His New Jam

By Shannyn Schroeder

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hot & Nerdy

SHANNYN SCHROEDER

LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Each book I write requires research. Sometimes, I can sit at my computer and Google everything. Other times, I need to reach out to actual people. I know nothing about music (other than I like to listen to it) and even less about marching band. My own kids were a pretty good resource when it came to understanding music lessons. It's good to know they learned something. I want to thank Ryann Murphy and her friend Amy Mackey, who both shared their college marching band experiences with me. I used what they offered, but any mistakes are all my own. There's a world of talented musicians out there, so I also want to thank all the musicians who put their videos up on YouTube for me to learn from.

Chapter 1

S
ydney shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth and stared at the calendar. Two weeks. That's all she had left to suffer through until marching band was over for the year. Two weeks of practice and drills and football games. Then she could pack up the fucking cymbals until next summer.

Her older sister, Trisha, came into the kitchen still in her robe. “Aren't you going to be late?”

“Whatever.” Sydney slurped at her milk to prevent Trish from nagging again. They were both well aware she needed the scholarship the marching band gave her for school. It didn't mean Syd had to like it.

“I don't see what's so bad about band. You get to play the instrument you love. The music's not all bad. So the uniforms are a little dorky, but you look good on the field.” Trisha poured herself a cup of coffee.

“I don't get to play the instrument I love. I play the damn cymbals. Just once I would like to be given an actual drum. I sucked it up last year as the new kid, waiting, thinking that at some point, as guys graduate, I could step up. Instead, it's this patronizing attitude. The drums are heavy. They'll be awkward. There are already other players waiting. But the worst is that I'm so good at the cymbals, they don't want to lose me.” She dumped her bowl in the sink. “It's all bullshit. I don't even know why I need to finish school. I want to play. I don't need a degree to do that.”

Trisha sighed the same way their mom always had. “We made a deal with Dad. You get to live with me in the city as long as you're in school.”

“That was when I was underage. I'm twenty-one. I can live wherever I want.”

Trish patted her arm. “But you don't want to let Dad down. Suck it up. Only another year and a half until graduation. Only a few weeks until you can forget about band for a while.”

It annoyed her how well her sister knew her. Of course she wouldn't let their dad down. He'd decided the only way for them to have a good life was to go to college, as if college could solve every problem.

He held fast to the idea that if he had gone to college, his life, and by extension their lives, would've been so much easier.

So she was in school, getting a graphic design degree that would be useless because all she wanted to do was play music. Real music, rock, with a band, for an audience that wanted to hear it.

But Trish did have a point: Only a few weeks and she could say good-bye to being out in the cold, stomping on hard grass, pretending to enjoy herself during a football game. She tossed her backpack into her car and drove to the field. She shoved a hat on her head and grabbed her cymbals from the trunk. Just as she slammed the lid down, someone whistled at her.

Sydney's head popped up, ready to berate whatever asshole thought it was okay to catcall, when she saw her friend Emma running down the aisle of cars. She skidded to a halt in front of Sydney. “Whoa. You look ready to bite someone's head off.”

“I thought you were some guy whistling at me.”

“Lighten up. So what if I was? You look ready to commit bodily harm.”

“I'm just extra cranky. It's cold and I want the season to be over. Plus, it's a new week, so that tenor hasn't done his shit yet.”

“What?”

“You know who I'm talking about. The tenor sax guy who hits on anything female. Every week since the summer, I can't walk by without him playing some song at me.”

Emma smirked. “How do you know he's playing for you?”

They headed toward the field together. “He stands off to the side and waits for me to get within ten feet before playing a note. Trust me, he's flirting, in his own lame way.”

Emma nudged her shoulder. “His name is Hunter. He's a huge flirt, but totally harmless. He's having fun. He does it to make people smile. No one takes him seriously. As far as I know, he's never dated anyone from band. Plus, he's cute.”

Emma had her there. The guy was cute, but even Syd knew he had a reputation for dating around a lot. She hadn't given him too much thought. Okay, that was a lie. Last season she crushed on him pretty hard, but he hadn't given her a second glance. She had no idea what had changed, but these past few months had been torturous.

She had no desire to waste her time on a fling with some guy who would toss her aside next week. “Does anyone ever flirt back? Maybe that's why he doesn't date anyone.”

“Oh, no, plenty flirt back. It's a game to keep things fun. How could you not have caught on?”

“It wasn't included in band camp.” Sydney wasn't quite sure what to do with that. They neared the mob of people that would turn into organized rows of musicians. Sure enough, Tenor Guy stood off to the side, staring in her direction even as he carried on a conversation with another sax player.

He said nothing as he brought his instrument up and played the first notes. Syd continued walking, trying to ignore him. She got a few feet past him when the notes of his song bounced through her mind and recognition hit. He was playing the damn Disney song, “Let It Go.”

Oh, yeah, this guy was hilarious. So he thought she was an ice queen. He got close to the chorus and Syd paused mid-stride. Just as the ice queen accepted her fate, Sydney clashed her cymbals together and winked over her shoulder at Hunter. She was fine with being cold.

Holy shit. Hunter blinked and almost missed a note. Not only did Sydney Peters turn around and acknowledge that he was playing a song for her, she actually winked at him. Sure, it was more of a fuck-you wink than a flirtatious one, but it was still progress. He'd tried everything since summer to get her to react. The Pink Panther song didn't get her; neither did “Happy” or “Call Me Maybe.” Although he thought he'd gotten an eye roll for that last one.

He liked to flirt with the band members. It kept things interesting when they spent a bunch of time marching and getting yelled at. It never went anywhere beyond fun conversation. There was something about Sydney that made him relentless. She always looked borderline miserable coming to practice. He thought maybe she wasn't a morning person, but even at games she looked irritated, like she'd rather be anywhere else than on the field.

She didn't talk to many people, except Emma. Emma was nice. For a trumpet player. But Sydney didn't strike him as nice, which made him want to poke at her. It had taken a long time, but he'd finally gotten a reaction.

He liked that wink so much he might reconsider his rule against dating a band member. He'd love to get her alone to see if she continued to be this distant and edgy. It was his last season of band, which was almost over, and he'd graduate in the spring. Maybe it was time to lift the ban on band members.

Practice was starting, so Hunter ran to get into place. While they gathered in formation to practice the drill, he couldn't help but smile.

Two hours later, practice ended and his fingers were numb. He should've gone to school somewhere in the South. He looked at the drum line to find Sydney, but he didn't see her face. Then he saw her on the outskirts of the group, edging away. Hunter took a step in her direction.

“Hey, Peters,” the drum major called.

Her head snapped up.

“Practice room at two o'clock. We need to run through this again.”

Although her jaw clenched, she offered a sharp nod. Then she turned and hustled downfield. Approaching her now wouldn't be smart. He wasn't even sure what he'd say. But he got out of class at two thirty, so maybe he'd wander on down to the practice rooms to bump into her.

“Hey, Hunter,” Mike called. He was another tenor, and they sometimes hung out, but Hunter wouldn't call them friends. “You having a party for New Year's again?”

“You know it.”

“Can I bring a friend?”

“Don't see why not.” Hunter put his sax into the case. “I'll text you details later. I need to talk to my roommate about it.”

“Cool. See you Wednesday.”

Hours later, Hunter had walked past music practice rooms and had no luck finding Sydney. He checked the time. He was supposed to meet Adam and Free at the comic shop at three thirty. If he didn't head out soon, he'd be late.

He hit the last hallway of practice rooms. It figured the drummers would take the biggest rooms in the farthest building. As he clomped down the stairs, Daniel—not Dan or Danny—the drum major, came out of a room. When no one followed, Hunter thought he'd missed her.

Until a slow beat came from the room where Daniel had left. He stood outside the room and listened for a minute. Then he recognized the tune, the same one he'd played to Sydney this morning. He silently opened the door and entered. She noticed him immediately and shot him a dirty look, but didn't stop playing.

Hunter took a seat at another set of drums and picked up where she played. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. She picked up the tempo and he followed. She ramped it up again.

Now it just felt like a competition.

He kept up with her—barely. She was good, and he wasn't sure why that kind of surprised him, but it did.

When the song ended, he stood and set the sticks on the stool. “Remind me to never go up against you in any kind of battle. You're relentless.”

“You're one to talk.”

He smiled. “Seriously. You're good.”

“You're not bad yourself. For a reed sucker.”

He let the playful insult roll off him. “So what are you pissed off about?”

“Who said I'm pissed?”

“Your face.”

“Maybe I just have a resting bitch face.”

He laughed. He couldn't help it. She was funny without trying. “Nah. I've seen the resting bitch face.” With his index finger he circled the air in front of her head. “This is pissed off. My guess is Daniel said something.”

“Daniel's always saying something.” She stood and tucked her sticks in her backpack.

Hunter knew he was about to lose her. “Can I ask you a question?”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “You just did.”

“Why do you hate band?”

“Because it sucks. It's boring. And I will forever be relegated to playing the cymbals, even though I play as well as, if not better, than at least half the drum line.”

Ahhh . . . now it made sense. Those guys tended to be a little full of themselves. “So why do it?”

“It pays the bills.”

“Huh?”

“Scholarship.” She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and headed for the door.

“See you at practice Wednesday?”

“As if I have a choice?”

She sounded so miserable he wanted to cheer her up. “I take requests.”

“What?” she asked with her hand on the doorknob.

“You seemed to like ‘Let It Go.' I take requests. Something you want to hear?”

She turned and leaned against the door. “Are you saying that if I name a song, you're going to go home and learn it just to play it for me at practice on Wednesday?”

Not exactly. He was thinking more like a song for next week, but she was issuing a challenge. “Sure.”

She tilted her head up and narrowed her eyes again as she studied the ceiling for inspiration. When her gaze returned to his, she smiled wickedly, and he knew he was in trouble.

“ ‘Sweet Child O' Mine.' ”

He stared at her.

“Guns N' Roses. See you Wednesday, Tenor.” Then she slipped out the door before he could form a response.

He knew the song, but it wasn't one he'd ever considered playing with his sax. His drums? Sure. His guitar? Even better. His night just became full.

He checked his watch. If he sped all the way to the comic shop, he might make it on time. Barely. Catching crap from his friends for being late in order to make real contact with Sydney was well worth it.

When he pulled up at the shop, he was late, so he rushed through the door. Free and Adam were standing at the counter. “Why did I have to come here if we're just talking about the New Year's Eve party? Couldn't we do this at home later?”

“Free has to meet Cary at the gym.”

“Then I have rehearsal,” Free added.

“Why couldn't it wait? We have, like, a month before the party.” He'd avoided this conversation because he had a feeling he knew what it was about.

Free straightened. “We need to talk about invitations. We don't want a repeat of last year.”

“Why not? Last year was epic.”

Adam crossed his arms. “Your word-of-mouth campaign led to an apartment full of strangers.”

“They weren't all strangers.”

“Just the entire marching band.”