thus the crowd is bigger than usual. But very few know we’ve scored a
record deal. Romeo has been keeping that hush. He wants to finish out as much
of college as possible prior to becoming a
real
star.

We’re all dressed in our stage clothes. Jeans, dark
shirts, boots, and leather accessories. Actually, I’m wearing a fitted black
T-shirt and jeans. During the tour, I reluctantly agreed to dress with a little
more style than just long shorts and an old white T-shirt, but I refuse to wear
the studded bracelets and belts bullshit.

I’ve been to the U-Palooza before. As a spectator.
Two years ago. Luminescent Juliet blew my mind that night. Their talent,
especially in our little corner of the world, seemed unreal. I never imagined
I’d play with them in a million years. First, my style and music preferences
were harder rock than they play. Second, my skill was more at the level of
garage band at the time. Almost a year later—after I’d become addicted to
drumming—I heard about their all call for a drummer. The thrash metal band I was
in wasn’t serious, so I tried out, made it to the second round, and didn’t get
the spot for drummer.

Riley did.

Which is why my pissed off ass didn’t go to see them
at last year’s U-Palooza. Pussy, folk, blues, and rock mixing band could fuck off
as far as I was concerned.

Over three months later, they called. My band was
obsolete by then, and Riley had quit—personal reasons or some shit. I needed to
play. Drumming helps release all the pent up aggression that always boils under
my surface and keeps me stable. Or at least as stable as someone like me can
be.

After swallowing my pride—when it comes to
Luminescent Juliet I’ve done a shitload of swallowing—and joining the band, I
never imagined in a trillion years that we would cut an indie album, sell over
ten thousand copies, and land a spot on a national tour with two other known
bands.

But the truth is I’m more nervous about playing
here, where I know the people, than a sold out arena. Just my luck, I think
spinning a drumstick. Shit is always back
asswards
,
upside down, and screwed up in my head.

College students dressed in jeans and black
T-shirts, playing at being roadies, come into the little cement room behind the
outdoor stage. The pretend roadie leader tells us the stage is ready.

I take a deep breathe, yank my other stick from my
pocket, and line up behind Romeo and Sam.

Go. Fucking. Time.

Nerves or not, I deliver.

Every time.

As planned, Romeo leads us out. Justin waits behind.
The crowd goes wild as we stride onto the stage. I heard one of the fake
roadies telling Romeo earlier that they reached capacity this year, something
they’ve never done. But the crowd is a lot smaller than what I got used to over
the summer. Sam gives the cheering and whistling and clapping crowd a wave. Romeo
and I are stone faced as we go to our positions. Him, because he is Mr. Fucking
Professional. Me, because that’s how I deal.

I wait for them to strap on their instruments. I
don’t look at the crowd, trying to ignore my nervousness about playing in front
of people who know me. Or think they know me. Actually, they don’t know shit,
so fuck them.

Once Sam and Romeo stand and wait, I hit my sticks
together four times and we break into “At the End of the Universe.” Arms
flying, foot thumping, and head matching the beat, I let the music suck out my
aggression and nerves as I concentrate on kicking ass and pounding the shit out
of my set.

Seconds before the vocals start, Justin runs across
the front of the stage. The crowd goes wild as he belts out the first line.

I
belt out a drum fill before he rolls into the chorus.

And then, for the next forty minutes or so, it’s
just me and the drums.

We play songs from the indie album, one following
the next.

After being on the road for over six weeks, the
songs aren’t much of a challenge, but drumming is like the best drug to me.
Energizing. Exhilarating. Freeing.

The lights, the crowd, even my band members can’t
break the vibe. I move around the kit like it’s an extension of my body. My
mind and body are a drum machine. There is no bass drum or floor tom or crash
cymbals. Just me and the kit.

The second to last song is a cover. The Offspring’s
raw and energetic “Hammerhead” is the perfect mock last song, and it was my
pick. Though not thrash metal, this song comes pretty close. I roll through it
with an on point intensity.

When we finish, the crowd goes crazy. Romeo, Justin,
and Sam bow at the edge of the stage and the crowd goes more nuts. I start
walking off. I’m not into all this pseudo shit.

Back in the long, cement room, Sam exclaims, “That
went fucking perfect!”

Justin fist bumps him. “We
have
landed on another level.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Romeo says but grins. “Always
room to improve.”

I spin a drumstick.

A fake roadie passes out bottled waters.

The crowd’s chant for more reverberates in the
little room while we wait for the customary five minutes. This time Justin
leads us out to the stage. The crowd is like a roar as we step back out.

We end the night with our biggest hit thus far,
Justin’s pussy whipped song, “Inked My Heart.” I actually like playing the
song. It has a progression of slow to fast then back down again that was a
challenge at first. Speeding up then slowing down is probably more of a
challenge to me than most drummers. I like to beat the shit out of my drums
when I play. At the end of a set, the song is like a work out cool down. The
perfect calm after the storm of kicking ass during the set.

At the real end of the set, I go to the edge of the
stage with the rest of the band and bow too. I’ve always found this weird—like
I just performed Shakespeare or some shit—but Romeo always has us do the bow
thing if we’re the closing act.

Swallow fucking swallow.

After the last bow, I throw my sticks out into the crowd.
One to the left and the other to the right. A tall brunette in the closed off
sorority section catches the one I threw to the right. She watches me with
eager eyes.

Yeah, right.

On the road, I wasn’t too particular about who I
hooked up with as long as they were hot and willing. A night of sex tends to
fill the empty void, for a few hours at least, that is part of me. But the
concept of anything long term was obsolete on tour. Here at home, I stay away
from her type. Been there. Done that. No uppity bitch ever broke my heart, but
several have stomped on my pride. They like the bad boys. For a night or two.
Not that I had been expecting
anything long
term. But
I don’t like being treated like trash after fucking someone. Even if it is
true.

The crowd still chants for more as we head to the
back. We’re in the cement room, waiting for out gear to be brought back, when
the girlfriends and their entourage, including April, rush in. Hugging and
kissing commence as if we just came back from a war instead of the stage.
Riley’s friend Chloe, April, and me are left standing amid the romantic
congratulations.

Cheeks faintly pink, April leans on the wall and
looks away from me. She appears embarrassed but ready for battle with her
shoulders thrown back—which inadvertently pushes her high breasts out.

Damn. I want her. Badly. Though I admitted my
attraction to her internally, I kept the actual possibility of being with her
as a not-going-to-ever-fucking-happen. Until she dragged her hot mouth across
my rain wet skin and turned me on so hard, I wanted to screw her in a puddle on
that wet basketball court. The beauty of the situation is that she wants me
too. She may not be willing to admit it—might even be horrified by it like she
was the other night—but her fingers on my mouth, her lips on my skin, tell the
truth. I’m just going to have to ease her into her horror—into the truth.

And yeah, I’m not good enough for her, and it will
be a quick one or two nights with the bad boy for her. But screw my pride.

I want her that bad.

She glances at me and her eyes widen at my intense
stare, as if reading my thoughts through my gaze. Her head snaps as she looks
away again.

Good. I brace a foot on the wall, lean back, and
spin a stick. Her aware of me is the first step toward those two hot nights.

Chapter 13

~April~

I’ve been to one U-
Palooza
after party at Sam’s house. I stayed about a half
hour before hightailing it to my apartment. There had been people wall to wall.
So many people were in the apartment, some spilled out of the sliding doors
onto the back lawn. Music had blared so loud talking wasn’t possible. Beer and
booze had been everywhere. And the skunky smell of pot hung in the air. I’m not
against people partying. It’s just not for me.

This time, Sam didn’t announce the party for weeks
ahead of time. In fact, he didn’t announce it at all. Therefore, it’s only the
band, Riley’s band, and some close friends. A few more people trickle
in, most likely having been
to the previous parties, but
Sam’s apartment stays far from full. Most people hang in the kitchen and dining
room area, talking and drinking. Some of the guys are in the living room
playing video games.

It’s nothing like the craziness I witnessed the last
time, so I’m shooting for an hour before I head home. Riley and her band are
celebrating their debut, and she personally invited me. I couldn’t say no. She
is practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, at least in between
shots. That girl is going to be feeling the booze tomorrow, even with declining
every other shot. I’ve declined
all
shots
and sip on a lukewarm hard cider while everyone keeps talking about the
performances. Luminescent Juliet sounded awesome while Shush did a good job.
They definitely sounded better than they did the other night at the bar.

Gabe is in the other room, which allows me to
collect my thoughts especially after his intense angry look behind the stage,
which led me to suspect he is still upset about me hitting on him then running
away. Surprisingly, the fact that I upset him is upsetting me. It seems like
we’ve been becoming friends, and I don’t want to mess that up with my
attraction to him.

I’m almost out of cider when Gabe waltzes into the
kitchen. Almost everyone is gathered around Chloe’s phone, watching Riley’s band’s
performance. I shuffle near the edge of the crowd where Gabe stands. He is a
bit overwhelming in a fitted T-shirt and jeans.

I bend a little closer to him. “I want to apologize
again for the other night.”

He slowly turns, mahogany eyes appearing weary.

“I’m not sure what came over me.” I force a feeble
smile. “Guess dancing in the rain is more romantic than I expected.”

At first, he appears angry. The lines of his face
harden before his expression softens and he grins crookedly. “You sure it was
the dancing in the rain? Maybe it was dancing with me?”

My mouth falls open. I’m immediately embarrassed,
until I decide to
screw it
. So what
if he thinks I’m attracted to him? It is the truth. It’s not
like
anything is going to come of it. “Maybe it was the combination,” I concede,
grinning too.

His eyes narrow the slightest, then he lets out a
laugh.

Smiling, I take the last sip of my cider, thinking
that was easier than I had imagined.

Sam breaks up the crowd around Chloe’s phone by bringing
out his laptop and an adapter. Everyone moves to the living room and within
minutes we’re watching Riley’s band perform on the big screen T.V. mounted on
the wall. In all honesty, the band is better live. The video doesn’t capture
their energy, while the flaws are more obvious on the recording, at least to
me.

The singer of Riley’s band scoots closer to Gabe. In
between fishing for compliments on her singing, she flirts and giggles. Gabe
doesn’t seem to mind her antics. He even lets her lean on him.

How lovely.

I pretend to watch the show with everyone else, but
I’m watching rock chick put her hand on his stomach, right above his belt. When
she draws back his hair to check out a tattoo on the back of his neck—a tattoo
that I didn’t know he had and am now wondering about since I can’t make it out
from this angle—I decide my hour
has
to be up. In the kitchen, I set my empty bottle on the counter and slip out the
back sliding glass door.

The night air is a bit cool as I walk home. It
doesn’t bother me. I’m too wrapped up in chastising myself over the twinge of
jealousy I just experienced.

Not cool.

Not realistic.

Not going to happen.

I have to get my head on straight, and soon. Before
I make a complete idiot of myself.

Shaking my head at my stupid jealously, I unlock my
door. Inside, I go to the kitchen and make my lunch for tomorrow. I have an
eight hour shift at the Family Center on Sundays. I make an extra sandwich
because I missed dinner. Riley was adamant I come over her house while her band
got ready. Her best friend Chloe, a hairdresser and makeup artist, went to town
on the three girls in the band. Riley tried to get Chloe to make me up and even
tried to talk me into a little black jersey dress. I stayed with my sweater,
jeans, and flats. My hormones might want attention from a certain guy, but my
brain doesn’t want attention from
any
guy.

I have one more semester, and then I’m on to grad
school. If I put my mind to it, I can get grad school done in a year and a
half. And even though I’m quite sure Gabe doesn’t share even an eighth of the
attraction I have for him, me getting involved with someone for more than a few
dates doesn’t fit into my plans. Other than Romeo, I’ve dated a bit—like three
dates in over three years—but I’ve never been over the top attracted to anyone
like Gabe.

I need to get over my attraction, and quick.

Working hard at keeping myself together, I have
gotten resilient, even tough, over the last few years. So I’m thinking this
Gabe thing will take a little time, but I
will
get over it. In fact, getting over a silly infatuation will be one of the
lesser challenges I’ve had to deal with.

A knock sounds at the door.

My hands pause lifting the sandwich.

You’ve
got to be kidding me.

 
A louder
knock sounds.

Maybe it’s Riley, drunk and upset I left her party.

I set the sandwich on a paper towel as a third set
of knocks clatter on the door.

Of course, it’s Gabe.

“This is getting a little weird,” I say, my hand on
my hip, though I am elated—like idiotically giddy inside—that he left rocker
chick to see me. The feeling of elation is not good, and so not a way to get a
handle on my growing infatuation.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have run off,” he says,
stepping forward, which forces me to step to the side and let him inside my
apartment.

“Well, why don’t you come in?” I shut the door just
short of a slam.

“Huh,” he says, moving farther into the main room
and looking over the apartment. “I expected something more swanky.”

Behind him, I roll my eyes. Half of my furniture,
like the loveseat and coffee table, is cast off items from my mother that were
in our basement. The other half, like the end tables and TV stand, came from
Walmart. “I don’t need swanky. I need some where to sit and eat.”

He passes the kitchen counter, glancing over the
note cards organized in order for my power point presentation on Wednesday, and
swipes the half-eaten sandwich from the paper towel. He takes a bite and
continues onto the bookshelves behind the couch, his lean body graceful with
his precise movements. And I’m suddenly fully aware of his body. Though lean,
he’s all muscle, wide shoulders, and a slim waist. I need to fix my eyeballs.
They never notice this kind of stuff. But they’re noticing him. Big time.

Munching on my sandwich, he peruses through the different
academic titles. Bending over, he begins to read titles. “
General Psychology, Adolescent Psychology, Behavioral Psychology,
The
Psychology of Addiction
…” He stands and glances at
me, his eyes twinkling with sarcasm. “I’m getting psyched out just reading the
titles.”

“Ha, ha,” I retort, keeping my eyes on his face
since I seem to be way too aware of his body. “Understanding people and their
motives takes a lot of knowledge.”

“Yeah,” he says in a patronizing tone. “Humans can be
wrapped up in the pages of books.”

My gaze becomes a glare. “We’re taught to take
environment and circumstances into account also.”

“
Well
then, aren’t you Little-Miss-Figure-everyone-out.” He pops the last bit of
sandwich in his mouth and moves toward the hallway, his jean clad sexy butt
defined with every step.

Trying to ignore the shape of his backside and not
interested in his views on phycology while more interested, as in fearing, the
direction of his roaming curiosity, I snap at him, “Ever heard of privacy?”

He pauses reaching for the bathroom light.
“Privacy?” he repeats, flicking on the light. “Hmm…don’t think I have ever
heard of it.”

My glare boils simmered rage at him. He gives the
bathroom a quick glance, then heads to the bedroom. Part of me is quite upset
at his intrusion. Another part of me is ecstatic, wondering why he’s interested
in my apartment. But really, my bedroom is off limits.

“All right, this is getting ridiculous,” I say,
following him. “You need to go back to the party.”

He stops just outside of my bedroom, turning part
way toward me, his profile sharp with a devilish grin. “You hiding something?”
His brows slant in suspicion. “Just what am I going to find? Dirty
mags
? Sex toys? A half written poem about me?”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, then let a laugh out that I
can’t contain at the thought of writing a poem about him.

He flicks on the bedroom light.

My laughter dies. There’s only one thing that I
don’t want him to see.

Gabe steps into the room, scanning the space.
“Hmmm…unmade bed. Dresser covered with stacks of clothes and other
miscellaneous crap. Dirty clothes on floor. Books piled haphazardly on the
night stand…”

Jaw tight, I stand in the doorway.

He turns to me, eyes wide with obvious fake shock.
“Why, April, you’re a slob.”

“Yup,” I agree. “You’ve found my secret out. Now, if
you’re done invading my privacy…” I sweep an arm toward the living room and the
front door.

He studies me in contemplation before he turns back
to the room.

Dammit.

His gaze stops at the far corner.

Damn. Damn. Dammit. That’s exactly what I didn’t
want him to notice.

“What is
that
?”
He marches over to the corner.

“It was my father’s,” I say in the most offhand tone
I can muster. “He gave it to me years ago.”

Gabe grabs the guitar case and sets it on the bed.
“He plays?”

The case free from its corer fills my vision even
more than
Gabe
. “Um, yeah, he used to be in a band.”

“Like a bar band?” Gabe flicks a clasp open.

The click of the clasps releasing echoes in the room
like a gun blast to my ears as a constricted knot forming in my chest stops me
from answering him. He lifts the lid, and the wonder in his expression has me
picturing what he sees
below
.

I recall the smooth, pale, blonde wood. The dark,
glossy neck inlaid with mother of pearl. The lovely Brazilian wood sides. And
the sharp, tight strings. It’s easy to imagine since I periodically dream of
playing the instrument.

“What the hell?” he mutters, reaching inside the
case. “Your dad gave you
this
? To
gather dust in the corner of your bedroom?”

At the sight of the guitar—the gleaming beauty of
it—I swallow. The air joins the knot in my chest. I haven’t laid eyes on the
instrument in over three years. Leaving it in the case in the corner without
taking it out or touching it had been a small victory. Now my palms sweat with
the desire to hold it and my fingers itch to play it. I want to fall to my
knees and beg him to give me the guitar, even though my fingers can’t perform
the magic they once did.

Gabe studies the guitar, his expression full of
wonder. “I actually know what this is. McPherson guitars have this hole to the
side.”

I finally find my voice. “Yeah, I think that’s what
my dad said it was.”

His face perplexed, he studies me
like
he did the guitar. My stiff stance. My hands clenched in fists at my sides. My
strained features.

I put my hands behind my back before blurting out,
“My dad used to be in an eighties hair band.” I lean on the doorframe for
support. “They had a few songs that made it into the top one hundred. I think
the highest they charted was just in the top forty. But it opened other doors
for him. He went on to write music for other people and produce stuff too,” I
say, keeping the facts vague. I don’t tell people about my semi famous father
or the super famous people he
is connected
to. I don’t
like the weird attention it brings. This time it explains—to somewhat of a
degree—why I’d have such a guitar sitting in the corner of my bedroom.