Crash (Band Nerd Book 3) Read online

  CRASH ©2017 by Danica Avet

  Published by Danica Avet

  Edited by Fedora Chen

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Model: Robert Simmons

  Cover Design & Formatting by Sweet 'N Spicy Designs

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book almost wrote itself after a few stops and starts, but it couldn’t have happened without the help of a few important people.

  I had an interesting start to my friendship with Lea Barrymire. I kept getting her confused with someone else, but she never once treated me like I was insane. That was nearly five years ago and she still doesn’t treat me like the crazy person I can sometimes be. When I need to brainstorm a scene, plot an entire book, or just figure out what a character is thinking, she’s always there with helpful suggestions. Honestly, I think I’d be lost without her input. Love you, girl!

  I also need to thank Bridget, Micah, and Jacob for their help in coming up with the perfect prank. It’s actually kind frightening the things y’all came up with, but it was great finding out how your devious minds work.

  For the readers who’ve shown such enthusiasm about the Band Nerd Series, you help inspire me to write even more. I can’t even begin to describe the gladness that fills my heart when I see your reviews, discussions, and get those questions from you. So from this band nerd to you all, thank you!

  When I started writing Jolene's story I didn't intend to delve so deeply into issues of self-worth, but as her past came to light, I realized she had a lot more to overcome than many of my other characters. I'll admit, there were times I wanted to just shake her and tell her she was worth more than she thought, but that's something she had to learn for herself. In this day and age, we don't like to think that girls can think so little of themselves. Women have come a long way in modern times; however, that doesn't change the fact that there are many out there who don't think they deserve more than what they've been given. Some are lucky to have family and friends who help them build themselves up. Others, like Jolene, don't and they struggle. That's what this story is really about. It's about a girl who was told she'd never amount to much, who was told she only had one use, and who fights to rise above it.

  I hope you read this story in the light it was intended. A story to give hope, about someone who was given a raw deal and still managed to retain the purity of spirit and find the right person to provide all the love and adoration she—and everyone—deserves.

  Love,

  Danica

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Jolene & Levi’s Playlist

  Note From The Author

  About The Author

  Other Books by Danica

  Levi

  July

  There’s nothing like the first day of band camp. The drumline has been practicing since June, but only because we’ve always been one of the best regiments in the country and I want it to stay that way. When I made section leader last year I took it as the honor it was meant to be, which means keeping my line in shape. Best part is I only have one freshman this year, making my job a lot easier.

  Losing myself in the cadences I composed during the off-season with help from Frosty, I don’t even realize how much time has passed until I hear the murmur of voices coming from the lobby of the band annex. Rolling out a series of single dragadiddles, I signal the end of Cadence #3 to the rest of the line. Like the well-oiled machine we’ve become in the last three weeks, we bring what I’m hoping will be used as one of the 300’s entrance cadences to an end.

  Someone claps and I shoot a smile at the doors of the practice room. God, I fucking love what I do. There’s nothing in the world like the high I get from creating cadences and sequences we’ll use throughout the season. Well, there might be one thing and the thought has me grinning like an ass. Because the first day of band camp means there are all sorts of lovely new dancers waiting for me.

  With that thought in mind, I lower my snare. “Take twenty and meet up on the practice field,” I tell my guys, nodding to Cuba, or Cube as I started calling him last season. “You wanna grab the sideline markers?”

  Like the good kid he is, Cube hops to and scampers off. The guys who’ve been in the line with me since my freshman year just give me knowing smiles. They know what I’m planning to do.

  Whistling a cheerful tune, I saunter out of the practice hall and into the crowd of band students socializing before our first field rehearsal. Lots of new faces, but still a good number of people I’ve come to know well. I shake hands, slap backs, and pass around hugs to the girls who, unfortunately, will never grace my bed. Not their fault they’re musicians, but even though some are downright fuckable, I’ll never go there.

  Nope. I don’t shit where I eat. I even have a doctrine that goes something like: ‘The best things in life are music and sex, but never shall the twain meet.’

  The Marching 300 is a big part of my life and I don’t want the drama of a one-night stand haunting me all season long. Maybe that makes me sound like a dick, but I’ve been there and done that and I don’t want to repeat it. I mean, it isn’t like I hump and dump. I do repeats now and then, but I always make sure the girls I fuck know we’re not doing anything resembling a relationship, although I do remain friendly with them.

  What can I say? I’m a friendly guy. Plus it makes it easier if I do want a repeat performance.

  Someone asked me once what I’d do if some guy treated my little sister the way I do the girls I have fun with. The violence that consumed me at the thought almost made me rethink my non-commitment position. But then I realized what Erika does is her business. I don’t break hearts so it isn’t like the girls I’m with are going home to cry every night because I didn’t call them. Now, if some motherfucker broke Erika’s heart, they’d learn what the Cracchiolo temper can do.

  I eye the fresh faces of the girls hanging with the band members. Cute. Some of them are very fucking cute, but nope. I resolutely seal them in the off-limits box and move on. The dancers are part of the 300, although more like an auxiliary. Most of them aren’t musicians, aren’t taking any music classes, which means they’re in my hunting grounds.

  And when I step outside the lobby to see the girls clustered together, my smile grows even bigger. I love women of all kinds. Short, tall, lean, round, light, dark, and everything in between. I love the way they move, the way they smell, the way they talk, and I love the way they feel around my dick.

  “Crash!” a few of the girls squeal when they see me and within seconds, I’m surrounded by sof
t, sweet-smelling bodies.

  They’re four of the veterans on the dance team, all of whom I’ve enjoyed at some point in the last three years. I give them hugs because while we have history, they’re all dating and I’m happy for them. Yeah, I know. Weird right? Them dating puts them firmly in the off-limits category, but just because I’m against relationships doesn’t mean I begrudge anyone else having one. Hell, my parents have a fantastic marriage, my dad claiming Mom was his saving grace. No, I don’t have a problem with other people being in relationships. Just me.

  “It’s good to see you,” I tell them sincerely, taking in the happiness on their pretty faces. “Last season, huh?”

  They start chirping about graduation and some of my elation fades. I’m officially a senior now, in my fourth year at Sauvage State, and I’m no closer to graduating than I was two years ago. It isn’t because I’m failing or anything. My grades are great, but band, classes, and work means I’ve had to take my courses at a much slower pace. I take just enough credits each semester to qualify as a full-time student, but it’s nowhere near as many as I need to get my degree. Whatever it’ll be.

  “Did you have a good summer?” one of the girls asks, breaking into my depressing thoughts.

  I smile by rote. “Sure as shit did, parties, girls, music.” And backbreaking work at the nursery. “What more could a guy ask for?”

  They titter and I look over their heads to the gaggle of new girls. Well, not all of them are new. I notice Angelle is still in the fold. She’s sexy, but not one I plan to fuck anytime in the future. I’ve seen how bitchy she is to the other girls and my spidey senses tell me she’s one of those girls. The crazy kind who fucks great, but thinks she can lead a guy around by their balls.

  The others are sweet and fresh-faced, eyeing me like a bunch of innocent lambs waiting for the big bad wolf to devour them. And looking forward to it.

  Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. They’re all eighteen, pretty with great bodies, and looking to explore their newfound independence.

  I fucking love college.

  I’m about to make my way over to introduce myself, lavish them with the infamous Cracchiolo charm, when I see her.

  Pretty sure I mentioned before that I love all women in all shapes and sizes. It’s just the way I’m made. But in that moment, I swear I may have fallen in love for real. Well, maybe not love, but definitely instant lust.

  Golden blonde hair drapes over her shoulder, showing off a face that should be gracing a runway somewhere. Wide blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and the cutest little rosebud of a mouth make her a knockout. Add that to the tiny babydoll t-shirt hugging a fantastic rack, tiny waist, and little, flirty shorts that display a pair of legs that would have a man begging to have them wrapped around his hips as he drilled into her, and she’s perfection. Absolute perfection and I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything else before. Even the Mapex Saturn V kit I managed to buy for myself last Christmas.

  She’s talking with a few of the newer dancers and a tiny bit of a girl who looks a little familiar. Every move she makes is graceful from the way she throws her head back to laugh, to the way her hands move as she speaks. I devour her, soak her in, and decide she’s mine. For a while, at least. Despite the way my heart pounds at the sight of her, the way my dick threatens to throw wood, I’m still not in the market for anything permanent. Not only had I been through a shitty breakup, but I watched my uncle go through hell because of getting tied down too young. That’s not gonna be me. I know I’ll settle down at some point. Probably when I’m forty or something, but that’s years and years away from now. For the time being, I’ll just focus on the fun I can have with that beauty. Because I can already tell I’m really gonna love tapping that ass.

  At some point I start walking over to the small cluster of girls without even meaning to. I normally let them come to me, but there’s this pull I can’t deny and I don’t even want to. If I don’t get to her first, one of the other guys will and we don’t need that kind of drama the first day back. Once I know all of her secrets—important things like the way she tastes, smells, and feels—then they can make their move. But I saw her first, which means I get dibs.

  She notices me, turning that cornflower blue gaze my way and my heart does a stutter beat because fucking wow. She’s… I don’t even have words to describe her. I swear I feel as though someone whacked me in the head with something heavy because I feel kind of dizzy, a little unsteady, but still determined to have her under me sometime today.

  The other girls notice me as well, although I’m barely aware of them. Not with me standing close enough to see she has a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the tips of her long eyelashes are golden like her hair. Not only that, but I can smell her. Sweet. Fruity. Like peaches.

  I love peaches.

  “Hi,” she says shyly, those eyelashes dipping down over her eyes in a move I’ve seen girls perform so many times before it shouldn’t affect me, but somehow does.

  “Hey,” I respond, my voice kind of gruff. I clear my throat and pull myself together. Smile, asshole. Smile. I do and yeah, she responds the way I want—no, need her to. “I’m Levi Cracchiolo, drumline section leader. But everyone calls me Crash.”

  Her eyelashes flutter a little and the pulse at the base of her sun-kissed throat does the same. Then she smiles back and it’s like a friggin’ shot to the heart. The girl has dimples. “Hi, I’m Jolene Pickering,” she says in a soft drawl that slides across my skin, forcing me to fight a shiver. “Freshman trumpet player.”

  And just like that, all the feel-good happy thoughts in my brain flee. She’s a goddamn trumpet player, a member of the Marching 300, and completely off-limits. Little lines form between her perfectly arched eyebrows as she stares up at me, probably wondering if something’s wrong with me, but it doesn’t matter what she thinks. She’s a fellow musician.

  Motherfucking shit.

  I feel my blood pressure rising as my temper ignites. Now, this might surprise people because I’m known as laid-back, easy-going, chill, whatever you want to call it, nothing gets me worked up. I may be Italian and have a family that lives up to the passionate stereotype, but I’ve always been a little different. Instead of vocalizing my anger, I take it out on my drums. Beat all the fury, hurt, disappointment on my skins, but in this moment, I feel like I’m about to explode from the emotions swirling around me.

  Because it’s fucking unfair. The most perfect, beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life is a musician. A girl I’ll have to see throughout the entire year at practices and games, probably have in some of my classes, which means if I don’t shut this shit down now, I’m looking at a miserable year.

  “Welcome to the 300,” I tell her shortly and turn my smile on the dancer standing next to her. I know she’s one of the dancers because I clearly see she’s wearing a Spartans’ Steppers t-shirt. She’s cute. Not as cute as Jolene, but she’ll do. “Hey, honey, how you doin’?” Yeah, it’s a lame line, yet it works every time.

  The semi-pretty girl nearly swoons at my feet, introducing herself and her fellow dancers in a stammering voice. Jolene and the tiny chick sort of melt away, which is for the best. I don’t need that fucking drama to ruin what’s meant to be the best years of my life.

  Even if part of me still pouts like a goddamn toddler having its favorite toy taken away.

  Jolene Pickering isn’t for me and never will be.

  Jolene

  After waving goodbye to my new friends, I trudge into my dorm hall because I can’t really lift my legs. Still, the soreness can’t burst my bubble of happiness. I have friends. Becca, who attached herself to me at freshman orientation last month, is a complete scream. And through Becca—who I swear doesn’t know a stranger—I also met Nessie and Lena, the tuba chicks. Which is awesome. They have to be the most confident girls in the world to stick their toes in that pool of testosterone, but it doesn’t seem to bother them at all.


  Overall, I have to say my first day as a member of the 300 is a complete success.

  As I start up the stairs to my third floor dorm room, some of my happiness fades. Okay, today wasn’t a complete success. I over exaggerate. There was that impossibly handsome drummer who walked right up to me with a smirk on his face that had parts of me tingling and heating up.

  I thought my heart was gonna stop when he smiled at me. Even now, hours and hours later, I still feel a little breathless. They don’t make boys like him back in Pepper Ridge, Georgia. Dark hair, sinfully dark eyes, tattoos scrolling down his muscled arms, and a smirk that would make Ms. Lona Hogelbee forget about her vows of chastity. Ms. Hogelbee is the resident old maid of Pepper Ridge and her dislike of anything male is well-known, but even she wouldn’t be able to resist the many physical charms of Levi “Crash” Cracchiolo.

  And for a moment there, first day at band camp, far away from everyone who treated me like one of the notorious Pickering Women of Pepper Ridge, I thought the cutest boy in band was going to ask me out in front of the entire 300. It was in the way his already dark eyes heated, the way he watched me like a hawk and I was a rabbit he really wanted to gobble up.

  But as soon as I introduced myself, that expression disappeared like someone hit a switch. He turned away from me, his handsome face impassive until he started flirting with one of the girls I was talking to. It was as though with that one look, he knew.

  Knew I was Jolene Pickering, second out of Sheila Pickering’s six daughters. Knew I was one of the girls boys back home would take out for fun, but never take to meet their parents. Like he could smell the taint of the trailer park clinging to me no matter how hard I try to scrub it away. It was disgust and something else and it left me feeling exposed, as though his dismissal of me pointed out to the other students just how trashy I am.