Girl vs. Boy Band (3 page)

Lark knew her mother was right. People were starting to linger around them, glancing toward the baggage claim in search of Abbey Road, who, apparently, were on the verge of big-time fame. A few of these looky-loos were punching “Abbey Road” into their smartphones to find out exactly who Ollie, Aidan, and Max might be.

Search all you want, you won't find anything
, Lark warned them silently.
These guys are still nobodies.

“Can't you please try to look excited, Lark?” begged Donna. “You're supposed to be waiting for your favorite British boy band to arrive. Let them see that gorgeous smile of yours. Or even better, giggle!”

Lark had sworn off giggling around the same time she'd gotten over the glitter thing. But she did manage to appease her mom with a passable imitation of a smile.

“Thanks, baby girl. I want you to look like a devoted fan. We're creating a mood here.”

“Creating a mood, perpetrating a fraud . . . whatever.”

“Sweetheart, this is how the business works,” said Donna. “You know I'm trying to drum up publicity, and at the moment, I don't have the budget for anything more sophisticated than this.”

Lark felt a wave of guilt. There was a great deal on the line, and she knew her mother was under a lot of pressure to make this band a hit. “Okay,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Scream or jump up and down or
something
—ooh! I have a better idea!”

Donna whipped out her phone, tapped the music app, and slid the volume up as high as it could go. Suddenly, the angelic but flirty voices of her new clients singing “Dream of Me” filled the baggage area.

People stopped in their tracks, turning to see what would happen next. Lark realized they were probably expecting a flash mob. She only wished that were the case—then she could get lost in it.

But the pop tune was working its magic. People began to tap their feet and nod along with the beat. Lark couldn't blame them; even through a cell-phone speaker the song was a crowd-pleaser.

“Go on,” urged Donna. “Sing along!”

“
What?
” Lark almost dropped her sign.

“I know you know the song. I was playing it in the car the whole ride over and I saw you mouthing the words.”

“But Mom—”

“Honey, won't you please help me out and sing?”

A bolt of panic shot through Lark's body. “Are you crazy? Here? In front of all these people?”

“Don't be shy. Please, won't you act like a real fan and sing along?”

“There's the problem. I'm
not
a real fan.” Lark gave her mother a desperate look. “Can't we just wait for them to get here and let
them
sing it? It's
their
song.” She peered anxiously toward the baggage carousel. “Where are they, anyway? They couldn't have stopped to sign autographs since nobody knows who they are yet. I can't believe they're keeping us waiting like this. That is so rude.”

“Don't change the subject,” said Donna. “You've got a beautiful voice. If you start singing, you'll get everyone's attention.”

“Exactly!” cried Lark, her stomach flipping over.

The upbeat little pop number was nearing its bridge. Admittedly, the lyrics were clever and the tune was catchy, and although it had been written for teenage boys to sing, it was surprisingly perfect for Lark's own voice. She had been humming “Dream of Me” in the car, and halfway to the airport she'd started wishing she'd written it herself. For Lark, that was the sign of a great song—one she liked enough to want to claim as her own.

“Lark, please. I'm putting a lot of energy into making these boys a hit. Anything we can do to help that process along will be good for all of us.”

Lark gripped the corners of her cardboard sign, her palms sweaty, her stomach roiling. She knew her mom wouldn't give up, and if Lark flat-out refused, Donna would grumble about this missed opportunity for days . . . or weeks . . . maybe even the rest of their lives.

So she swallowed hard and waited for the breathy, boyish voices to reach the song's chorus.

Do you dream of me when the nights are long?

When the world is dark, do you hear this song?

Singing in a crowded airport was definitely not Lark's idea of a good time. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the onlookers were really enjoying the music. She had to hand it to her mother—the woman knew how to create a commotion.

You're a dream come true, baby, don't you see.

My only dream is that you dream of me.

Lark closed her eyes, preparing to belt out the next line, but she was suddenly so light-headed she couldn't remember what it was . . . something about “sweet dreams,” or “dream girl”? Her knees buckled but somehow she managed to stay on her feet.

Dream a little sweeter, dream a little more.

Dream of me, girl, like you never did before.

She opened her eyes, forcing the words to the tip of her tongue. Under the harsh airport lights, the world wavered, spinning in slow motion as she spotted a boy in tattered blue jeans and a snug white T-shirt sauntering toward the baggage carousel. Even through her blurring vision, Lark recognized him: Oliver Wesley, also known as Ollie, Abbey Road's front man and lead vocalist. With his tousled blond hair and piercing sapphire-blue eyes, the boy had “pop star” written all over him.

“Now, Lark!” Donna whispered as Ollie approached the baggage claim. He looked so cool and confident, unlike Lark, who had begun to tremble. What if she hit a sour note? What if she forgot the words, or her voice somehow betrayed her?

Ollie was so impossibly good-looking, Lark wondered again if she
was
dreaming. His presence was causing even more of a stir than the music had. Around her, young girls were gasping and pointing.

How was it possible that the simple act of tugging a suitcase off a conveyor belt could be making Ollie's already impressive arm muscles bulge like that?

But the bigger question was this: why wasn't she singing? She was
trying
to sing . . . here . . . now . . . in Los Angeles International Airport, of all places. She was making an effort, but something was horribly wrong. As far as Lark could tell, her mouth was opening and closing, but no actual
singing
was taking place.

“Where are the other two?” asked Donna, her tone on the verge of panic. “Oh, Lord, please don't tell me they missed the flight! Or did we somehow miss
them
?” Hurrying off, Donna called over her shoulder to Lark, “Stay put. I'm just going to check the other side of the arrivals area.”

Lark felt the poster board slip from her perspiring fingertips just as Ollie turned his dazzling face in her direction. When her wide-eyed gaze met his, a slow smile spread across his gorgeous face.

Dream a little sweeter, dream of what you feel.

Dream of me tonight, baby, dream until it's real . . .

Lark's brain screamed the message to her vocal cords and she willed the lyrics to her lips.

She searched for her voice.

Instead, she found the airport floor.

Lark felt the cool tiles of the terminal floor against her spine; someone was gently patting her cheek.

Ollie?

She opened her eyes slowly, but instead of the British boy, she saw the concerned face of a security guard. Crouched beside him was an older lady, who was taking her pulse.

“Easy, there,” said the woman. “I'm a retired doctor. Just making sure everything's still ticking.”

Her calm voice and kind smile made Lark feel a bit better, although she couldn't understand why this stranger was fussing over her.

“Think you can stand up, miss?” the security guard was asking.

“Hmm? Oh . . . I don't know. I'll try.”

Lark's attempt to gain her feet set the world spinning again. “I guess not,” she sighed, lying back again. “What happened to me?”

“You must have passed out when that good-looking kid smiled at you,” the security guard explained, and winked.

“
What?!
No!” Lark frowned. “He had nothing to do with it! If I fainted it was only because . . . because my mother wanted me to sing and . . .” She trailed off, her face turning red at the thought of the doctor and the security guard assuming she was the sort of girl who would go weak in the knees at the sight of some British hottie in his tight T-shirt and jeans.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” the doctor said. “Same thing happened to me the first time I saw Elvis Presley on the
Ed Sullivan Show
.”

Despite the haziness in her head, Lark smiled; as a Tennessee girl, that particular Memphis boy was practically a god.

“I love Elvis,” Lark murmured.

“Do you, now?” The doctor grinned. “Well, ordinarily when I check for a head injury I ask the patient if she can tell me her name and address, but perhaps I should ask you to sing me a few bars of ‘Love Me Tender' instead.” She chuckled, not expecting Lark to actually listen to her.

Maybe it was the wooziness that had Lark so relaxed, but before she could stop to think about where she was and who might be listening, she closed her eyes and began to sing the legendary ballad.

She breathed in to begin another line, but to her surprise a slightly deeper, sweetly familiar voice was already singing it.

Lark's eyes fluttered and for one crazy instant, she half imagined that the late, great King of Rock and Roll had returned from beyond the grave to serenade her. The lilting mystery voice joined with hers in perfect harmony.

As the notes faded to silence, Lark opened her eyes again and this time found herself staring up into Ollie's grinning face.

“I always love a duet,” he teased. “But why is my singing partner sprawled on the floor?”

The security guard chuckled. “She took one look at you, kid, and she was swept right off her feet.”

Lark could feel her cheeks burning. “That's not what happened at all!” she protested, struggling to sit up. “My mother wanted me to sing ‘Dream of Me,' but I get nervous about singing in front of people. I've never been able to perform in public. I have terrible stage fright. This isn't even the first time this has happened to me. I fainted once before . . . Y'all don't believe me? I can prove it! I still have the scar on my forehead from the fall.”

“Now, now,” the doctor soothed. “Calm down, dear. Breathe.”

Lark knew it would take more than a few deep breaths to overcome her anger, especially with Ollie smiling down at her with such a cocky expression.

The doctor and the security guard gingerly helped Lark to her feet, holding on until they were sure her legs wouldn't give way.

“I'm fine now,” Lark insisted. “Thank you for your help.”

The security guard grumbled something about paperwork and incident reports. “Are you an unaccompanied minor, miss, or are you here with your parents?”

“I'm with my mother,” said Lark. “At least I was. Her name is Donna Campbell and—”

“Donna is your mum?” said Ollie. “Well, that explains it.” He turned to the guard. “She's our manager's daughter,” he explained. “I bet they faked this whole scene to show how crazy our fans are about us.”

“You don't have any fans yet,” Lark snapped.

“Fans?” said the guard. “So this whole thing was a publicity stunt? The fainting? That little duet? Which was very entertaining, by the way.”

“And extremely romantic,” the doctor added.

“Thank you,” said Ollie, grinning.

Ewww
, thought Lark.

But since the last thing she wanted was to spend an hour in the airport security office filling out an incident report, she nodded. “Yup, that's exactly what it was,” she fibbed. “A publicity stunt. I just pretended to faint.”

When the doctor and the guard were gone, Ollie picked up the glitter-encrusted sign and laughed. “Donna doesn't waste any time, does she?”

“No, she doesn't,” muttered Lark, scanning the area. “Where is she, anyway?”

“With my mates.”

Ollie pointed toward the baggage carousel, where Lark saw her mother. She was talking animatedly to another security guard, who stood frowning between the two other members of Abbey Road . . . who were both in handcuffs!

CHAPTER

THREE

Lark and Ollie hurried toward the baggage carousel. From the way Ollie's cheeks dimpled with amusement, Lark got the distinct feeling he wasn't at all surprised that his bandmates were in trouble.

“I can't imagine what these boys have done to wind up in handcuffs,” Lark's mom was telling the guard, “but whatever it was, I give you my word: from this moment on, they will behave like perfect gentlemen.”

“Wouldn't count on that,” Ollie whispered.