Oh, God, I feel sick. My head falls into my hands. “What have I done? I’ve ruined everything.”
Liam says, “Hold on, Bria. You did the right thing. That prick had it coming. Your career isn’t over. It’s only getting started.”
“You misunderstood,” Garrett says. “We’re not asking you to be our backup singer. We’re asking you to be one of our lead singers.”
Surprised, I look at Crew. He’s pacing. “I don’t know you,” I say. “What’s even more relevant is that you don’t know me. I’ve never sung with you. How can you make such an offer?”
“Come to a few rehearsals,” Liam says. “See if we’re a good fit.”
I glance at Crew again. He doesn’t look happy.
“Don’t mind him,” Liam says. “He knows we need a female lead. He’s fighting it.”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t. Not if you don’t all agree.”
Crew kicks a rock into the street. “She’s a smart girl,” he says before walking away.
Garrett holds his hand out to help me up. “He’ll come around. We’re serious about this.”
“As a heart attack,” Brad adds.
Crew turns the corner, looking pissed.
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it,” Liam says, pulling a card out of his wallet and handing it to me. “You’ve got another week here. Give yourself some time to rest, then come jam with us. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’ll be fun, and it will give us a few weeks to work on grumpy.”
“Why do you think he’s so against it?” I ask. “Other than the spotlight not being solely on him?”
Liam sighs. “He’s got his reasons.”
Garrett huffs. “Reasons he needs to get over.”
“Piss off, Garrett. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Garrett shakes his head. “Still.”
“Still nothing,” Liam says. “Mind your own goddamn business and let him work out his shit.” He turns to me. “Are you okay? Do you need a place to stay?”
“We have separate rooms.” I laugh. “Obviously. How else could he shag everyone with a pair of tits?”
“And maybe some without,” Brad says.
I turn up my nose at his insinuation. How many people has he been sleeping with? I make a mental note to visit my doctor when I return to the city and have him run every available test.
They go to their van for their luggage, and I enter the hotel, avoiding anyone associated with White Poison.
As I pass the bar, I see Crew sitting by himself, tossing back a shot—two empty glasses already sitting in front of him. And I wonder what his story is.
Chapter Six
Crew
Seven years ago
I can count on one hand the few moments in my life I remember with such clarity, it’s as if a high-def Blu-ray is imprinted on my mind. One of those moments was the day my parents told me they were getting a divorce. I was ten. I was wearing pajamas with baseballs on them. I had a granola bar and chocolate milk for breakfast. Then I sat in my room and stared out the window, hoping I wouldn’t have to move out of the house where I grew up.
Another such moment was the Christmas when Mom gave me the karaoke machine. The first time I turned it on and sang a song in front of my family, I knew I wanted to be up on a stage.
Today, as Abigail Evans plays her flute for Mr. Hannigan so he can figure out which chair to give her in the school band, I’m certain this memory will become one of those moments.
It’s only been five minutes since I met her. Well, technically, I haven’t met her yet. She doesn’t even know my name. But she’s staring at me. She’s playing her flute, auditioning for her spot, and she chose me to look at. Me. Out of all the kids in this room.
I’m at the height of adolescence, at barely seventeen years old, but one thing’s for sure—I’ve never before gotten a boner in band class. Seventh period has just become my favorite of the day. The rest of my classes will be torture while I wait to see the girl who plays the flute like an angel. Hell, she looks like an angel. She’s got sun-kissed skin, even though it’s cold enough outside to freeze your balls off. Her long hair is brown, with streaks of blonde running through it. I can’t see her eyes from here, but I’m certain they must be blue.
Suddenly I’m thanking Mom, who badgered me into taking another year of band. I didn’t protest too much, though. It’s an easy A, but playing the trombone is not exactly my forte. In fact I’m last chair—the worst of all the trombone players at Stamford High. Keyboards are more my thing. It’s what I play in my band. But Mr. Hannigan is hardly what I’d call a progressive teacher. He must be eighty years old. I’m not even sure they had keyboards when he was growing up.
Abigail finishes playing, and all eyes are on me instead of her—probably because I’m the only one clapping. I look down at my hands as if they don’t belong to me. What the hell?
Liam rolls his eyes at me, laughing. He’s here for the easy A too. He rocks the trumpet, but his true passion is the guitar.
“Fantastic, Miss Evans,” Mr. Hannigan says. “Why don’t you take a seat next to Miss Nevin. Hannah can show you the ropes and bring you up to speed.”
A lot of eyebrows are raised. Hannah Nevin is our first-chair flautist. Is he replacing her with Abigail, or did he just make Hannah Abigail’s mentor? Judging by the look on Hannah’s face, she thinks she’s been replaced. She should be. Abigail’s that good.
I spend the rest of class totally screwing up my part, earning me some biting stares from Hannigan, but I can’t help it. How can I concentrate on music when the only thing I can think about is how I’m going to meet this girl? Song lyrics bombard my head, and I wish I had my notebook with me to jot them down.
Forty minutes later, I’m rushing to put away my trombone when Hannigan calls to me. “Mr. Rewey, I trust you won’t be quite as distracted for Friday’s performance?”
I can hear Liam’s laughter behind me as I apologize to Mr. Hannigan.
When I turn around, Abigail is nowhere to be seen. Shit, have I missed my chance?
“Are your pants on fire?” Liam asks.
I hold up a finger and check out the hall. My eyes dart around until I find her. I only see the back of her head, but that hair is unmistakable. She looks down at something and then turns, gazing left, then right. Perfect.
“I have to go,” I tell Liam before I take off in her direction.
“Dude!” he calls after me.
I run up behind her. “Abigail.” I touch her elbow. “You look lost.”
She looks at my hand on her arm, and I can’t tell if she’s happy or mad about it. Maybe she’s just surprised.
“Abby,” she says, smiling sweetly.
Happy then. And I was right—blue eyes. Damn.
She looks relieved that someone is talking to her. It must suck to be the new kid, especially in the middle of junior year after everyone has already found their cliques.
“Okay, Abby.” I love the way her name sounds, and I know I’m going to work it into some lyrics. “I’m Crew.”