Rocked Up: A Novel Read online

  Turns around to look at us.

  Looks into my eyes.

  My knees start to shake. He’s so beautiful, that thick dark hair, those arched sexy brows, that sweet mouth that I bet kisses so well.

  And he’s looking at me expectantly.

  Or, he was.

  He just gives us a polite smile and a wave and turns to walk off again.

  We’re just two little girls to him.

  Then Shelby yells, “This is Ronald Ramsey’s daughter!”

  I could kick Shelby right now. She yelled it so loud that everyone turned to look at us.

  But I can’t kick her, I can’t even glare at her or say anything.

  I can’t move. I am frozen, a statue.

  My heart is going a mile a minute on the inside but on the outside, I might as well be made of ice.

  I’m not sure I can breathe either.

  That’s even more apparent as Brad starts walking toward us.

  “You’re Lael?” he asks, his voice rich and low as he stops a few feet from us.

  I can’t even nod.

  “She is,” Shelby says, nudging me.

  I’m still slack-jawed. I can only stare at him.

  His dark eyes take me in and I feel a million volts of intense current run between us.

  “I’m Shelby,” she goes on. “You guys were sooooo awesome tonight, that was the best show ever.”

  “I’m glad you liked it,” he says to her before bringing his eyes back to me. “Are you okay, Lael?”

  My name. He said my name again! It sounds so beautiful coming from his lips!

  And no.

  I’m not okay.

  Everything is starting to go grey around the edges.

  His eyes darken with concern and he gives me a wry smile. “Breathe,” he says. “Just breathe.”

  I try and take in a breath but nothing seems to happen.

  Oh my god. I can’t breathe!

  Oh my god. I think I’m passing out!

  “Lael,” Shelby says in frustration. “You’re being ridiculous! Stop embarrassing me.”

  “She’s looking a little pale,” Brad says, taking a step closer as he examines me. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  I open my mouth to say something just as the world begins to spin and I tilt to the left.

  I don’t feel anything but I do hear Switch’s voice in the distance.

  “Looks like we’ve got another fainter, people!”

  The world goes grey, then black.

  Then grey.

  Then white.

  “Lael?”

  I open my eyes to see Arnie beside me, handing me a glass of water. Shelby is on the other side, hand at my back.

  I’m sitting on a couch in a dressing room.

  We’re the only ones in here.

  “What happened?” I ask, taking the water from Arnie and gulping it down.

  “You fainted, love,” he says.

  “It was so embarrassing,” Shelby says.

  I place my head in my hands, feeling so angry and sad and mad and shamed. I’ve never fainted before, ever!

  “It happens to a lot of people,” Arnie says. “Believe me. There’s a fainter at almost every show. Brad just has that effect on some people. Who bloody knows why.”

  Because he’s too good to be true, I think to myself.

  I look up at Arnie. “Where is Brad?”

  “He’s left,” he says. “He doesn’t stick around for that long after shows. He doesn’t party much, or drink much either. Keeps to himself.”

  “Will you tell him I’m sorry?”

  Arnie pats me on the back. “He doesn’t care. He thinks it’s flattering and he’s used to it too. Don’t worry about it, love. But I do have to tell you that the limo is waiting outside to take you back. Hope you both enjoyed the show.”

  “We did,” Shelby says and even though I know she’s so mad at me, she helps me to my feet.

  We say bye to Arnie and then make our way down the hall. Switch and Calvi and Nick are still here, drinking and laughing. They don’t pay us any attention which is a relief. I walk past them and we head out of the theater and into the night.

  “Way to go, numbnuts,” Shelby says to me as we get in the waiting limo. “You meet Brad and then you faint. You were supposed to play it cool.”

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  She rolls her eyes. “He knocked you unconscious with his hotness, that’s what happened.”

  Then she starts laughing hysterically.

  I start laughing too.

  We laugh all the way back to my house where she stays the night and we have a sleepover. We go over everything that happened, every single moment of the night, so that we’ll never ever forget it.

  And I start planning on ways to see Brad Snyder again.

  Next time, it’s going to be different.

  Chapter One

  Lael

  My knuckles on the steering wheel are bone white from gripping it so hard.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous before.

  Okay, so I can think of a few times. But even so, my nerves are stretched to the max.

  And it doesn’t help that traffic on the 405 has slowed down to a crawl and everyone is honking at each other even though no one is going anywhere. You’d think people in LA would be used to this shit day-in and day-out but I guess honking and getting angry are just part of the deal. If you didn’t spend hours in traffic releasing your anger on other drivers, did you really live?

  Normally I wouldn’t be driving toward the airport on a Monday nearing rush hour but when my father called me an hour ago, I couldn’t refuse.

  And I didn’t want to.

  Even though seven years have passed since I was that awkward girl who fainted at the And Then show, even though I’ve learned to let go of my adolescent fandoms and obsessions (let’s not forget how I stalked Thirty Seconds to Mars all around the country when I was sixteen), this is still something pretty amazing.

  I’m on the way to pick up Brad Snyder from the airport.

  Yes. The Brad Snyder.

  That Brad Snyder.

  The man who turned me onto music to begin with, who put that shred of hope in my soul and made me realize that I could do anything I put my mind to. Without Brad’s own music to inspire me, I never would have picked up the bass guitar, never would have paid for my own lessons behind my father’s back, never would have filled notebooks upon notebooks with my own songs and lyrics.

  Never would have been given this opportunity…

  I push it out of my mind and concentrate on not slamming into the car in front of me. The fact is, I’m not just picking him up, I also have to be the bearer of some sad news for him.

  Which makes this all really weird since I don’t know Brad. At all.

  Yes, we met at the show at the Palladium when I was fourteen and yes I fainted. And after that I had met him a few more times. My father had a large party for them at my house when one of their albums went platinum, I also went backstage a few times after that. But that was all when I was still in private school, still just a teenager. I’m twenty-one now and even though I know I’m still young, I don’t feel it. And for Brad’s sake, I hope I don’t look it.

  The moment I graduated, I was out of Los Angeles in a second. I’d had enough of the city – something about growing up here as the daughter of one of the country’s most successful record producers makes you grow real jaded of the whole scene. I backpacked across Europe, working odd jobs here and there and then spent my last year in Southeast Asia and Australia doing the same. I managed to score a job picking grapes (under the table, of course) in the town of Mildura, in Australia’s Victoria province and wouldn’t you know it, I actually kept working there for a few months, until I felt I had enough of getting dirt under my nails.

  All that time I was traveling, I had my bass guitar and my special effects pedal with me. Whenever I had a second I would either be practicing or joining local bands
and playing live shows. Sometimes it was just solo – like the awkward show I did in an expat community in Bali. Other times I would be in a band of sorts. Because I stayed in Mildura for so long, I officially joined the Kumquats (I didn’t name it) and played around Victoria and New South Wales. It was mainly pub shows in rural areas, but the band was psychedelic and really let me experiment with sound.

  That’s when I realized I had something to bring to the table. I was finally moving past being that bass player that just follows that same prescribed rhythm. I wasn’t D’Arcy from The Smashing Pumpkins, just nodding her head and strumming those same notes over and over again. I was Mlny Parsons from Royal Thunder or that chick from White Zombie, rocking the bass but not fading into the background. I had something to contribute, a sound and a method all of my own.

  Yes, it was those shows, as small as they were, sometimes only playing to one drunk farmer in the corner, that taught me more than school ever could.

  But you can only run away from life for so long. I knew I couldn’t illegally pick grapes and play in dusty bars forever. I had to come back home and find a life for myself, even though what I really want to do isn’t that practical.

  Or, it wouldn’t seem that practical in any other family. In this family, however…

  So I came back to LA. Instead of living back at home in my father’s sprawling mansion in Calabasas, I chose to be as far away from the Kardashians as possible. I found a roommate, sharing a simple garage converted into guest house that we rent in Sherman Oaks and got a job as a waitress at a restaurant down the street.

  I wanted as little of my father’s help as possible.

  That was three months ago. In that time I’ve kept up with my bass, been busy writing songs, playing with various artists, and I managed to adopt a dog, a tiny Chihuahua called Baby Groot, all while working and trying to figure out just how to make happen what I need to happen.

  Then I heard the news of what happened with And Then, how a few weeks ago they fired their bassist Nick. It wasn’t a surprise – anyone who followed the band knew that Nick had been asking for it for some time. Fame goes to people’s heads and sometimes it goes to the wrong people’s heads. I don’t care how big you are, no fan likes it when someone from the band berates them while on stage.

  So then I asked my father for one of the biggest favors of my life, something I know I’ll always be in debt to him over.

  And to my total surprise, he said he would see what he could do. That’s the thing about my father. For better or for worse, he can make almost anything happen.

  Which is one reason why I’m so nervous on this drive, along with the fact that I have to tell my hero Brad Snyder some bad news when I’m pretty much a stranger to him, and I’m going to be late to pick him up because of the damn traffic.

  I sigh and brush a piece of hair behind my ears, it’s bright color catching my eyes in the rear-view mirror. I know I certainly don’t look like the young kid with straight blonde hair and gap-toothed smile. My hair is dyed teal, my favorite color, and today I played with beachy salt spray to make it wavy. I may have also done a YouTube tutorial for my makeup before I left the house and now I’m wondering if I went overboard with the contouring. Nothing says trying too hard like stripes of brown on your face.

  I lick my fingers and try and wipe it off until it’s subtler in the harsh light of day. I know it’s totally silly and I shouldn’t be worried about how I look, but I can’t help it. There’s a part of me deep inside that feels like I’m fourteen all over again.

  God, if only I had an idea back then how unreal things are about to get. Hell, if only I knew I’d one day be picking up Brad Snyder and putting him in my car.

  If only I knew I’d be one step closer to uncovering the mystery of this man.

  The man, the myth, the legend…and all that fucking jazz.

  Fuck. I hope I don’t faint.

  Chapter Two

  Brad

  Sometimes I still feel like that hopeless child, that worthless little fuck I was before Ramsey made me a star. I was nothing, a skinny kid wearing sneakers that were two sizes too big because the Salvation Army didn’t have my size, always wearing that stupid yellow t-shirt that hung over my ripped jean shorts. I can hardly blame my mother for not loving me—when I picture that twelve-year-old loser, it still makes me cringe.

  Don’t get me wrong, my mother wasn’t perfect. When I think of her I see her in the corner of our garbage-filled apartment with a nee dle in her arm. Sometimes she had boyfriends that gave her money, and they were always surprised to see me, leaving after an hour or so. I called her by her name, Suzanne, because she said I sounded stupid when I said Mommy.

  I was stupid.

  Sometimes the police would come and Suzanne would be taken away screaming. She always yelled at me and said it was my fault. It probably was.

  A nice lady that spoke to me like I was a puppy would be there and I would leave with her. She knew I wouldn’t leave without my guitar; I left the apartment holding her hand, dragging it to my temporary home.

  My father, a musician, gave me that guitar. I didn’t remember him much but as a kid I thought the world of him. I figured when he got out of jail I’d show him the songs I made with that very same guitar, a Gibson. I had to steal it from a pawn shop more than once after Suzanne sold it to that creep that ran it.

  That was the reason the police came that last time, so it really was my fault. Suzanne said she needed money for her medicine. She also said I should burn in hell, and that’s the last I heard from her.

  The nice lady who treated me like a puppy stopped working at the house where I was living. She never said goodbye, and I always wondered if she hated my guts. Probably. Over the next three years I would move around. I never had friends, except Kevin Robson. He was an old guy that gave me music lessons for free. Mr. Robson, as I would call him, was the closest person to me.

  He would always say the same thing when I walked into his recording studio with all the buttons and machines.

  “Did they let you out of your cage?”

  He sounded mean, but he wasn’t, and I would roll my eyes. He would usually shake my shoulder and say something about me being skinny and not eating enough. Then he would give me a few bucks to get us some burgers at Dilallo across the street. I would leave my Gibson guitar with him when I left – Mr. Robson was the only person I trusted with it. I didn’t have to ask him what he wanted, I knew. It was always the same routine; Mr. Robson would give me ten dollars and make a point of telling me to bring back the change. I always laughed at his jokes even if he wasn’t funny, partly because he was old and I wanted to be respectful. I liked him, I never knew why he was so kind to me. Perhaps he took pity on the pathetic loser that I was.

  Mr. Robson worked as the sound man for the old theater where all the popular bands played. We were never allowed to eat our Dilallo burgers near all his fancy machines, so we would sit in the red little seats and look at the stage while we ate. It was a magical place; it looked so different during the day before the people poured in and fake smoke and colored lights filled the stage.

  “It should look like a dream,” Mr. Robson would say, referring to the lights and smoke they were testing for that evening’s act.

  We would play guitar together after lunch in his sound booth. The first thing he taught me was an E pentatonic scale, and after that, it was history. I would show him songs that I wrote at home, while my mother was out, and for whatever reason he always liked them and would tell the other workers to come and listen.

  “You have to make people feel something, kid, that’s all that matters,” he would tell me.

  If I finished a song completely, he would set me up on stage and I would play it for the crew while they worked. I liked how my voice sounded grown up coming out of the big speakers and how my acoustic guitar filled the room. Sometimes the lighting guys would turn down the house lights and light me up if they had time.

  It felt good at a time
when very few things did.

  “Use the whole stage, kid. Don’t be shy to scream that last note,” he’d say, giving me courage. It always helped that I sounded great after he fixed up my voice with his recording equipment.

  “Who’s playing tonight?” I would ask as if I wasn’t fishing for an invite. I would never show up without him saying it was okay, and he invited me almost every time. Then I would show up early and help set things up.

  Looking back, Mr. Robson and that theater were my entire world. Later, I often felt guilty that I was having such a good time while Suzanne sat in jail.

  Over the course of those three years, I saw countless bands. Mr. Robson would tell me what the bands did right and what they did wrong at the end of the night while we were cleaning up. There were all kinds of acts—I will never forget the burlesque one-woman show that completely mesmerized the crowd. Her name was Ms. Sugar.

  “Now that’s a real performer, kid. She had ‘em in the palm of her hand right to the end,” Mr. Robson said.

  She would come by every few months and all the stage workers really liked her, for obvious reasons. I liked her because she was the only one who called me Brad instead of “kid.”

  I later found out that Mr. Robson was a loner who never married. I guess it was pretty obvious there was no Mrs. Robson considering he lived on fast food and spent every waking hour in his sound booth. Either way, I’m pretty sure, after a while, he was as close to me as I was to him.

  When I turned thirteen, I got my first official birthday present.

  “Now this is from everyone, kid, not just me. We all chipped in and got you something.”

  Mr. Robson presented me with an electric guitar, a Gibson SG like my acoustic. It looked like it was meant for rock and roll. It was orange-brown near the pick-ups and faded to black around the edges. I remember my throat feeling really small and tight and my eyes watering a little. I didn’t understand why I felt the need to cry, but somehow I kept the tears in. I just stood there like a statue, staring at the perfect guitar, trying to hold it all together.