With the Band Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2014 Jean Haus

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Skyscape, New York

  www.apub.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.

  ISBN-13: 9781477847091

  ISBN-10: 147784709X

  To my father-in-law: I’ll always remember listening to music with you—the Beatles, Lennon, Pearl Jam, Bush, and many more. Wish there could be more times and music with you. You are missed.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Like a stalker, I sit in my car waiting for him to come home. The apartment lot is only half full, and I’m parked on the far edge under the shade of a tree. It’s the middle of the afternoon and things are quiet. I fight the urge to hightail it back to the university on the county road that brought me here. The steady beat of Breaking Benjamin’s “I Will Not Bow” pounds from the car stereo. The song is supposed to be pumping me up, but my stomach is tight from nerves. Memories I’ve suppressed for over three years roll through me and set my pulse hammering like a war drum. Taking in a deep breath, I force myself to calm down and control my emotional turmoil. Older now, I’m stronger, wiser, and confident in myself.

  I can do this.

  An older Chevy Blazer pulls in front of apartment 5C. Clueless about what he drives, I lean forward, fists clenched so hard that my pink nails dig into my palms. When a guy bounds out of the driver’s side, he’s facing away from me. All I can make out is the back of his T-shirt, which says Absolute Lawn Care. I don’t recognize the curly hair but as the guy starts walking, the swagger looks familiar. When he turns his head, I catch sight of his profile under the mop of curls as he unlocks the door to 5C.

  Bingo.

  The door closes and I draw in a deep breath. Get your shit together, Peyton. You will do this. Still, I sit. I flick off the radio and stare at his apartment door. Several minutes go by, yet other than gripping the steering wheel, I’m frozen.

  Following a long internal pep talk, I glance in the mirror and then tuck the long layers of blonde hair sweeping across my forehead behind one ear. I consider applying lip gloss, maybe some powder, but don’t reach for my purse. This isn’t a social call.

  I finally force myself out of my car and across the lot to apartment 5C. After straightening my tank top, smoothing my shorts, I take two deep breaths. Three loud knocks and several long minutes later, the door opens. The slight creak of its hinges might as well be the boom of a Pandora’s box being opened.

  I refuse to lower my gaze as he glares at me through the half-open door. He’s wearing the same twisted expression that I recognize from the times we’ve crossed paths before—in the outdoor commons area or canteen or library—at random times over the past three years at the university we both attend. His clear disdain for me drips like venom into the bright Michigan summer afternoon. Mercifully, we’ve never had a class together.

  I want to run back to my car, but I meet the loathing in his blue gaze without blinking.

  His fresh outfit and wet curls tell me he just got out of the shower. He’s got one hand holding the door open and the other clamped over a book opened against his thigh. The knuckles on both turn white as he stares at me.

  “What do you want?” he asks icily.

  “Hello, Sam,” I say casually, ignoring the anxiety rushing through me. “We need to talk.”

  He starts to close the door as his lips twist into a scowl. “Still not interested in hearing anything you have to say.”

  Feeling a sudden surge of anger that overrides my anxiety, I push the door open with my foot, my flip-flop sliding across the glossy metal doorstep. “You think I’d wait over three years to come and talk about that? I’m here about your tour.”

  At the last word, he lets go of the door and the book drops from his hand and plops to the floor as I almost fall into the room. Onto him. Luckily, I catch myself on the door frame.

  He points at me angrily, his finger stabbing the air. His dark curls flop over his forehead. “What about my tour? How do you know about the tour?” His voice rises in volume with each question. “We haven’t even announced we’re going on tour yet.”

  Two girls coming home to the next apartment watch us.

  “Could you please let me in?” I say through clenched teeth.

  Though his jaw tightens, he steps aside, bending to pick up the book. “Five minutes is about all I can take of you.”

  Shoulders back, I ignore the insult and march past him into a man cave. I’m surprised that the movie posters covering the walls are in frames. The sagging sofa and beat-up coffee table are used yet the huge flat screen on the wall is brand-new. Abandoned cups and food wrappers litter the tables. It’s the standard male college apartment and has a familiarity that boosts my confidence for the awkward conversation ahead.

  I hear the door click shut and turn around to find him leaning against it, staring at me with arms crossed and the book tucked under a biceps. I feel exposed under his cool regard. Like we’ve gone back in time and I’m about to be destroyed all over again. Forcing myself to push the thought away—I’m not that girl anymore—I cross my arms too, reflecting his pose. “Before I explain, I want you to know that Romeo came to me.”

  His eyes widen a bit. “What are you talking about?”

  I had a long explanation rehearsed, but instead I blurt, “He wants me to go on tour with Luminescent Juliet.”

  Sam’s face contorts in disgust and his arms drop to his sides. The book he’s holding plummets to the floor again with a loud thud. “You? Hell no. Why?”

  Though I expected it, his extreme dismay throws me. I force myself to remain calm and take a deep breath. “To take pictures, write a daily blog, and keep up on media accounts. Oh, and also to run the merchandise booth,” I add absently. Though selling T-shirts doesn’t appeal to me, gaining experience and, possibly, recognition as a music journalist does.

  He pushes away from the door and in two steps he’s standing less than a foot from me. “Why the hell would he ask you?”

  Though the living room isn’t that big, I hold my ground, refusing to back down, or escape into the connected kitchen, as he leans closer. In such close proximity, I become aware that he’s not thin and lanky anymore. He has filled out and it’s all muscle. One biceps has a black, curling tattoo. Or tattoos? I can’t tell from this angle, but either way, it surprises me for some rea
son. The book he’s holding has a picture of Steve Martin on it, and that fits the old Sam—he always used to read funny stuff. The T-shirt he’s wearing, with its simple graphic lettering that says The Doors, also fits the old Sam. A tattoo does not. “Come on, Sam. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed my work in the school paper.”

  “I don’t pay attention to that shit, but yeah, I’ve heard.” He runs a hand down his face. “Damn. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s just like Romeo to use someone from school. Just like he hired the audio-visual team to launch us,” he adds absently, as if talking to himself. He rubs his jawline before his gaze comes back to me. “You told him no, right?”

  “I told him yes already.”

  “Without talking to me?” he asks incredulously.

  I shake my head and resist the nervous urge to gnaw on my lip. Then a wave of irritation washes over me. My emotions are like a seesaw. “Really? Are you saying I need your permission?”

  He crosses his arms again. “I am in the band.”

  I consider his pull in their college band, which I’ve recently researched to death. Sam plays bass. Justin sings. Gabe is on drums. And Romeo plays guitar. From what I’ve seen, he also runs the show. “I have a hard time believing you really want to explain our past to your bandmates. I have an even harder time believing they’ll care about us cheating on your brother over three years ago.”

  His upper lip curls at me. “Are you doing this just to piss me off?”

  “Get over yourself,” I snap, finally losing a bit of my cool. “I don’t want to be around you either, but it’s a great opportunity. Whatever coverage I write will go national. Maybe there’s a book in it.”

  “A book?” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up.

  I nod. “Romeo agreed if you guys get big, I can use whatever blog stuff I write for a book about the tour.”

  “Riding on our coattails,” he sneers.

  “Working hard and promoting you,” I say.

  Sam stares at me in anger, his muscular body so still it’s eerie. At last he asks, “Did you tell Romeo anything about us?”

  The word us grates on my nerves. “Why would I tell him about the past? About Seth? I didn’t even tell him I knew you, and that’s the reason for my little visit. As far as I’m concerned, we’re strangers.”

  Sam’s lips twist into a thin, mocking line and his eyes slowly rake over me. “Strangers, huh?”

  Gah. I want to smack that look off his face. “It’s been more than three years, Sam. That’s a long time. Almost the span of high school or college,” I say flatly. “So yes, strangers.”

  We’re both silent, staring at each other, when the door behind him opens.

  “Hey, dude,” the tall guy says, nearly colliding with Sam as he walks in. “I got your shit for the tour—” He pauses when he notices me and utters a slightly confused-sounding “Hey.” Then he turns to Sam. “Sorry, didn’t know you had company.”

  “It’s all right,” Sam says, still staring at me. “Could you give us a minute, Jeff?”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Jeff says, striding past us into the connected kitchen.

  At the thud of a door closing down the hallway off the kitchen, Sam says, “So you came here to tell me we’re going to pretend to be strangers. Anything else?” His expression is cold.

  “I wanted to warn you and clear the air. I’m hoping we can agree to get along over the next six weeks.”

  “Like friends?”

  “Yeah, like friends,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “I don’t want to make things hard for you, and I’m hoping you won’t make my job unpleasant for me.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “So I’m supposed to just accept that we’re stuck together on a bus for six weeks straight?”

  “Ignore me if that’s what it takes, but being a dick isn’t going to change the past.”

  His expression turns condescending. “Ah, so you think I’m going to be the problem.”

  “Yes, Sam, I’m worried you haven’t grown up and will act like an ass instead of an adult. Should I be?”

  He shrugs, leans against a chair, crosses his orange-socks-clad feet, and gives me a wry look. “Probably.”

  Anger shoots through me. Feeling like I might combust, I clench my fists beneath my folded arms. It takes a few moments, but I push down my anger and coolly say, “I’m doing this, even if I have to deal with you being a jerk. This has the possibility of opening doors for me.”

  Still watching me, not blinking, Sam slowly moves forward until his thickly muscled body is just inches from mine. “You’re probably right,” he says. “The past isn’t going to change anyone’s mind about letting you on the tour. But you’re right to feel worried. I’m going to make the next six weeks hell for you every chance I get.” He smirks at me. His gaze is furious.

  An angry “f-you” almost escapes from my mouth. Instead, I swallow the expletive and say evenly, “You assume I’m just going to take it? No retaliation?” I step around Sam and open the door to the apartment. Looking back over my shoulder, I say, “Paybacks are hell, and hell is usually a two-way street. Think about that.” Then I step out into the summer sunshine, slamming the door behind me.

  I don’t rush to my car, but instead stroll casually across the parking lot. But once I’m in the driver’s seat, my entire body trembles from adrenaline. My fingers shake as I push the key into the ignition. Gripping the steering wheel, I force myself to breathe in deeply through my nose and let out air slowly through my mouth.

  Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  When Romeo called me, it had come out of the blue. And his news—that Luminescent Juliet had been invited on a national tour with two other major bands—had stunned me. I knew the band was huge on campus. And I knew they had released an indie album a few months before. But during those first few minutes of talking to him, I’d been surprised the band was hitting the big time—and caught equally off guard that he was calling to tell me about it. Sure, I’d written one piece about them for the school paper, back when they’d first started drawing big crowds. But it wasn’t like I was a groupie or anything. Actually, just the opposite. I’d seen them play only once, at the beginning of sophomore year. And the instant I’d recognized the bass player was Sam, I’d vowed to stay away from all things Luminescent Juliet.

  The minute Romeo offered me the job—to go on tour with them and chronicle their every move—I realized that he’d obviously researched my credentials but not my personal life. I could tell that he knew nothing about the past Sam and I shared. Not that the past would have mattered to Romeo—because my work is good. Professional. Smart, with just enough edge. It turned out that Romeo had interviewed everyone who was going to be on the school newspaper’s editorial team in the upcoming year. My obsession with music was the deciding factor between me and the other two people he interviewed. Luckily for me, our interview had veered off course and into a deep conversation about the merits of ’70s punk versus ’90s grunge rock. I’d worried that my very vocal opinions had screwed up the interview up. Instead, they had sealed the deal.

  As soon as Romeo made me an offer, I took the job. My goal was to become a music journalist. I’d been seriously into music since I was twelve, so touring with a band and writing about it was like a dream come true. Finally, my work would be seen beyond the pages of a college newspaper. I just didn’t want to deal with Sam. Or the past.

  But now that my conversation with the jerk is over, I feel certain that even dealing with him will be a small price to pay for a huge step forward in my career. I’m pretty much over the past. I was never the girl they made me out to be, and I’ve come a long way since the days when a hateful rumor was enough to level me. I’ve slowly learned how to rise above the rumors and not look back.

  I turn the key in the ignition with a feeling of resolve.

  The past will not affect my future.

  I drive away without looking in my rear-view mirror, back at Sam’s apartment.

  Chapter 2


  Standing in the middle of my bedroom, I read over the long list of what to pack for the tour—more like an instruction booklet—in my hand again:

  One small suitcase

  One backpack

  Fifteen pairs of socks

  Fifteen pairs of underwear

  Laundry bag with name on it

  No more than three pairs of shoes

  One box of nonperishable groceries

  On and on it goes. Romeo is one thorough guy—although it has crossed my mind that anal-retentive might be a better descriptor. When I met him and Justin to review preparations for leaving, I’d been unable to hide my surprise at the pages of instructions they’d handed me. Justin had laughed when my eyebrows rose, but Romeo explained that he’d spent hours researching the best tricks for surviving a band tour, and that these seemingly small things turned out to be big issues. He wanted to take care of the details in advance so everything could go smoothly on the road, so the band could just focus on playing.

  One thing I could tell from his list—the guys in Luminescent Juliet were slobs. There was a whole section of bullet points about who was supposed to clean up what . . . and when. I wrinkled my nose at that part. There were definitely going to be drawbacks to my spending the next six weeks with four musicians on a bus. Especially given that one of them couldn’t stand me.

  I tap my foot to Nirvana’s “All Apologies” playing from my iPod deck on the desk and glance over the huge pile of things on my bed. I’ve gathered everything on the list, plus my camera gear and computer, and I can already imagine Romeo, the apparent micromanager, saying something about all the stuff. Just as I’m debating whether I can squeeze one more outfit into my suitcase, my roommate and cousin, Jill, comes into the room, holding two frosty margaritas.

  She wiggles her blonde eyebrows at me.

  I smile. Starting when Jill and I were both about eight years old, we got into the habit of telling people we were sisters. Since we both have brown eyes and blonde hair, everyone usually believed us. Then, by the time we were around thirteen, I started putting on weight. We didn’t look like sisters again until our senior year of high school, after I got serious about dieting and exercising. Of course, these days we don’t tell anyone we’re sisters, but we still look alike. We both keep our long, straight blonde hair cut a few inches past our shoulders. We dress similarly, partly because we share our closets. I fit into most of her things but not all. And unless I starve myself, which I refuse to do after too many years of strict dieting, I’ll always weigh more than she does. Jill is an inch shorter than me, and she’s built thin. I’m a little curvier. But after struggling with my self-image for years, I’m okay with my curves. So what if I have to buy bigger-sized jeans in certain styles? Size is just a number. There are worse things than being bootylicious. Like being obsessed with what a scale says.