VIP (Rock & Release, Act I) (2 page)

"Ew. And when does it end?"

"The day before I leave to go back to school."
 

"Double ew. So basically this is the last I'll see of you because my schedule's slammed at the salon the rest of the week. Great." She rolls her eyes and takes a long drink of her cider, her expression hardening. "Just awesome."

"Teag. Come on." I take a deep breath. I hate when she does this, when she blows from joking to mad in the blink of an eye. I keep my tone as calm as possible. "It's about to be my senior year of college. That's kind of huge. And this internship is the chance of a freaking lifetime."
 

"For who?" That sneer, that
I call bullshit
scorn, I swear she must practice endlessly to nail it like that in just a couple of words. "For you? Or for Jas—"

"How about for
anyone
." I can throw attitude in my tone, too. With almost as much skill as Teagan. And I'm speaking the truth. I can't think of a single classmate who wouldn't sell their soul to intern for the CEO of Chambers & Britt, a Fortune 500 company, over the summer. Teagan's not like me, though. An internship like this probably sounds like hell to her. "Maybe
you
wouldn't want it becau—"

"Oh, fuck off." Real anger leaps out to bite me this time. "Even if I
chose
to go to college I wouldn't give up my summer to be some head honcho's servant. For free, I might add."

"Uh, no kidding." I can't wrap my mind around this sudden turnabout in her mood. Something's changed in her the past few years; something's hardened her while I've been away at school, and these out-of-nowhere outbursts are becoming more and more frequent. I miss the girl who used to laugh all the time. I miss the girl who never let anything get her down. "That's exactly what I was going to say."

"Believe me, I know." She drinks until her cider's gone and hits the table with her bottle hard enough that the sound rings out above the music. A few of the people at tables around us glance our way, but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "I'm sick of it."

"We were saying the same thing." I speak slowly, trying to get through to her, but probably just pissing her off more. I've barely made it through six months of sadness. I
need
tonight to be a good time—and I want it to be with Teagan. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was such a sensitive subject. Can't we just have fun tonight?"
 

"God, you can be such a smug—" She cuts herself off, her lips pressed together, and shakes her head.
 

"Were you…were you about to call me a bitch?" I grip my beer so hard my fingers ache.
 

She shrugs. "If the shoe fits."

"Uh, from where I'm sitting it looks like
you're
the one who just stepped in a big old pile of bitchy."
 

"I can't handle you going all
Cassidy
on me. I should've known you'd pull this tonight." She bolts out of her seat, the wrought-iron chair screeching across the stone patio loud enough to make me flinch, and turns to walk away.
 

"What does that even mean?" Going all
Cassidy
on her, as if that's a thing. As if my name is a bad word. "Where are you going? The concert starts soon."

She glances over her shoulder and holds a hand up toward me, to stop me from standing. "I need some space."
 

She storms away and I'm too shocked to follow her. I'm too shocked to move.

"I am
not
smug," I call after her, realizing a second too late that the people around us are listening, staring.
 

And a second later that she has both our tickets into the amphitheater.
 

Awesome.

CHAPTER TWO

Teagan stalks out of the VIP exit and into the throngs of regular concertgoers heading toward the amphitheater. And still, I can't make myself follow her. After a few moments, I lose sight of the back of her head, of those strawberry waves swinging with each step.
 

Surely
she'll come back after she cools down. Or maybe even before. She thought the singer was cute, and if I know Teagan, she won't stay away from him for too long before making her move, no matter how pissed she is at me—or, let me rephrase: no matter how
senselessly
pissed she is at me.
 

Or is it senseless? I think back through our conversation, drumming my fingers along my beer. From fries to fuck off, just like that? I really don't think I did anything wrong, but there's a slight tension—the kind that comes along with guilt—in the pit of my stomach.
Did I
do something?
 

Surely
she'll come back and tell me what in the world set her off like that. Because it can't just be that I'll be busy with an internship this summer. And even if it is, she doesn't get to jump down my throat like that. She's so easy to set off these days. Well, these years, really. But whenever I try to talk to her about it, she shrugs me off—or sparks even hotter in anger. And then suddenly she'll be back, the Teagan I grew up with, the fun, thoughtful friend who might bully the world when her back's to the wall, but never me. I just never know who I'm going to get. Guess I was wrong to assume the fun of a concert—the fun of a VIP experience—would keep her happy.
 

Surely
she'll come back and apologize for what she said to me.
 

"Because I wasn't being a smug bitch." It feels better to mutter the words out loud. Especially since they're the truth. Whatever else I might have done wrong, I wasn't being that.

People are still staring at me, I can tell by the extra pressure in the air against my skin. Keeping my eyes on the exit, willing Teagan to hurry up and return, I tilt my beer to my mouth to down the rest of it, but it's already gone. "Great."

I look up to find our waitress—a different girl than the one who dropped the food earlier—and she's already heading toward me, a pink drink in a martini glass extended in my direction.

"Oh—I was about to order another beer," I say, not sure whether or not to take the drink from her. "I, uh, didn't order that."

"My boss thought you looked like you could use this?" She lets her hair—short, black and silky—fall across her face. Humiliation creeps up the back of my neck. She's embarrassed for me.

"Oh God. Because we caused a scene? I'm so sorry." I glance toward the bar, my cheeks hot, but don't see anyone who might be her boss looking back. A few of the other customers are watching me still, though. I wonder if I should apologize to them, too.

The waitress waits until my attention's back on her, then hands me the drink and pushes back her hair, her deep brown eyes showing a hint of compassion. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I wave my free hand through the air, trying to brush away some of the leftover tension. I lift the martini glass in my other. "What is this?"

"It's a watermelon-tini," she answers. "Our special tonight. Well, every night," she adds, conspiratorially.
 

"That sounds sweet." Which makes it sound way more up Teagan's alley than mine. I wonder how rude it'd be to trade it in for a whiskey.

"It is sweet. It's also really strong," she says.
 

I take it back. Something really strong sounds exactly like what I want. "Thanks."

"I'm Vera. Let me know if I can get you anything else."
 

I raise the martini. "Hey—Vera—tell your boss thanks for this."
 

"Yep." She nods, compassion disappearing from her expression as she turns from me and heads over to replenish the now empty beer by the singer's feet. He winks at her without missing a beat. And a moment later when his song is done, when he takes a swig from that bottle of beer, I watch his Adam's apple slide up and down his throat, and I want to trace its trail with my mouth.
 

Even my irritation with Teagan isn't enough to quell the heat in my imagination tonight.
 

I'm able to thank Vera's boss on my own a few minutes later when he arrives to introduce himself, all hulkingly muscled, overly tan, spiky-blond haired. Sleazy in a nutshell. Not that I'd usually judge on appearance alone, but sometimes you just know. Plus, he's practically swimming in cologne. A tell's a tell.

"I guess I sent the right thing over," he says, gesturing to the glass, now half empty.
 

"You must be Vera's boss?" I smile, though it feels plastic across my mouth. Or maybe that's because my lips are stiffening in an effort not to pucker from the cloying sweetness of the drink. It's worth it though because Vera was right about it being strong. Halfway through and I'm halfway to the point of not caring about Teagan's tantrum anymore.

"Jared." He holds his hand out to me, so I shake it.

"Cassidy. Thanks for the drink—it was exactly the right thing." The alcohol content was, anyway. I'd rather have it in the form of a Manhattan, but whatever.

"A sweet drink for a sweet-looking girl," he says, holding onto my hand though the shake is over. "I had you pegged the second you stepped through the gate."

Gross. But I keep my smile plastered in place because what else am I going to do right now? Leave? I take another sip and slide my other hand from his, resisting the urge to wipe my palm across my lap. Instead, I point toward the guy on stage. "He's good."

"Gage? He's a great warm-up act. Not quite talented enough to make it on his own, but our regulars love him."
 

I bet the singer—Gage—has more than enough talent to make it on his own. Shit, he could probably make it even if he couldn't sing, he's so freaking hot. His head turns in my direction and I drop my eyes to the martini in front of me, but a second later I can't keep my gaze from sliding back to him. He's that perfect, careless sort of gorgeous—like he might not even realize the kind of effect he has on people. The kind of effect he has on me. I have to swallow a few times before I can respond to Jared. "His Franklin Charles cover was amazing."
 

"You know Franklin Charles?" There's a ring of surprise in Jared's question.
 

"You look confused?" There's a ring of rudeness in mine. This guy just rubs me the wrong way.

"You're here for a Demi Jade concert. Pop star fans don't always bleed into the realm of Franklin Charles."

He has a point. I nod, conceding. "I like her, too. But I love his music. He was my brother's fav… He's a family favorite. Does he ever play here?"
 

"Nah. I'm sure our booking manager, Zach, would love to get him, but he doesn't draw a big enough crowd anymore." He gestures out toward the amphitheater and scoots his chair around the table, a few inches closer to me. "There are twenty-five thousand seats to fill out there—and that doesn't even include the space on the lawn."

"That's too bad." I shrug and slide my own chair away from his, caring more about distance between us than the screech of its legs dragging across the patio. "He used to be huge. My parents saw him a bunch of times back in the day."

He seems to get the point and doesn't come any closer. We shoot the breeze about music for a few, and I relax a little—
this
I can chat comfortably about with anyone. It's in my blood. If nothing else, and of course there
is
much else, my parents brought me up listening to great music. And…it turns out Jared and I have a few other overlapping tastes—especially with some of the lesser-known bands. I find myself warming up to him, the teensiest bit.

Until he says, "Zach would probably love you. Good thing I saw you first."

I roll my eyes, but he's not looking at me. "Listen, that's not—"

"Vera, doll," he interrupts me as the waitress passes our table. "Grab another watermelon-tini for Cassidy."

"I'm good, thanks." I shake my head, but he's still not paying attention, his eyes are all for the pretty waitress now. Poor thing. She smiles, though, so either she's unfazed by him or she's a good enough actress to act like it.
 

"One more martini's not going to hurt anything." He shrugs, like the matter is settled, and lifts his shades to rest them on the top of his head, pushing them into his stiff, gelled hair. I'm surprised pieces don't snap in two, but it just springs out in tiny spikes from underneath.
 

I glance up at the sky and realize I can remove my shades, too. The sun's ability to blind is weakening as it falls through the sky, dipping lower toward the silhouette of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance, shimmering into a golden pink on the first little edges of sunset.

Vera waits for my response, one hand on her hip, and I'm about to refuse again, because… just…
no
to everything about Jared, but suddenly Gage is thanking the audience for listening and announcing that the concert's about to start and stupid Teagan isn't back yet. So instead I sigh. "Thanks, Vera, more alcohol sounds perfect."

I send a quick text to Teagan, asking as politely as I can where the fuck she is.
 

"Where's your friend?" Jared asks like he's read the text over my shoulder. When I glance up though, he's watching the stage, where Gage is making his way over to a table of girls who are waving at him. Lucky girls.
 

"No clue." I sigh again when she doesn't text me back right away.
 

"Maybe she's already at your seats?"

"Doesn't matter if she is. She has both tickets."
 

"Oh." A slow smile creeps across his mouth. "I guess you'll be hanging out here a while longer then."

"Guess so." Great. I down the rest of my drink and watch as the tables around us begin to clear out. Anxiety pricks my stomach. Not because I'm alone with Jared now—he's slimy, but it's of the handleable variety—but because I have nowhere else to go. There's a car scheduled to pick us up after the show, which is hours away. I could call my mom, I guess, but, really, who wants to be the girl who still has to call Mommy to come get her?

Surely
Teagan will be back before the concert actually starts.