Rescue Page 3

  “Didn’t say that either.”

  Everyone thinks that Levi’s easygoing nature is his best quality. They’re all crazy. He might keep his mouth shut about things and he might have a talent for smoothing over my and my brother’s violent tendencies, but Levi is no pushover.

  “You obviously want to say something. Why don’t we just get it over with?”

  He rubs the back of his neck absently, staring hard at the wall. “It was just a little bit like déjà vu, that’s all.”

  “What was?”

  “Listening to you in there. Talking about how you needed to be active. How the tour would help.” He finally looks over at me. “Pretty sure you fed me that same bullshit at the beginning of the summer.”

  “What?”

  “Before the last tour. When I told you I didn’t think it was a good idea to go out the way you were feeling. When you told me that your doctor thought it was a bad idea too. That was the excuse you gave me. That it would help you to keep busy.” His gaze is hard as he stares at me, and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe very well. I have a vague recollection of saying that to him when he came to see me in Ohio all those months before. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  The thing is, I meant those words when I said them then just as much as I mean them now. I did think that it would help me to have some work to focus on, something to get me out of my head. I was sure of it. Was I wrong then? Am I wrong now?

  “The same exact words,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I believed you.” He turns away, begins to walk to the lobby. But then he pauses, barely turning his head over his shoulder. “Same words, Len. Just look at how that turned out.”

  Chapter Three

  Haylee

  With only a few minutes left before our big audition, my bandmates and I are doing what we do best—snacking, drinking beer, and ragging on each other.

  “Haylee, stop hogging all the Doritos.”

  “What’d you say?” I ask, grabbing another handful. “You want me to eat all the Doritos? You’re so sweet.”

  James glares at me, and I grin, shoving a few more chips in my mouth before passing the bag off to him. “Thank you,” he says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “You do realize your teeth have turned bright orange, right? Minutes before the biggest audition of your life.”

  I roll my eyes, adjusting the pillow behind my head. “You sound just like Louis.”

  “Ooh, James,” Dylan says, pushing my feet to the side so he can join me on the couch. “She compared you to Louis. Need some lotion for that wicked burn?”

  James grunts something inaudible and tosses a few chips in my direction. “Hey!” Dylan complains, brushing Dorito crumbs from his sleeve. “Watch it, man.”

  “Who’s talking about the biggest audition of our lives?” Lance asks from the doorway.

  “James is shaming me about having Dorito breath before the amazing Ransome brothers show up,” I say. Lance rolls his eyes and flops down on the rug in front of the couch.

  “Anyone else think this is stupid?” he asks. “The whole pseudo-rehearsal-audition bullshit?”

  Dylan shrugs. “I don’t know. Louis might actually have a point this time.”

  “Boo!” Lance and I shout in unison. There’s a strict band rule forbidding agreeing with our manager about anything, even on those rare occasions when he happens to be right.

  Dylan holds up his hands. “I’m just saying. If the band wants to sign off on the label’s decision to bring us in as the opener, that probably means they want to hear us.”

  “Then they should have asked us straight up to audition,” Lance says. “But they didn’t. They asked for a meeting. This whole scheduling it in the middle of rehearsal so they would just happen to hear us is one of Louis’s lame ideas.” He nudges my knee. “I know you agree, Hay.”

  I shrug. “It feels pretty contrived. But what are we gonna do? I, for one, am not in the mood to go eight rounds with Lou today.”

  Dylan peers at my face. “You do look a little rough, babe.”

  I glare at him. “Thanks. Between you and James I’m definitely feeling confident enough to sing in front of the biggest rock band in the country.”

  “Told you to lay off the Doritos,” James says.

  “Don’t worry, Hay,” Lance says, grinning up at me. “Cash Ransome was pretty into you the last time we saw them. Just bat your eyes a little.” He squints at my chest. “Maybe lose the flannel so he can get a glimpse of the girls.”

  I grab the pillow from behind my head and throw it at him. “Fuck off, Lance.”

  He laughs, catching the pillow easily and tossing it behind his own head. “Thanks, babe.”

  “Obviously if someone is going to be slutty to get their attention, it’s going to be Layla,” James says, peeking across the room at our sleeping drummer. How she can sleep with our asshole bandmates in the room is beyond me. These boys never shut up.

  “I heard that,” she says, not opening her eyes.

  “Notice she doesn’t say I’m wrong,” James says in a loud stage whisper.

  “No one is going to be slutty to get their attention,” I say firmly, pulling myself up into a seated position. Not much point lounging now that I’ve lost my pillow. “We’re just going to play our songs and be polite at the meeting.”

  Of course Dylan chooses that moment to burp loudly.

  “Sometimes I think Louis is right,” I say. “You’re all hopeless.”

  “As opposed to you, Haylee,” James says, rolling his eyes. “The queen of class and refinement. Who just so happens to have challenged me to a farting contest the other day.”

  “Which I totally won.” I grin smugly. “Pathetic effort from you, by the way.”

  “You’re all gross,” Layla mutters, opening her eyes and stretching. “Can’t a person even catch a nap in here?”

  “Not our fault the two of you went out drinking until all hours last night,” Dylan says, pointing at me. “The rest of us were good little boys and got to bed at a decent hour like Lou told us to.”

  I snort. “Yeah. You’re so virtuous.”

  “What’s this about Cash Ransome flirting with you?” Layla asks me. “Where was I when this was happening?”

  I wave my hands dismissively. “It was at that Houston festival, two summers ago. We talked to the band for approximately five minutes. And Cash wasn’t flirting—”

  “Bullshit,” James says. “I was standing right there.”

  “Fine. But Cash Ransome flirts with everything that moves.”

  “He’s never flirted with me,” Layla says, frowning down at her clothes. “Maybe I should change into something a little more slutty.”

  “He never flirted with you because you ditched us after our set at that festival to hook up with the guy from that shitty techno pop group,” I remind her. “And that was the only time any of us have met Ransom. I promise you that if you were there, Cash would have been a chauvinist pig to you as well.”

  “I certainly hope that you don’t let him hear you talking like that,” Louis says from the doorway in his familiar, disapproving tone. Every single one of us groans. “What are you all doing, anyhow?” he asks, frowning around at us. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

  “Fun time’s over,” Dylan says.

  “Nothing kills fun nearly as fast as Louis Pander,” Layla agrees.

  “You’re all so funny and mature,” he says, glaring around as we stand, James shoving the Doritos behind a chair cushion so Louis won’t confiscate them—along with his half-full beer. Louis was pretty clear on his no-drinking-when-Ransom-comes-to-the-building rules for the afternoon. I follow the rest of the band from the makeshift lounging area in the corner over to our rehearsal space, sighing when Louis comes with us, clearly ramping up for his version of a pep talk.

  Sure enough, he stands before us as we take our spots by our instruments, his stance wide, arms crossed as he looks us over. Definitely in speech mode. “I just want to reiterate how importan
t this is.”

  I wonder, not for the first time, if Louis can sense the amount of hatred directed his way in the looks of my bandmates. If so, he clearly could not care less. Either that or he’s an excellent actor and missed his calling by going into band management.

  “This tour would be huge for Intrigue,” he continues. “Huge. The label is always looking at our overseas record sales, you know that. And, even better, it could lead to expanded opportunities here in the States. I hardly need to tell you that Ransom is the hottest rock band—”

  “If you hardly need to tell us, then why are you so insistent on telling us?” James asks. “Seriously, Louis. This is about the tenth time I’ve heard this speech.”

  It appears to be taking everything Louis has to keep calm. I can actually see his chest rise and fall with the deep breaths he’s taking, presumably to keep himself from going off on mouthy bass players.

  “It’s a big meeting,” he says, his voice a touch more tense than before. “I just want to make sure that you’ll all take it seriously.”

  “Of course we’ll take it seriously,” Dylan says from behind his amp. “You think we don’t want Intrigue to be successful? You think we like playing in these shitty dives night after night? I would fucking love to go to Europe with our label’s top-selling artists. They probably stay at, like, real hotels.”

  Layla laughs, taking her seat behind the drum kit. “As opposed to the prime one-star accommodations you’re so fond of booking us, Lou.”

  “If you want to tour with a successful band, you need to earn some success of your own. And success takes more than hard work, Dylan,” Louis says, his teeth gritted now as he glares at our smirking guitarist. I catch Layla’s eye and can’t hide my own smirk. Maybe it’s immature, but I can’t help but be amused by the guys’ efforts to get under Louis’s skin. There’s just something so satisfying about the way that vein in his forehead throbs when they get him going.

  “We know, we know,” James moans. “It takes an attention to image and a drive to chase down opportunities. Jesus. I could quote your damn speech in my sleep.”

  Louis’s face turns a dangerous shade of red, and Layla snorts. “This band—”

  “I thought it was a done deal, anyhow,” Lance interrupts. “You said the label wanted this.”

  “The label doesn’t have final say,” Louis snaps. “The band does. Or, rather, their father does, if I know anything about Will Ransome.”

  “Didn’t the band get the same CD their management did?” Lance asks. “You said they wanted to meet with us—why do we have to be playing when they get here if they didn’t ask us to audition?”

  “Because it won’t hurt for them to hear—and see—you live. So if you would all please just shut the hell up and get started, we could drop this whole—”

  “Excellent idea,” James says, pulling his bass over his head at once. “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”

  Since I’m pretty sure Louis’s head is about to explode, I turn away to plug in my guitar. Even though the band knows, from months of experience, that it’s almost always easier to just shut up and let Louis get his little speeches out of his system so we can play, we can never seem to manage it. It’s just too easy to wind Louis up. And, damn, do the boys in my band love winding him up.

  “How are you feeling, Haylee?” Louis asks, appearing at my mic stand. “Voice feel good today?”

  “Feels pretty good, Lou.” I try to ignore him so I can concentrate on tuning my instrument. The last thing I need before an audition—even a faux one like this—is Louis in my face, straining my nerves.

  “And… everything else? Everything else feel okay?”

  I look up from the guitar strings to glare at him. “Everything else? What on earth could you mean?”

  He at least has the decency to look slightly ashamed of himself. But the lines on his face harden quickly. “You know what I mean.”

  I shake my head in disgust. He really is an asshole. “I’m fine. Thanks so much for your concern, Lou. It’s so nice to know you have my back.”

  He blows out a long breath, his face falling a little. “I do have your back. That’s what this is all about. I don’t know why the five of you seem to insist on ignoring that.”

  He stomps away, earning me raised eyebrows from Layla across the room.

  “Can we get started?” Louis calls from the glass-enclosed control room at the front of the space. “Remember—when the band gets here, don’t stop what you’re doing. I’ll call you when we’re ready to talk.”

  “In other words,” Dylan mutters, adjusting his guitar strap, “just keep playing until the grown-ups say stop, little monkeys.”

  “All right, enough of the moping,” I say, turning to my bandmates. Everyone has taken their position behind me, and I try to forget about Louis sitting on the other side of the glass. Try to forget about the fact that one of the biggest rock bands in the world is on their way at this very minute to decide whether they want us on tour with them. Try not to think about the ways this could change our career—or about how it’s my fault we’re in need of the shot of life in the first place.

  “Let’s start with “Safe Shelter”, okay? We need a little work in the middle section—might as well be productive if we have to go through with this anyhow.”

  “Got it, boss,” Dylan answers. The others nod, and I feel myself relax. Louis doesn’t matter. Ransom doesn’t matter. This is what’s important—my band. The music. With my back to the glass, I can pretend that the rest of it doesn’t exist.

  “Count us off, Layla,” I say, nodding at her before turning back to my mic. She crashes her drumsticks together as she counts off the beat. I take a deep breath, close my eyes—and we’re off. If I felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist a minute ago, it’s nothing to the way it feels to play. My hands know the chords without any input from my brain. Dylan comes in on lead guitar, and then Lance is there on his keyboard. And behind their notes, Layla’s steady, pounding drum keeps the time while James’s bass line pulls it all together.

  We sound good, I think, allowing myself one smile before I start to sing.

  We get through “Safe Shelter” and three more songs before Ransom bothers to show up, twenty minutes late. Even if Louis hadn’t directed us to keep playing, I have no intention of stopping for their late asses. I’m in the zone, feeling better than I have all day now that we’re playing, and I don’t plan to let anyone—famous rock band or not—pull me out of that.

  The song ends, and before Louis can call out to us, I turn to Layla. “Firefight?”

  She nods, and we go right into the next song. Through the glass I can see Louis schmoozing with an older man—the famous Will Ransome, I would guess. The other guys are shaking hands with some suits in the booth, including Finn, our own A&R guy—who never even bothered to come in and say hi to us when he got to the building. Next to me, Dylan starts his guitar solo, and damn, he sounds good. He’s on right now, and I love it. I grin at him briefly before something in the booth catches my eye. The tallest Ransome kid, the drummer, I think, is laughing about something Finn said. None of them are even looking at us. None of them are listening to Dylan’s amazing guitar solo.

  Suddenly, I’m pissed. Probably not a good thing when we’re only a few measures away from my part. But fuck them, seriously. I get it coming from Lou and the executives—the whole pretentious, kiss-ass thing is second nature to guys like that. But you would think that the band, at least, would be conscious of fellow musicians playing their asses off ten freaking feet away.

  I step up to the microphone and open my mouth. The first verse is supposed to be pretty soft, a break after the harshness of the guitar open. But hell if I’m going to sing softly right now. I attack my guitar much harder than I’m supposed to, ripping out the chords. There’s a moment of disconnect as the band fumbles to match my intensity, but then I’m singing and who the hell cares.

  I close my eyes and just let go, belt
ing out the notes as loud as I know how. I lied to Louis before—my voice has been pretty scratchy all day, the natural consequence of staying out too late and drinking too much the night before. But it works for this sound, I think. A little raspiness never hurt anyone when they were belting their guts out.

  When I open my eyes I’m pleased to see every face in the control room is watching us now. Louis looks irritated, and I grin before jumping into the chorus.

  By the time we’re done, James is laughing at my side and I’m completely out of breath. And sweaty. Exactly how you want to look when you’re about to meet some serious rock stars. “The hell was that, Hay?” James asks. “I mean, I’m not complaining. You killed. But it’s not exactly the way we practiced it.”

  “Sorry if I threw you off,” I say, turning to the rest of the band. They’re all wearing expressions pretty similar to James’s amusement, and I shrug. “Guess I got a little mad.”

  They laugh, only cutting off when Louis’s voice filters through the sound system. He sounds polite, but I can hear the anger under the polished veneer. He’s never been a fan of us going off book. “Guys, you want to take a break? Ransom is here.”

  “Like we didn’t know that,” Dylan mutters, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. “It’s a fucking glass wall, idiot.”

  I grab a bottle of water and follow the rest of the band toward the sound room, which is pretty crowded with the guys from Ransom and all of the suits. As I’m wondering how in the hell they expect us to all fit in there, the tall Ransome kid I noticed laughing leaves the booth to join us in the rehearsal space.

  “Hey, I’m Reed,” he says, shaking James’s hand before turning to Dylan. “That was freaking awesome, you guys.” He shakes hands with everyone, reaching me last. “Shit, you can wail,” he says, laughing as he shakes my hand. I feel a little bad for getting so pissy about his laughter a minute ago—he seems pretty genuine.

  “Thanks,” I say. The other members of Ransom are filing out into the room behind him, the suits and Louis still talking to their dad in the booth. “Hey, I’m Daltrey,” the blondest one says. He doesn’t shake hands, but he grins at us. Holy crap, he’s good-looking in person, I think, automatically making eye contact with Layla. She waggles her eyebrows at me, and I stifle a laugh. “That was kick-ass,” Daltrey says to me. “Wish I could sing like that.”