Accidental Rock Star (4 page)

Today was gonna be
crazy. Red-carpet-with-the-ropes-down crazy.

Baylee didn’t grin. Her
expression grew more serious. She eyed his short haircut, glasses,
and button-down green plaid shirt. “Tyler, I’m a girl. I’ve seen
your posters. And
I
don’t recognize you.”

Maybe Baylee was
right.

But probably not.

Chicks stared at him
for hours, then wrote poems and emailed them to the label. His fan
mail staff shared some of the more epic ones with him.

Dear Sax, Your
electric blue eyes light up my world.

Dear Sax, I want to
have your babies.

Dear Sax, One night
with you would…

The lady with fiercely
sprayed blonde hair behind the office counter perked up as they
entered. “Hi, there. Welcome to Leithville High School.” She
glanced over him, her gaze lingering.

Yeah. He turned
heads.

Her attention landed on
Baylee. “Who have you brought us, dear?”

No double-take. She’d
addressed the question to Baylee rather than to him. Adults usually
rushed forward to shake his hand. If security allowed them close
enough.

This was going to be
different. He moved closer to the large terrarium along the side
wall. The lizard inside eyed him. He knew how the lizard felt, all
caged up for show, shitty schedule, being awakened at this hour, on
display.

“My cousin. Tyler
Steele.” Baylee tugged her backpack from his shoulder. “Later. See
you in marching band.”

Marching band? He shot
a glance at her back and cut off a curse. That had to be a joke.
She was messing with the caffeine-deprived. “Right. See you.”

Baylee waved without
turning around.

The office stop took
two hours including aptitude tests, which weren’t a problem. He’d
had superior tutors on the road. His parents had insisted. Time of
day was the problem. He yawned again and checked the clock. He
needed that coffee. A bell had rung twice since he’d been here. The
noise from the hallway had crept under the administrator’s door and
then faded to silence. The rush of noise and footsteps and energy
made him think of the arena, of performing, of who he was—of who he
couldn’t be while he was here.

Marissa had lectured
him before she and Garrett had taken off.
‘Keep a low profile.
Rein yourself in.’

SoCal kids weren’t
taught to stifle themselves. They were encouraged to burn brighter
than everyone around them.
‘Rein it in.’
Was that what they
taught kids in Texas? What’d they teach kids in Montana? Crap.
Missouri. He had to get that straight. Damn. Maybe it was Montana.
Whichever.

The school
administrator handed him a paper schedule, like he wasn’t sitting
here with a smartphone. Calculus, English, Marching Band, Lunch.
Lunch at 11:00 a.m., 9:00 a.m. his time. Chicken-fried steak with
tots. What the hell? He shot the administrator a look, but kept the
expletive to himself. Who knew what the high school would do if he
used a creative vocal expression. Demerit? Detention?
Expulsion?

The Code of Conduct had
been explained, but he’d only been half awake. Shot records had
also been mentioned and Tyler wondered how they’d gotten those and
faked the name. He ran his hand over his shorn hair again. It felt
so weird, lighter. He checked the schedule again. After lunch he
had History, Physics, and then Track. He rolled his shoulders.
Well, he did like to run. Not that he could smash any records on
four hours’ sleep, but whatever…

The administrator eyed
the clock. “Go on down to the band hall. Number 427. Band Director
Garcia will show you the ropes.”

Tyler rose, shook her
hand and walked out, a little disbelieving he’d gotten this far. He
figured he’d have to call for backup in about five seconds, when he
got recognized. His appearance in small-town Texas would blow up on
the Internet, the news, the radio. He glanced at his schedule.
Marching band. Marissa must have added that because he was in a
band. But he didn’t play an instrument. He should skip to the tater
tots. He dialed Marissa, not caring what time it was in L.A. and
that this wasn’t technically an emergency. “Marching band?”

“Marching band. What?”
Marissa answered with a groggy voice.

“Marching band.” He
touched the rim of his glasses. “Marching band.
And
glasses?
Tell the truth. You want to make sure I never get laid again…”

Marissa snickered.
“Keep your hands off my cousin.”

No problem. “You’re the
only green-eyed Texan I have my eye on. You get tired of Garrett,
give me a call.” Garrett would rip his arms off for saying that.
Was Garrett with her? He grinned and hoped she had the phone on
speaker.

“Get to class.” Marissa
clicked off.

Tyler ended the call
and shoved the phone in his pocket, pulling the button-down shirt
over it. Marching band. Freaking joke. He’d get that switched after
lunch.

Painted concrete-block
walls marked his way down to the band hall. They were covered with
posters and announcements and it all seemed surreal. Fake. Like he
was on another shoot. Models would be waiting around the corner in
short skirts and heavy makeup. Jerry and Ian would be in the
bathroom coking it up. Hugh would be yelling at them to get their
shit together and get on set. The lights, the camera, and the focus
would all be on him. ’Cause screw the musicians and their eff’d-up
personalities. The singer was the star and everyone knew it. He
freaking hoped this worked because he could use a break.

He entered the band
hall.

Chairs lined the curved
risers, giving everyone a clear view of where the conductor would
stand. The conductor. Geez. Sheets of music lay on small plastic
chairs. His shoulders eased at the sight of the music. Lyrics spun
through his head. Damn. He wished they’d enrolled him in choir.
He’d blow this school away. He’d blow the town away. He’d blow the
world away. Just as he’d done in packed stadiums all summer long.
He’d blow his cover.

Music filtered from the
open doorway. Godawful country music. The same twangy crap Baylee
played back at the trailer when she was screaming for him to hurry
up in the bathroom. He’d just had his hair bleached. His stylist
always did a twenty-minute conditioning treatment after a dye job.
Like he’d wanted to freaking wait out the conditioner. Twangy cries
of “chew tobacco” and “woman done me wrong” wailed out. Country
music belonged in barns.

The song switched to
something slow and needy.

Pathetic. He’d never
sing that crap.

Tyler dropped his bag
on the nearest chair and strode along the big glass window to a
door marked
Director Roberto Thomas Garcia’s Office
.

He slammed to a stop in
the doorway with the same speed that an unplugged amp dropped
sound.

Holy shit.

Not Roberto
Thomas.

She stood with her back
to him. She had on short shorts. Thin cotton ones that hugged her
curves. A neon-green sports bra. Nothing else. She raised a
T-shirt, her arms high. The muscles in her back tightened over
creamy skin he planned to touch. He’d give up his next sold-out
show at Reliant Stadium to glide his hands across her back. She
shrugged on the T-shirt, covering the dip of her waist with baggy
cotton. He bit back an unmanly whimper.

She stepped into khaki
walking shorts over the tiny fitted ones that barely covered her
ass. At her feet lay the remnants of a black-and-green polyester
band uniform. He raised his gaze.

Her hair was long. Dark
brown. She tied it on top of her head in one of those twisted knots
girls always did when they woke up in his bed. The style begged him
to pull out the tie. Sink his hands into her silky hair. His heart
pounded, and he swallowed against his dry throat. Maybe he’d stay
in band after all.

Striving for casual, he
leaned against the doorjamb. He crossed one ankle over the other
and folded his arms across his chest. According to more than one
L.A. photographer, the position showed off his biceps. Important.
Even if they were covered by the freaking farm-boy shirt. “Is this
how you welcome all new musicians?” He deepened his voice. “By
stripping?”

She didn’t squeal. She
turned slowly, as if used to teasing.

She was his age. Her
dark blue eyes glinted. “It’s a hundred degrees outside. Literally.
We strip as soon as we can, or dress rehearsals would kill us.” She
flicked her fingers like she touched a stage light. “Oops. We
melted another student.” Her lips curled deeper and the light in
her eyes grew. She eyed him up and down. “Musician?” The edge in
her voice became eager. Just how he liked them.

Musician? He was a
freaking rock star. So. Yeah. Musician. He let his lids lower and
he checked her out. He liked her Cupid’s bow mouth and pixie chin.
He liked her drawling voice. She wasn’t glossy or flash. But he
knew what she hid under that baggy T-shirt. Cotton was his new
thing. As of right now. He wanted in. Now. He’d raise the hem over
her head, and…

He ditched the thought
and gave her a slow smile. “Yep. I’m your new musician.” He checked
out her chest. “Aren’t you going to throw your bra at me?” He was
ready for her to make her move. He deepened his smile and eyed her
boobs. “I’d like that. Even if it is a sports bra.”

This guy was hot, in a
boy-next-door-who-reads-poetry-out-in-the-pasture kind of way.
Reads poetry in a deep, rich, velvety voice. Aria shook off her
melting reaction to the tall, hot, unfamiliar guy. How long had he
been standing there? Couldn’t be long. She replayed his words and
held in a laugh. “Is that what they told you? To get you to join
band? Bras would fly?” She snickered as the image bubbled. Lacy
bras dangling from the feathery tails on the back of their
lizard-shaped hats. Guys marching on.

Like that would
happen.

She stopped herself
short of snorting and opened her mouth to tell him the reality of
Mighty Lizard Band life at Leithville. Broken instruments. Ragged
uniforms. Lost pride. Then she pictured him leaving. Running at
record speed toward the guidance counselor to change his elective.
A potential band member gone before his boots hit the field. She
pressed her lips together and dug for deception to keep him
here.

She wouldn’t have cared
if he had a visible, surgically inoperable tail. The band needed
musicians. Badly. They’d cut a hole in the uniform to accommodate
his tail.

Ethan and Dylan, her
best players, had said they’d quit if she tried to strap another
instrument around their necks. The band needed warm bodies, and his
looked hot. Sizzling hot. He could carry any instrument on field,
no problem. No whining about the weight or heat as the
hundred-degree sun blazed down on the metal. Not with those
shoulders.

Aria smiled, trying not
to show all her teeth and reveal her feral desperation. She didn’t
want to scare him off. This
could
be a hot gig that got him
girls. It wasn’t. But, it
could
be.

She gestured to one of
the side chairs and sank into the other. Sheet music crunched under
her thigh, and she pulled the papers free and attempted smoothing
the ends. “We were finishing up practice in the parking lot when
Director Garcia got the text. He sent me back up here to greet the
new guy. Welcome.” She tried to contain her over-eager smile.
“You’re Tyler Steele, right? Baylee’s cousin. Baylee’s a great
flutist. I’m Aria Harris. You’re going to love the band. Love it.”
Her voice rose on a squeak. “And you can play anything. Anything.”
Her voice hit an operatic decibel on the last word, and the sound
repelled her. She made herself stop babbling and took a breath.

Harmonious chords were
everything. Melody. Music. For now. For this last year she’d get to
play, she had to relish every second. She eased her hands under her
thighs, like she did at the doctor’s office when they’d swabbed for
strep last year. As if the weight on her fingers would keep her
from grabbing him by the ends of his button-down shirt and begging
him not to tear out of here.

Tyler leaned back in
the chair as if her enthusiasm repulsed him. He rubbed his left ear
over an empty piercing. “They told you I play nothing, right? As in
nothing
?”

Her heart sank briefly,
but the sound of his voice made it beat harder. What a voice. No
way such a smooth voice didn’t have great lungs. And they’d use
them. Even if he had half a lung, they’d use him. Because the
Mighty Lizard Band couldn’t be picky. The Mighty Lizard Band had no
standards, just empty seats. And the number of empty seats grew
each week as students switched electives. Even after the date when
they were supposed to be locked in. They found a way out. The
freaking wuss of a guidance counselor caved every time. Electives
should have been locked in by now. But no. She was down a tuba, a
drummer, a bass clarinet, and an oboe player.

And, the Mighty Lizard
Band had repaired a lot of the instruments so the occasional
god-awful screech rarely happened anymore. And the uniforms. They
were getting a partial shipment in today. Aria waved her hand in
the air and kept herself from defending the program. “
I
can
teach you any instrument.” Not anything. But a lot. Aunt Bev had
taught her a ton about music.

“Okay.” Tyler shifted
again, and something in his look eased. “Bass.”

“Bass clarinet.”

“Bass guitar. You said
anything.”

He knew nothing about
band. Nothing. What school fight song featured a guitar? None.
Nowhere. Never had. Never would. She sank her teeth into her bottom
lip to keep from rejecting his idea aloud. How did she correct him
without him running off? “I
can
teach you bass. But bass
doesn’t exactly have a role in the marching band. You could play
drums or sax or…”