Instead, I have his eyes and his flair for the dramatic.
Hardly a fair trade.
“Do me a favor and watch Sophie while I go down to the studio with Tyler,” my dad says on his way to the sink. “Haley’s at a meeting but should be back soon, and there’s lasagna on the stove.”
If only my dad would see me the way he sees Tyler. They spend hours together discussing guitar, sound, vocals. Working on new tracks for other artists and causes.
In less than a month, I’ll be the one on stage, and they won’t be able to ignore me.
Not Carly. Not Tyler. Not my dad.
Then he’ll see me like he sees Tyler.
Then I’ll matter like they do.
My phone vibrates, and I glance at it.
Kellan: Think about my idea?
A temporary truce with Carly and the others would mean I wouldn’t have to constantly worry about getting a knife between the shoulders between now and opening night.
“I want to have a few people over this weekend,” I decide.
Dad turns off the faucet, his shirt clean but soaking wet. “Haley and Sophie and I are in LA.”
“Even better. You hate parties.”
“And teenagers at my house leave behind messes that will linger until I’m back.”
He frowns down at his shirt as if realizing teenagers aren’t the messiest part of this household.
I play my trump card—my dad’s longest friend and guitarist, better known to the world as Mace. “Not if Uncle Ryan’s supervising.”
Dad yanks the shirt over his head, apparently giving up on trying to get it clean, and heads for the hallway leading to the stairs. “If Mace is free, you can have friends over,” he calls over a shoulder. “But if they break anything, I’ll break you and them.”
Yes. It’s the closest thing to a resounding affirmative I could hope for.
I’ll host an epic cast party for the rich assholes, prove to Tyler Adams he’s wrong about me tempting Carly and her minions, and the entire musical standoff will be resolved by Monday.
Easy peasy.
3
“This is sick, Annie.” Jenna looks around the patio on Saturday night. “Don’t you think, Carly?”
Carly lifts a bare shoulder under her perfectly waved blond hair. “It’s better than nothing.”
“Better than nothing” is an expanse of natural rock with a waterfall wrapping around the end of a pool that takes me twenty strokes to span. The stone surrounding it stretches for ages, with enough space to host a hundred people standing.
This patio is my sanctuary. There’s no pressure here, no haters, no self-doubt.
Unless all of those things are lounging in chaises drinking vodka-laced punch.
“You should’ve invited your friend,” Kellan, whose low-slung black swim trunks show off an impressively sculpted torso, says to me. “Pamela?”
“Penelope. She left for Italy yesterday.”
He nods. “My uncle has a place in Florence.”
When you attend private school, stripping out of uniforms is an occasion we take seriously. The girls are wearing bikinis, the guys in swim trunks hanging low on toned abs the dress shirts only hint at during the week.
I’m in a cherry-red one-piece bathing suit, and I pulled on jean shorts too. I could probably use the padding from a bikini top—I’m still hoping my boobs make a late surge senior year—but my goal for tonight isn’t attracting attention. It’s making peace.
“How’s your car, Annie?” Carly asks sweetly. “I saw you still in the parking lot Thursday when I left.”
“Good as new.” I won’t give her the satisfaction of getting to me, especially since I’m trying to smooth things over.
I glance around the patio. During the daytime, I love swimming laps in this pool. Now, the lights turn it electric blue. Sleek chaise loungers with side tables are arranged around the perimeter. A table with a bar and snacks sits discreetly off to one side. Built-in speakers at thirty different points in the patio—including some of the chairs, umbrellas, and the gardens—make it feel like the music’s inside us.
My gaze lands on the house. Uncle Ryan’s rules for tonight were no drinking and no coming inside—except for Miss Norelli, whom he greeted at the door. Now they’re in the living room, staring at each other on the couch.
The form I spot through the sliding glass doors isn’t Uncle Ryan.
I hold up my cup in a toast—the minions had the carafe spiked with Grey Goose before the caterer left—and Tyler shakes his head.
The slider opens, and Carly shrieks, “Tyler, let me get you a drink!”
She dashes to the bar and fills him a Solo cup, her curves bouncing under her tiny bathing suit.
“Come play ‘I’ve Never’ with us,” she insists as he crosses to where we’re standing along with Lana, Tara, and Jenna.
Of course Tyler’s jeans and T-shirt come off more compelling than the half-naked guys outside. I see him in school clothes as often as not, and I try not to stare at the way his black T-shirt hugs his chest and reveals strong arms, beautiful hands.
But when my gaze locks on his, something says he caught me looking.
Kellan starts the game, and I force my attention to him.
“I’ve never been fucked up the ass.”
Carly shoves Kellan but drinks. “Only me? Fine. I’ve never had a thousand people screaming my name.” She steps close enough to brush her boobs against Tyler’s arm as if she has fleas and he’s a scratching post. “That’s you, baby. That show you did in Miami last month.”
He cocks his head. When he speaks, his voice is amused, with an edge of something I can’t make out above the music. “I filled in as a favor to Jax when their guitarist had a car accident. The crowd didn’t know my name.”
“They were undressing you with their eyes. Same damn thing.”
Tyler looks as if he’s about to argue but takes a drink. “I’d rather be good than famous,” he says after, staring into his cup. “The best guitarists aren’t guys like Jax. They’re session musicians. They’ve played on every radio edit you’ve ever heard for the last seventy years, and you couldn’t name one of them. Not everyone needs thousands of screaming fans to be worthwhile.”
“Spoken like someone who’s afraid.” I’m supposed to be making friends, but I can’t resist stating the obvious. Tyler looks up. “Fame is only as dangerous as the person who commands it. If you’re talented enough to get the world’s attention for more than a few minutes, you have a responsibility to use it. It’s not something you can toss aside.”
Tyler’s nostrils flare, a muscle in his jaw working.
I’ve hit a sore spot in this boy they love to worship.
“It’s your turn,” Carly reminds Tyler.
Kellan drapes an arm around my neck, and I’m surprised because I almost forgot he was here, but Tyler’s attention locks on the arm around my neck as if he wants to melt it away with sheer disdain.
“I’ve never worn a garbage bag as a fashion statement.”
The comment works under my skin like a dull blade even before Carly screeches with laughter. “Drink, Annie. A lot. Jenna? You too.”