Root (Band Nerd Book 2) Read online

  ROOT ©2016 by Danica Avet

  Published by Danica Avet

  Edited by Anya Richards

  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.

  I always try to acknowledge the help I get through my book writing process. I have four author friends who somehow manage to keep me level. Whether it’s letting me randomly toss out story ideas, or just cut up, they’re the best group of ladies I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting and I can honestly say, I don’t know what I’d do without them.

  Lea Barrymire, A.M. Griffin, Anya Richards, and Amy Ruttan, y’all are my sisters from other misters and don’t y’all ever forget it!

  Music, as always, plays a big role in my stories, this one much more than my previous books because it allowed me to share my love of vinyl. My dad had an extensive collection of 45s. Songs he and my mom purchased when they were kids, through their marriage, and some through their divorce. When I would spend weekends at his house, I’d carefully sort through the records and make tapes. (That would be cassette tapes for you younguns!)

  Those were some of the happiest days of my life. I can still remember how Dad would sing along, test my music knowledge, tell me stories about the songs, the musicians, or where he first heard the song. It was our thing and I cherish those memories.

  When Dad passed away in 2015, his collection came to me. So yes, he’s gone, but he lives on through the music he loved. Is it sad to play his favorite records? Yes, and there are some songs I can’t play at all because it hurts too much. Yet playing that music, losing myself in the lyrics of a completely different time, also makes me feel closer to him than ever. The bonus is my mom also rediscovering the music she shared with him when they were married. It’s a beautiful thing.

  So this book goes out to my parents.

  Dad, there’s one song meant just for you. I still can’t listen to it without crying my eyes out, but I know you’d understand. I miss you. I love you. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me this connection with you.

  Mom, you’ve encouraged and supported me no matter what. You never complained when my music was too loud, or when I would sing along to every song that came on the radio. Your commentary on the music we listen to now helps me feel closer to Dad and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for giving me that. I love you with all of my heart.

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Lena's & Anders' Playlist

  About The Author

  Lena

  July

  Band camp was never like this before. Then again, I’d never been a member of the Marching 300 before either. In the month since practices started I’ve been burnt to a crisp, got blisters all over my feet despite the comfortable sneakers I bought just for marching, and my left shoulder feels as if there’s a permanent indention from my sousaphone.

  Yet as Walker, our drum major, brings our rendition of Bruno Mars’ “Uptown Funk” to a close, I feel it. The elusive it that tells you what you’re doing is friggin’ awesome. I don’t know if other band students get the same feeling, but when a concert, song, or performance is perfect, my body feels…well, electrified. The hair stands up on the back of my neck, my skin pebbles, and I get the sensation that if gravity didn’t hold me down, I’d fly. Weird, I know.

  Then again, I’m weird. I know this and I embrace it most of the time. But still, I know we did damn good today, that the last month of practices lasting well into the night sometimes, marching in the rain without our instruments just to make sure we know the sets, and the repetition of playing the same songs over and over again, have paid off. Are we ready to perform for halftime? No way in hell, but we’re that much closer.

  We all go motionless, the last set we ended in bringing me up against the sideline next to the only other girl tuba player I’ve ever met, Hennessey Gaudet. It’s completely silent on the field as we wait for Walker to either let us put our horns down and stand at parade rest, or have the drumline start the cadence so we can march off the field. The only sounds I hear are from the football stadium where the team is going through drills. Yet, out here, it’s as though we’re frozen in time.

  Walker lowers his hands, the signal allowing us to put our horns down, but we don’t go to parade rest. I did that the first time we practiced on the field and got my ass chewed out. Not by Walker or even the directors, Ms. Frost, aka Frosty, and Mr. Klaus. No, I got reamed by Little, the tuba section leader. I would’ve attempted to fit my large self in the bell of my sousaphone if I’d been the only freshman to do the same thing. As it is, we all learned a valuable lesson that day: You don’t move until Walker, or one of the directors, tells you to.

  “Parade rest, everyone!” Frosty calls out, appearing on the field next to Walker’s podium.

  I like Frosty. Unlike my high school band director who didn’t like to get his hands dirty, she’s always on the field with us. When it rained on us, it rained on her. She didn’t allow herself any special treatment just because of her position, acting almost like a big sister to the entire band. Unlike Dr. Klaus, who always dresses like he’s one step away from plaid pants and golf shirts, Frosty looks like the rest of us; shorts, sneakers, T-shirt, sunglasses, and baseball cap.

  My gaze follows her, although I don’t move a muscle as she strides around the back of the podium. She quickly climbs up next to Walker and looks us over with a critical eye. Well, I guess it’s critical. With her glasses on I can’t see her eyes, so it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking, but there’s a frown on her face.

  “Bubbles!” she suddenly shouts. “Move a step to your left.” Frosty shakes her head. “No, Bubbles, your other left.”

  There’s muffled laughter, but we still don’t move. Except for Bubbles. He’s a junior trombone player. No idea how he got the name Bubbles, especially since he’s a big, masculine kind of guy, but I don’t want to ask either. Sometimes it’s best just to keep your head down and not draw attention to yourself.

  Which is kind of difficult when you’re one of the tallest members of the entire band, but if I slouch just a little…

  “Barbie! One step forward,” Frosty calls out and I shuffle to the required space, my ears burning with embarrassment at my very unwelcome nickname. “Bambi, two steps back!”

  Then again, I could be named Bambi like Hennessey. How we ended up with names that sound like we’re either Playboy Bunnies or belong at some kind of yacht club, I don’t know. Litt
le, short for Little John, our section leader, was the one who gave us the monikers on the first day of camp. I guess I got Barbie because of my blonde hair, although that’s the only similarity I have to the doll. Hennessey is short and curvy, soft looking, so I guess I can see why he would call her Bambi. Still, neither of us are fond of the nicknames.

  Frosty continues shifting members around until she has us exactly where she wants us. I memorize my distance from the sideline, not wanting to be called out the next time we practice. I don’t know how long it takes her to get everyone adjusted to their proper positions, but it feels like forever with the sun beating down on me. I know I have to be as red as a lobster right now. Unfortunately, instead of turning the golden brown most of the other students were getting with all the sun exposure, I’ll pale again after I go through the burn and peel stages.

  Finally Frosty nods, satisfied with our placements. “Remember your marks. We’re going to break for thirty minutes, which should give you enough time to hydrate, cool off, and get to the annex so we can practice stand music. Dismissed!”

  Just like that, the entire band is no longer in suspended animation. There’s movement and chatter as the students slowly walk off the field. I stumble to Hennessey, who looks just as beat as I feel. I didn’t know her well, only officially meeting her here at camp, but I’d seen her when our high school football teams squared off, or during Mardi Gras parades when our bands marched. Knowing there was at least one other tuba girl in LaSalle made me feel a little less alone, even though we’d never spoken until this summer.

  “I think she’s trying to kill us,” I mumble as we both step off the field.

  Hennessey huffs out a breath that flutters her bangs. “And if she doesn’t manage it, Little will finish us off.”

  And that’s when I remember we have a sectional practice after camp today. Apparently we’re not supposed to just sit and chill in the bleachers, playing when we’re told to. No, the tubas have a choreographed routine for certain songs and we need to learn them so we’re ready for the first game.

  “No,” I whimper. I already know it’s going to be bad. For me. “I don’t have rhythm, Hennessey!”

  She laughs, her red ponytail bouncing behind her as we trek toward the band annex at a snail’s pace. “You’re in band, of course you have rhythm.”

  “For playing music, not for dancing or anything else,” I insist as we check both ways before stepping onto Armstrong Lane. “Our band director tried to make us hold hands and sway on the field for a game and it was a disaster. He even told us we have no rhythm. When your band director says you have no rhythm, you have. No. Rhythm! I’m gonna screw this up.”

  She turns to me, mouth open to say something, but whatever it was gets lost in the roar of an engine and the sudden squealing of tires. We spin around to see a monster car—okay, it’s a muscle car, but it looks like a monster as it heads straight for us—bearing down on us, the back end fishtailing as the driver slams on the brakes.

  It felt as though every insignificant moment of my life passed before my eyes as I stand frozen by terror. I saw my childhood, bright for a few years, pitch black the rest. I saw my equally bland junior high and high school years, which had been filled with studying, band practices, and staying out of my mom and stepdad’s way, no dates to dances, no dances at all, and I realized I was just going through the paces. I was just existing, with music being my only passion. Sure, there have been some happy times in my eighteen years, but they wouldn’t crack anyone else’s top one hundred best moments.

  And now I’m going to die without experiencing anything remotely exciting. Except, you know, being run over by a car that belongs in a movie as part of a high-speed chase.

  Go me.

  I close my eyes, gritting my teeth as the car’s tires squeal, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air, and I wait for impact. When it doesn’t come, I peek through my eyelashes to see the car had come to a stop only five feet away from us. Five feet. Five. Mere inches from death or, at the very least, a lot of pain.

  I can’t hear anything. Whether that’s due to my ears still ringing from the tires trying to grip the asphalt, or because of the blood rushing through my body, I don’t know. But it’s as though I’m wrapped in cotton, completely insulated from everything, viewing the scene from afar.

  That is until Hennessey explodes. Now, I know you shouldn’t stereotype people. I hate it myself. You know, people assuming blonde hair means I’m dumb. And I wouldn’t have pegged Hennessey as having a temper just because she has red hair, since she’s always been so mellow and funny, but apparently she has a very hot temper that’s more akin to a bomb going off than anything else. As in a whole bunch of f-bombs.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she screams, stepping forward to slap her tiny hand on the hood of the monster car. “You could’ve fucking killed us, you motherfucker!”

  I no longer have a problem hearing. Moving, on the other hand, isn’t going to happen. My legs have locked and every muscle is still tense from my attempt to brace for impact. But my eyes shift from Hennessey to the driver of the car, who is totally a guy. I can see his masculine hand on the steering wheel, tattoos on the knuckles. Bad boy. Gut instinct and every book I’ve ever read with heroes and villains with that same trait taught me one thing. Finger tattoos equal bad boys. And a bad boy against a short, hot-headed girl tuba player do not spell a happy ending.

  “Get out you fucking dick! I’ll kick your motherfucking ass!” Hennessey shrieks, hefting her sousaphone from her left shoulder to her right. “Hold my tuba,” she orders me, but I shake my head. I refuse to aid in her insanity. “I’m gonna—”

  Her tirade is cut off by the loud blaring of the horn. We both squint against the glare of the sun to see a blonde head slowly rise from below, until a girl with heavily lashed eyes is peeking at us over the dashboard.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper, as my face practically heats to the blistering phase of blushing.

  Because, while I’ve never done it, or come close to doing it, I’ve watched porn, and read and heard enough to know when a girl is giving a guy a blow job. Like this one had been doing, probably leading the driver to not pay attention to the road, hence nearly killing us. And I’m not the only one who realizes it. The difference is, I just blush and pray for the asphalt to open up to swallow me whole. Hennessey goes from a pipe bomb to a nuclear warhead.

  “You— You fucking pig! You nearly killed us because you were getting your fucking dick sucked?”

  Her voice hits eardrum-piercing levels and I wince, my body finally getting with the whole retreat and regroup program as I start edging toward her. Of course Hennessey hasn’t come to the same conclusion; that tattoo-knuckled bad boys who are getting a blow job while driving aren’t the best opponents. No, my new friend—and I’m going to have to really rethink this budding friendship if she turns out to be crazy—starts rounding the hood of the car, her tuba still slung over her right shoulder.

  She almost slips by me, but I manage to snag her arm. Thankful, for once, for my greater size and weight, I’m able to keep her from ripping open the car door and dragging the driver out to beat him senseless. I know this is her plan because she shouts it as she fights my hold. I shuffle us back to where we started, a few feet away from the car. Nice and easy. It felt a bit like when I had to drag my grandmother’s Chihuahua away from a fight with a Doberman pinscher. Pepe just wanted to keep going back, despite the difference in size, while the Doberman just stared at him as if it’d lost its ever-loving mind.

  A cloud passes overhead, shading the windshield. That’s when we finally get a good look at the driver and I shiver, knowing I just saved my new friend’s life. The guy behind the wheel has danger written all over him. I can’t see his eyes, but I don’t need to. Not when the little smirk on his face tells me all I need to know about him. Like he isn’t sorry he nearly killed us. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the opposite elbow propped up on the edge of the door, and both ar
ms are covered in colorful tattoos. His dark hair is mussed, but not like he actually fixed it. More like he just washed it and let it do what it wanted, which proved even his hair has attitude. Everything about his appearance screams, “Fuck off” and I’m okay with that. I’m perfectly okay slinking away with my tuba and pretending this never happened.

  The girl, I’m trying not to think of her as the Blow Job Girl, is screeching something inside the car, which draws his attention away from us. I nearly slump with relief.

  “What’s your problem?” We hear him clearly even over the rumble of the engine. “Does speaking through your teeth like that mean you're really mad now?”

  There comes a squealed, “Terrible!”

  I knew it. He’s totally a bad guy. With a name like Terrible…

  “Look, you sucked my dick.” His tone is dismissive enough that I wince with sympathy for Blow Job Girl. “Randy’s too hung over to drive so all I was doin’ was bringin’ your ass home. You got in my car, planted your face in my lap, and went to town. I accepted because I’m a guy who likes to have his dick sucked.” He shrugs. “If you’re embarrassed about it, that’s not my problem. Now you can either sit there and wait until I’m finished here, or you can walk your ass home.”

  “You really are a dick,” Hennessey comments almost in wonder, drawing his attention back to us.

  I close my eyes and pray. Again.

  But I hear a laugh, harsh, yet genuine. “I’ve been called worse, Red,” he drawls. I open my eyes again to see him smirking at us. “You and Blondie there wanna get out my way? I want to get Whiny home before she floods my car with her tears.”

  Hennessey tenses, as though she’s about to go after him again, but I put my greater weight to work once again, dragging her out of the street. I’m peripherally aware a few band students are standing on the sidewalk gawking at us. Normally, I’d be dying of embarrassment. Right now though, I’m really worried about us literally dying because the bad ass in the car scares me.