Riot (8 page)

“Huh?”

“What about doing the project for a band instead of a company?” His chocolate chips struggle to get down his throat, and he seems cautious when he adds, “We need to find a new guitarist . . .”

Right. Because I ruined things with the last one.

Resisting the guilt wrapping its icy fingers around my throat, I say, “Why not just bring Cody back?”

All three guys stare at me like I just suggested we lick cookie dough off the floor.

The clang of the oven slamming startles me, and Rowan whirls around with an exaggerated smile on her face. She wipes her hands on her jeans and says, “I think doing a band project sounds like a great idea. You could come up with flyers and advertise online and stuff. And researching how well it works would be simple, because if they find a guitarist, it worked.” The corners of her mouth tip up in a triumph, and I begin envisioning the flyers in my head.

“I could advertise at the festival,” I muse. This project would be easy, and it’s the least I could do for the guys after what they did for me.

“So you’re coming?” Joel asks, spinning me around by my shoulders to give me a hopeful smile that’s impossible to resist.

I pluck a ticket from his hand, steal Adam’s chocolate chips, and plop down on the couch to write an overdue proposal.

Chapter Ten

T
HE WEEK BEFO
RE
the festival passes in a blur of quitting my job, attending classes, getting the guys to finally fix my door, and dreaming of Cody. Every night since Saturday—with the exception of the one night I dreamt of my mom—I’ve woken in a cold sweat with Cody’s face fading from the backs of my eyelids. He always looks at me like he wants to eat me alive, telling me how hot I am and how much he wants me. Each morning when I’ve gotten ready for school, I’ve been tempted to wear yoga pants and hoodies—baggy clothes to hide my curves and prevent anyone from getting the wrong idea.

So instead, I’ve worn my shortest skirts, my highest heels, and my fiercest smile. I refuse to let him make me hide, even if my clothes are fitting looser against my frame because I can’t eat, can’t sleep, and feel smaller than I am. The fading bruises on my wrists are a constant reminder that he was more than just a nightmare, and I’ve decorated them with bracelets and bangles and cute fingerless gloves. Every day, I’ve treated life like a runway, strutting with a confidence I hope to someday feel again.

On Friday, I’m standing with Rowan in the only private room of the band’s tour bus staring down at the clothes she’s dressed me in. The oversized purple tank top, I can deal with. The cut-off jean shorts, those are okay too. But the black-and-white Chuck Taylors on my feet? “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Rowan giggles. We’re parked at the music festival, preparing for our first day of shows and general mayhem, and she’s enjoying this way too much. Normally, I’m the one dressing her, not the other way around.

She’s made me into her personal scene-kid Barbie.

This has got to be what hell feels like.

“Do I need to put my hair up into a messy bun, too?” I scoff, wiggling my toes in the world’s flattest shoes. They might be cute if they had a wedge heel or something, but the guys insisted that if I didn’t wear flats, my feet would fall off—which led to a long, disturbing conversation about amputation that I’ll probably have nightmares about for weeks to come.

“Actually, you probably should,” Rowan says, offering me a hair tie. “It’s hot as hell out there.”

I point a manicured fingernail at her like I’m warding off the hounds of hell. Even though we’re in the middle of some ungodly hot, middle-of-March heat-wave in crocodile-country Georgia, I have no intention of rocking Rowan’s college-bum hairstyle. “No freaking way. If I’m going to wear these grungy shoes, I’m at least keeping my hair down.”

A few hours later, my chocolate locks are melted against the back of my neck and my feet are dragging as I walk with my best friend and four sizzling-hot rock stars along a row of tents. When the guys emphasized that the festival was ‘down South’ and that it was going to be ‘warm’, I had no idea it would feel like sunbathing on the equator. Distant music drifts to my sweat-sprinkled ears from the area where the stages are, but right now we’re searching for food. “Can I borrow your hair tie?” I beg Rowan. “Just for like . . . an hour.”

She shakes her head. “I told you to wear one. You should’ve brought one along.”

I throw both arms in the air. “And put it where? I’m wearing like fifty billion wristbands!” I’ve purchased one at almost every band merchandise tent we’ve stopped at because they cover my faded bruises, help me fit in, and are way cuter than I’d ever willingly admit.

Without warning, Joel steps in front of me and scoops me over his good shoulder. His other is still healing, but the stitches in his knuckles were removed yesterday, so he’s looking like less of a mess. “There,” he says while I hang upside down like a soggy noodle, “now your hair is off your neck and your feet don’t hurt. Stop whining.”

Adam, Shawn, and Mike all laugh, but I’m too busy enjoying the reprieve from walking to mind. “Thank God.”

Joel chuckles and carries me all the way to the barbecue pit, where he sets me back on my feet and we all get in line. I insist I don’t want anything, but Joel orders a sandwich for me anyway, and the band covers the tab before we commandeer a long picnic table.

Today, I taped neon-green flyers
everywhere
. Between the handouts and the ads I posted online, I’m hoping we’ll have a good turnout for auditions next weekend. I’m taking this project and my debt to the band as seriously as I’ve ever taken anything—I’m going to sit in on auditions and make sure to see this through. The sooner Cody is replaced, the sooner I can feel like he’s not
missing
, like he’s not going to pop back up and finish what he started.

“So are you having fun?” Adam asks Rowan and me as he puffs on a freshly lit cigarette, and I pull a smile back onto my face as I watch his free hand distractedly tug strands of hair from Rowan’s messy bun.

“Aside from the stalking, yeah,” she grumbles, batting Adam’s hand away while I chuckle. At home, most people are used to having the guys around. Fans ask for pictures and try to hang out, but they usually don’t lose their minds or do weird things like follow us around. Here, the guys are one of the smaller bands, but there have been a few diehard fans who have been hard to get rid of, including one weird little girl wearing a The Last Ones to Know T-shirt who screamed so loudly I thought she was going to pass out.

Adam smiles and leans in to kiss the corner of Rowan’s mouth, slow in a way that makes my cheeks just as red as it makes hers. I look away and add, “I just wish we knew where and when all the bands are playing.”

ManiFest is like Mayhem in that it’s organized chaos. Part of the gimmick is that they don’t reveal the performance schedule ahead of time. The philosophy is that attendees should pick stages at random and experience new music and become fans of new bands—which is awesome up until you miss your favorite band because you had no clue where or when they’d be performing.

“What band do you want to see?” Joel asks, gazing over at me from behind black shades. He’s dressed in long black jean shorts and a royal-blue tank top with extra long armholes. It hangs loosely over his fit body, revealing the tattooed script running down his side and making him look deliciously rocker. Even girls who had no idea he’s a rock star have stared at him like he’s a rock star, and I’ve pretended not to notice.

“Cutting the Line,” I say without needing to think about it, “and maybe the Lost Keys.” Both bands are huge right now—so huge that I’d recognize most of the members if I saw them walking around. I’ve kept an eye out, but so far, no luck.

“Alright,” Joel says, pulling out his phone, “I have Phil’s number. Who has Van’s?”

My eyes widen when I realize he’s in the process of texting one of the guitarists of the Lost Keys and has just asked the guys who has the number for the lead singer of Cutting the Line. Van Erickson is a God right now, and Cutting the Line is the main reason I wanted to come to the festival.

“Are you serious?” I breathe.

Joel’s black sunglasses are staring down at his phone, but the corner of his lips tugs into an amused smirk.

“I have Van’s,” Adam says, already texting a message.

Rowan and I share a look, and a minute later, Joel tells me where and when the Lost Keys are performing and Adam tells us where and when Cutting the Line is set to play.

“I can’t believe you
know
them,” I say, too stunned to bother eating the pulled-pork sandwich on the slip of foil in front of me. Joel lifts his up and takes a big bite.

“We opened for the Lost Keys a few times last summer,” Shawn explains from down the table. “And Cutting the Line came to one of our shows out near where they live.”

I’m still gaping when Adam blows a string of smoke downwind from Rowan and says, “They’ll all be at the bonfire tonight.”

Our bus is parked in the designated campsite for the headlining bands since the guys were given special permission to park there. The organizers of the festival did the guys the favor since they want them to perform next year, and I was reminded once again that no matter how well I get to know Joel, Adam, Shawn, and Mike, they’re are all freaking rock stars. One day, they might even be as big as Van Erickson.

After lunch, we all part ways—Ro and Adam go back to the bus to, I assume, screw each other’s brains out; Shawn and Mike head to the main offices to thank the organizers for the parking spot; and Joel volunteers to take me wherever I want to go.

With the sun casting pink ribbons all around us, I point to a random stage area. “That one’s huge. I bet a big band is playing there.”

Joel follows my finger and smiles. His shades are hanging from the loose neck of his tank, his skin absorbing a golden tan despite the sunscreen we’ve kept applying. “Sometimes they put small bands on big stages to throw people off.”

“Only one way to find out!” I tug him deep into the crowd, weaving through the growing crush of bodies until we’re snug in the middle of it. Between the all-nighters I’ve spent trying to pull my grades up and the nightmares I’ve had almost every night about Cody, this week has been a haze of sleep deprivation. My body is running on caffeine and manic excitement, and I plan to ride the wave until it crashes.

“Have you ever been right in the pit before?” Joel asks, gazing around us like we’re swimming in a fishbowl of piranhas. “I could see who’s playing and see if we could go in the cage . . .”

Each stage is surrounded by a chainlink fence, and while it would be awesome to be that close, I’m excited about getting the full experience. A beach ball floats down from the sky, and my hands reach up with dozens of others to bat it back into the air. “No way. This is going to be awesome.”

“If anyone tries to pick you up in the air,” Joel warns, “kick them in the nuts, okay?”

I laugh. “But crowd surfing looks so fun!”

He shakes his head and shifts me in front of him, locking his arms around my shoulders. “The guys in this crowd would eat you alive . . .” His arms hug me tighter. “And I really don’t want to have to go to jail tonight.”

My giggle is drowned out by the collective scream of the crowd when the banner at the back of the stage unrolls to reveal the name of a huge, hardcore rock band. Joel’s arms unwrap from around me so we can both throw our hands into the air and cheer along with everyone else, and a second later, the band comes out and people lose their damn minds. The pushing begins even before the music does, and Joel and I surge toward the stage along with hundreds of other people. The music starts, blaring from stacks of speakers bigger than I am, and I’m laughing but can’t even hear the sound. I jump in time with everyone around me, singing familiar lyrics at the top of my lungs but hearing only the collective voice of the crowd and the roar of the lead singer onstage.

Crashing waves of people knock me from side to side and forward and back with each and every jump I take, but Joel manages to stay fixed at my back. His strong hands periodically wrap around my waist to steady me or tug me this way or that while I lose myself in the music, the jumping, the crush of everyone around me. I’m part of a living, breathing ocean, surfing waves that flood my body with chemicals that make me feel like I could sing at the top of my lungs every second of every day for the rest of my entire life.

By the time the band finishes its set, my throat is raw and my muscles are spent. Joel takes my hand and leads me out of the dispersing crowd, and once I have the room, I launch myself onto his back. With my arms wrapped tightly around his neck, I press my face against his shoulder and smile against his fire-hot skin.

“Joel?” I say as he hoists me up and carries me through the shallow pools of people that the performance left in its wake.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” I squeeze him tighter, earning envious stares from every girl who had her eyes on him.

“For what?” he asks.

For everything. For the tickets, for the fun, for making me forget real life for a few hours. For catching me when I need to be caught and carrying me when I need to be carried. “For today.”

He glances over his shoulder at me, and I resist the urge to kiss him.

Smiling, he says, “I think the sun is getting to you.”

He walks me to the outskirts of the festival and drops me in the shade of a big oak tree, and we sprawl out next to each other on the dry grass, listening to the distant sounds of music being carried on the wind.

“What’s it like?” I ask, focusing on the leaves rustling in the branches above us. A kaleidoscope of green and yellow shifts in the canopy, dropping patterns of light and shadow all over our skin.

“What’s what like?”

“Being onstage. Performing in front of all those people.” When I glance over at him, Joel is staring up toward the sky, his face bathed in a glowing patch of sunlight. His blond mohawk cuts a line into the grass, his skin still flushed from the heat and exertion.

He takes a moment, and then his voice drifts toward the leaves. “Have you ever done something, and in that moment, you know you’re doing exactly what you’re meant to be doing?”

He says it with a surety I’ve never felt before, and in that moment, I ache for it. “Not really.”

“When we go onstage,” he continues, “and the kids sing our songs back to us . . . that’s what it’s like. That’s when I know I’m doing exactly what I was put on this Earth to do, because there’s no better feeling than that.”

I close my eyes, wishing for that kind of moment, wondering how it would feel, and doubting I’ll ever know. Rowan, my dad, guidance counselors, my academic advisor—they’ve all tried to help me discover what I want to do with my life, but maybe there’s nothing to find.

“Sorry,” Joel says after a while, “that was corny as shit. Adam can probably explain it better.”

My eyes are still closed when I shake my head. “That was perfect.”

When I sense him shift beside me, my eyes open and I find him propped on his elbow next to me. My gaze drifts to his lips, and mine begin to tingle with memories: him, kissing me inside Mayhem, outside Mayhem, in my car, on a truck, in a hallway.

He hasn’t made a move on me since Monday, and even though I’ve loved hanging out with him, I miss when we couldn’t be together for more than an hour or two before sneaking off somewhere to fool around. Now, it’s like the heat between us is gone, and all that’s left is his friendly smile and adorable laugh, which should be enough but isn’t.