Accidental Rock Star (3 page)

Baylee paused with her
fork halfway to her mouth. She arched her eyebrows. “Forgetting
something?”

Was there dessert? Sax
looked at the counter but didn’t see any.

Marissa’s aunt, Aunt
Joellen, gave him an encouraging look.

Okay, he’d forgotten
something. “Um. Thanks for dinner Aunt Joellen?” He leaned down and
kissed Marissa’s cheek. “You too Marissa. You’re a great cook.” He
smiled at her and elbowed Garrett. “The second you want to dump
this loser and work for me, just say the word. I’ll pay you
double.”

Garrett threw a
half-assed punch his way. “Some people can’t be bought,
dickwad.”

Aunt Joellen
coughed.

Garrett gave her an
apologetic look and continued on. “Some people have the loyalty of
a—”

Marissa pointed her
fork at him. “You say ‘Dalmatian’ or anything dog-like and you’re a
dead man.”

Baylee rolled her eyes
at the couple and shoved Sax’s empty dish toward him. “Plate. Take
your plate.”

A frown pulled across
Sax’s forehead. He’d finished. He tilted the edge to show her. “I’m
done.”

Marissa’s aunt nodded
toward the sink. “Put it in the sink, please. It’s Baylee’s night
to do dishes. We’ll work you into the rotation.”

Garrett snickered.

Rock stars left dishes
in piles unless they were successful enough to hire staff. Which he
was. Sax looked left, then right. They weren’t kidding. “Sure.” He
picked up the plate, walked it over, and dropped it into the
shallow stainless-steel sink. The mundane chore drained away some
of his inner rock star. He put his back to the counter and leaned
back on his palms, crossing his legs one over the other, assessing
the small space. He didn’t see staff fitting here. He frowned and
rubbed the piercing in his eyebrow. “Who’s going to handle the
cooking, driving, paperwork, laundry… I don’t know, all that shit?
My assistant can get you a list.”

Garrett nodded. But not
the women. Baylee and Aunt Joellen stared at him like his mic was
blown.

Marissa went over to a
tote by the wall, dug through it, and then brought him a pair of
faded jeans and a button-down shirt. “There. Laundry done.” She
shoved the pile into his waist. He took them automatically. “All
those other things? Those are
your
chores now, rock star.”
She dropped a pair of glasses on top of the outfit.

Black-frame glasses.
Farmer clothes. The grunge look. A look that hadn’t been seen on a
runway since the nineties. Since before he was born. Sax set the
clothes on the counter. He folded his arms over his chest and eyed
the ugly pile of no-style. There were limits to what he’d do to
stay safe.

Marissa put her hand on
his shoulder, and her voice softened. “It’s temporary, Sax. Until
they catch Gina.”

He stiffened. He could
take them giving him shit. He couldn’t take the sympathy. He’d
fucked up over how he handled the Gina situation, and he deserved
some shit over it.

Garrett went over to
the bag. He held up a pair of brown, stiff-looking western boots
with stitching on the sides. “You get these, too. We bought them
special.”

It was September. In
Texas. The noisy window unit in the living room was barely cooling
the place down. He didn’t need boots. He needed sandals.

Marissa gave Garrett
the stink eye and then waved for Sax to follow her. “Baylee cleaned
out the guest room. We’ve put your other stuff in there.” She
showed him to a room the size of his closet that held a twin bed.
He was too tall for a twin and if he stretched his arms out, he’d
touch both walls. The slanted mattress was covered with two green
pillows and a green quilted blanket. What rock star slept under a
quilt? The mismatched fabric squares would smother the rock star
right out of him.

“Burner phone for
here.” Marissa moved a box from the floor to the end of the bed.
“Laptop. And we’ve put a list of security precautions on it. No
phone calls home. No emails home. Not unless it’s an
emergency.”

Garrett shoved through
the doorway and upended a white pharmacy bag on the bed. “Don’t
forget this.” A pair of scissors and a box of ‘Born to be Blonde’
maximum-strength bleach flopped out.

Sax shoved his overlong
black hair out of his face and stared at the girl on the box of
hair dye. “Hell, no.”

“You need to look
different.”

He did. Black wasn’t
even his real color anyway. The stylist had picked it. He picked up
the scissors, opened and closed them.

“Most Texas schools
require hair shorter than your collar. But it’s up to you.”

Sax nodded at Marissa.
“As long as you do the cutting.”

Garrett stiffened.
“Leave it long. You can dress like a girl. A tall ugly girl.”

Sax flipped him off and
handed the scissors to Marissa. “Cut it.”

He followed her to the
bathroom, a room smaller than the guest room and filled with enough
girl stuff that he knew this was the only john in the house.

Here goes nothing. His
blue contacts came out first. Six inches of his hair came off. His
earring and his eyebrow piercing were removed last. Then, after a
one-hour dye job, the transformation was complete.

Marissa stilled. “Wow.
You look so different.”

Sax swiped at his neck
with a towel and stared into the mirror. He didn’t recognize
himself. He narrowed his eyes to bring his image into focus. Maybe
he did. Maybe he looked like an older version of his
fourteen-year-old self. Light hair. Green eyes. The guy he used to
be, before the record label’s stylist mandated a more edgy stage
look.

“Now you need a
different name.” Marissa wiped the counter clean and tossed the
box, the gloves, and the instructions into the waste basket.

Sax swallowed, still
staring hard at his reflection. “My name is Tyler.” His voice
sounded rusty, and he shook off the weird feeling that came with
saying the truth. “My real name is Tyler Saxon Grayson.”

“Tyler it is.” Marissa
shrugged her shoulder into his. “You can borrow my last name.
Tyler Steele.
How does it sound?”

Almost real. Sax
brushed at his neck, feeling for stray bits of hair. Almost
real.

Mom pointed at her
ears. “Headphones off.”

Aria popped the earbuds
out. “Sorry.” She shuffled over to the percolating coffee pot in
the corner of the kitchen.
Drip. Drip
.

“Tell Hunter, ‘good
game’.” Dad dug into his bacon and grits. Monday mornings always
started out with commentary on the football team. If the Lizards
didn’t have a game, Dad commented on the Texans or the Cowboys.

Aria made a
noncommittal murmur. She poured hot coffee into her favorite lizard
mug. Dad had gotten newer mugs from the factory over the years but
Lizzie, with the tiny red bow on her head, was her favorite. She
added milk and sugar and slid into her seat. Two freshmen had quit
after Friday night’s halftime performance. The band was down to
eighty-six members now. Her phone vibrated, fueling her
uncertainty. Was it another quitter?

“No phones at the
table.” Mom put a pitcher of orange juice in the center of the
table and poured three glasses. She placed the glasses pointedly
beside Aria’s and Dad’s coffee cups. Then she drew back the orange
curtains, letting in the morning light before taking her spot.

Aria had to look. She
checked her screen.

Hunter.
Doing
anything later?

Trying to find two new
band members. Trying to find out why the instruments didn’t work
right. Trying to block out memories of how you kiss. She wrinkled
her nose. She needed to tell Hunter ‘no’ without hurting his
feelings.

“Aria.”

“Sorry.” Aria put the
phone beside her leg, tucking it half under the teal-and-orange
cushion she sat on, and scooped sugar and butter into her
grits.

Mom passed her the
bacon. “I posted your Texas Tech admissions letter online.”

Aria faked a smile. She
hadn’t decided between Tech and Southwestern. Both had great music
programs. Her hand tightened on her fork. She was going to major in
business, not music. But she could catch a performance if she went
to school there; she loosened her grip.

Dad pulled a face at
Mom. “Your sister called.” Aunt Bev was always ‘Mom’s sister’ when
she called for money.

Mom sipped her orange
juice. “Where are they this time?”

“Little Rock, of all
places. Band’s second show didn’t pan out.” Aunt Bev was a
brilliant musician, but being a musician didn’t pay unless you were
that top one percent. Her parents had had a variation of this
conversation every month her whole life.

Her phone buzzed
again.

Hunter. How did she say
‘no’ without making crap worse between the band and the football
team?
Sorry, I can’t go out with you. No, it’s not your
personality, though you could appreciate music more and sports
less. No, it’s not your looks. They’re good. It’s not you at all,
it’s me. No, it’s not me, it’s…

“Aria, Dad’s talking to
you.”

Heat flushed her face.
“Sorry, what’s that, Dad?”

***

Yep. He was entering a
high school. A real freaking high school. Not to shoot a video. Not
for a charity performance.
Me. Sax Grayson, Grammy Winner,
Fucking Rock God, is enrolling as a senior at Leithville High
School. Fucking unbelievable.

He paused at the glass
door and had the funny realization that the doors weren’t automatic
and no one was going to open them for him. Big public buildings
always came with bodyguards and entourages. His yawn sucked in
moist morning air. Jet lag muddled his brain. Six thirty a.m.
Central Texas time meant four thirty a.m. in L.A. He should be
rolling into his penthouse from the club. Not standing on the
threshold of exposure. “I need coffee.”

“Your parents let you
drink coffee?” Surprise tinted Baylee’s voice.

Baylee’s mom kept her
on a tight leash. He didn’t tell her the kind of stimulants the
label offered up to keep him going. Though watching his drummer
nosedive in and out of rehab had made him stick with caffeine.

“Tyler.” Baylee
adjusted her oversized backpack, a small frown in her green eyes,
which were pretty like Marissa’s, but hidden behind glasses. Baylee
tipped her chin toward the strap. “Did you want to offer a
hand?”

Sax blinked at the
question and her use of his real name. Tyler. He had to start
thinking of himself as
Tyler
. Not by his stage name
Sax
. He was Tyler now. He’d always been Tyler. When had he
lost that?

The weight of Baylee’s
backpack shoved into his chest, dragging him back to Texas. He
guessed he’d been ignoring her.

“Carry it.”

Tyler shouldered the
bag without difficulty. “Sure.”

The green ties of her
braces flashed at him as she grinned. Baylee was only a year
younger than Marissa but she looked like such a kid. Maybe she’d
skipped some grades. “How old are you again?” She looked fourteen.
Or twelve.

“Seventeen. Same as
you.”

I’m seventeen.
The label had thrown a big eighteenth birthday bash for him for
summer ticket sales. His real birthday wasn’t for another two
months though. More of their marketing crap.

Baylee seemed much
younger. She wore a loose T-shirt and baggy jeans and had her mess
of light-brown hair up in a green clip. He’d never entered a
building without the girl beside him slicking on some kind of
gloss. He paused and gestured to her makeup-less face. “Aren’t you
gonna…”

“My face is fine.”
Baylee scrunched up her freckled nose. “The guy I go for will like
me for me.”

Yeah. Good luck with
that.

Baylee made a coughing
sound and gestured. “Be a guy.”

Tyler leaned back into
the glass, pressing the door open. He smashed his own relaxed
California accent into a drawn-out imitation of Baylee’s twang.
“Yes, ma’am.”

Baylee’s lips twitched,
which was good, because he’d meant the drawl to make her laugh, not
piss her off. He appreciated her and her mom letting him stay with
them while that crazy bullshit got sorted out in L.A.

Fluorescent lighting
brightened the area. The school smelled like bagged lunches,
deodorant spray, and autumn.

“Forgetting something?”
Baylee asked.

Tyler checked his fly.
Nope. He looked back at her and arched an eyebrow. It felt weird
without the piercing. He rubbed the small scar. “Huh?”

Baylee scooted past
him. “Ladies first.”

“Oh. Sorry.” This
mistake was similar to the one he had made at breakfast when her
mom had asked him to wash the dishes. She’d had to show him how.
She shouldn’t be doing dishes while hosting him, and neither should
he. He was a multi-platinum, award-winning artist. He’d have to
sort out staff for them, no matter what Marissa said about privacy.
If he was even here long enough. He’d probably be here five more
minutes. Because the jig would be up once the girls at Leithville
High caught sight of him.

Marissa’s plan had made
sense when he was still half-stoned from whatever Gina had dosed
him with, and he liked the idea of seeing what normal looked like.
If this worked. “It’s useless, you know. The fans at Leithville
High will see me and start screaming. Uncontained screams like
you’ve never heard before. Not even here in Texas.”

Baylee rolled her
eyes.

“The principal will
have to get triple security to pull the girls off. It’ll take a
barricade of school buses to keep ’em back once they catch sight of
me.”

Baylee snorted.

She’d see.

“Hello.” Baylee pointed
to the office door that read
Home of the Leithville Mighty
Lizards.

“Got it.” He strode
forward, rehearsing the cover story. He was Baylee’s cousin from…
crap, what was the state they’d said? Missouri? He rubbed his
temple and hoped no one asked him about snow. Did they have snow in
Missouri? Or was that barbeque? Whatever. He wouldn’t last five
minutes. Sax Grayson posters wallpapered lockers around the world.
They’d be here in small-town Texas, too. Hello, multi-platinum
artist. He pictured the girls throwing themselves into the back of
Baylee’s truck as he sped out of the parking lot.