HOW TO DATE A NERD Cassie Mae

Chapter 1

If I say I’m sick, don’t kiss me!

Rules of keeping up your popular rep:

Number one, the shorter the skirt, the better.

Number two, natural hair color is a thing of the past.

Number three, high heels are an extension of your foot. To go without them would be like losing a toe.

Number four, guys are disposable, and should never be used more than once or for an extended period of time.

And number five, never ever reveal you collect Star Wars memorabilia, you know every line to Lord of the Rings, and you actually know the birthdates of all the Harry Potter cast members.

Yeah. I’m a total closeted nerd.

I’m not cool with pity glares in the hallways, painful jabs, and social scars. No thanks. It’s much easier to keep my true nature hidden beneath layers of eyeliner, skimpy outfits, and even I must admit to myself, a rockin’ body. Though the push-up bras tend to do most of the work.

Welcome to high school. Where everyone tries to be someone else.

Well … everyone except Zak.

Here’s the DL on my next-door neighbor. He’s labeled King Dork because he wears nerdy shirts and talks in geek code. His front pocket of the plaid overshirt he wears always has at least three or four Pokémon cards in it. And if it’s not that, then it’s a graphing calculator he has to keep shoving down so it doesn’t fall out. There’s a Star Wars keychain always clipped to the back of his holey jeans and he sometimes carries a Wii controller in his back pocket.

And I’ve got it bad for the boy.

It’s not just the fact he was the one to introduce me to the awesomeness of the Elvish Language, the hidden mysteries of World of Warcraft, and the magical world that lies beyond Platform 9¾, but really, he pulls off sexy geek so damn well! His dark, like super dark eyes and his matching hair that flops around his forehead when he’s laughing too hard, combined with his nice height, swoon … he’s like the Peter Parker of my high school.

I may be the only person who finds his nerdiness just so hecka irresistible. Everyone else treats him like some dead bug on the sidewalk. I know how it is, and I have no idea how he handles all the verbal abuse.

Middle-school Zoe—Geek Zoe, I like to call her—was made fun of and tormented so much she spent most nights crying into her pillow. High school was the break I was totally looking for. A chance to freakin’ rewrite myself into someone who’s socially acceptable. Summer before school started, I grabbed loads of magazines and watched all those teen movies that so aren’t as awesome as Star Trek, but they were for my status education. And apparently, I was doing this popularity thing all wrong. I gotta be like a major bitch to people, and I’ll end up getting the hottest guy in the end.

Took some work, but I think I got it down. I should win an Oscar with how awesome I am at the fake personality.

But freak, it’s been two years since I was de-geek-ified, and I still find myself trying to stifle the urge to buy Comic-Con tickets, and try not to act jealous when I see Zak dressing up for the event.

Don’t get me wrong, my life is pretty darn fantastic and a whole heap of a lot better than the alternative, which is getting my emotional butt kicked around. So the fake persona is definitely worth it.

There’s a huge party tonight. Lots of alcohol and boys, but like every party night, I try to show off this hot bod first to my neighbor, who can see straight into my open window.

I strip down to my underwear so Zak can get a good look and turn up the music on my iPod. It’s pathetic, I know. I’m trying way too hard to get his attention, but I don’t care. It’s not like I can flirt with him at school. Social-suicide bomb right there.

Stealing glances out my window into his, I flaunt around my room pretending like I’m getting ready for the party. But I can’t get a good view of him and I don’t want to be more obvious than I already am.

Nothing.

Huh, maybe he’s not …

Yikes! I’ve reached my LOST playlist and my heart stumbles over itself as I quickly turn the music back down until I can get a more trendy song on.

“Hey, I was listening to that,” a voice says from outside my window. I knew he was home. Darn boy ignoring a prancing half-naked girl next door. Gosh, I thought I was doing this right. I adjust my bra to make my boobs look extra luscious, and then smoothly appear in his line of sight.

Zak is at his computer, books piled next to him. He rubs his eyes and blinks a couple times before staring back at the screen, brow furrowed. Totally not looking at me or my boobs.

“What exactly were you listening to?” I ask, using my seductive voice guys, well, most guys, fall over.

Looking at me—about time—he shakes his head at my revealing attire before reaching over to a cord I can’t see. His blinds shut with a rejected smack!

Youch.

I examine my boobs, but there’s nothing wrong there. Maybe I have a booger or something.

Nope. No booger, no drool, nothing.

Just me.

Great, now I’m all self-conscious. I’m not gonna even attempt a party appearance.

I throw on my pajamas—the big unflattering ones—and slouch on the bed. Stupid geek boy and the hold he has on me. I shouldn’t care what he thinks.

But I do. Because I care what everybody thinks.

I sigh and look out the window again. The sun dips below the horizon, casting orange and yellow streaks across Zak’s blinds, like something out of Harry Potter. Just super full of cool magic beans. I wonder if Zak’s still sitting there at his computer, typing away or plunging his nose into one of his thousands of books.

I shake my head. What does it matter what he’s doing? I. Should. Not. Care.

I hop off the bed, slam my own blinds shut, and whip the curtains together. My gaze flicks to the shelves lining the wall. They have been carefully constructed to conceal accusing material, with colorful doors that slide across them, revealing some things, and hiding others. Out of habit, I check over my shoulder before I slide open one of the doors, hiding the lines of lip glosses and compact mirrors and opening the section of the shelf holding several books about the X-Men.

I quickly grab the desired book and a flashlight and slam the door shut again. Some of the lip glosses topple over, but I make no attempt to straighten them. Must get under the covers stat! I curl up in the middle of my bed and throw the comforter over myself.

My sanctuary lies here as I open the book I’ve read thousands of times and purge my mind with paragraphs about The Dark Phoenix. Jean Grey is my idol. No one will ever know, but I base most of my wardrobe off her.

I don’t know how long it’s been before my phone buzzes on my nightstand. Yeah, my mind turns off to the rest of the world when I “nerd-out.” I turn off the flashlight and pull the comforter off my head, keeping the book hidden as I reach over for the cell.

My stomach used to flutter whenever I read Cody’s name on the caller I.D., but now I feel nothing. I really don’t want to talk to my current boyfriend. He’d just call me some absurd pet name and ask where I was. So I let voicemail grab it.

I hear the text jingle a few minutes later as I am carefully placing my book back on its shelf.

Where is ur sxy ass???? U better get here b4 any more chicks hit on me.

Ugh. I think his ego can keep him company for a while. Still, I let him know who’s in charge of this relationship.

Another rule that’s off the record: stay in control of all the boys you let kiss you. That way they don’t end up in your pants. Nasty.

I’m sick. Thx so much 4 ur concern.

There’s no response, but I don’t care. It won’t be the first boyfriend who found someone new before breaking it off with me. I do not put out. Though, I don’t care if they tell people I do. Helps with the rep without me actually having to do the gross part. Score!

I kinda feel bad for the girl who ends up in his arms tonight. Cody is a totally status thing. I use him and he uses me. We both know it, and neither of us really cares. It’s been about three weeks, so we’ve pretty much hit our limit anyway. He is a good kisser though. I’ll give him that one.

I look at the closed curtains, thinking of another boy with amazing kissing abilities, but I shove the thought from my mind before I lose it completely.

“Hey, I thought you were going out tonight?” My younger sister waltzes in and plops on my bed. Her dark brown hair has been curled into corkscrews and she’s covered in pounds of makeup. She’s wearing a blue shirtdress with a thick belt around her middle, making what little bosom she has look bigger. She’s only fourteen, but in this outfit, and that hair, she could pass for my age. I raise my eyebrows at her.

“And you thought you’d tag along?”

“Mom and Dad won’t know, and I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going. So you can’t either.”

“Why not?”

“There’s gonna be alcohol, Sierra.”

She gives me a look that says “You’re the biggest hypocrite.” She’s totally right so I play the tattletale card.

“And because I’ll tell Mom and Dad you went out while they were gone.”

She stands and smiles. “You know, if you’re going to start tossing around threats, I’d be a little more worried about what I’d tell them about you.”

I give her my best impression of Gollum on crack. “Fine, go out. See if they even let you in without me.”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and narrows her eyes. “Fine. I will.” She storms out of my room and my gut tells me to go after her, but my pride blocks my exit.

I sit and catch my breath before I finally get out into the hallway.

“Sierra, wait!” I call down the stairs. Hopefully I’ve caught her in time. Letting my fourteen-year-old sister go to an all-night alcohol fountain party wouldn’t exactly make me a responsible older sister, even though I never really fit into that category. Still seems wrong to at least not try to get her to stay.

“Sierra!” I get to the bottom of the staircase and she comes out from the formal living room, scaring the poo out of me.

“Someone’s here to see you,” she says bitterly as she pushes me to the side to get upstairs. Instead of socking her in the butt, like I want to, I kink my neck to see around the wall. What the hell is Cody doing here? His back is turned to me and he’s holding something in his hand. I duck back upstairs to change into my sexy pajamas. No way is he seeing me in these old baggy ones.

I grab the black silk shorts and cami and hurry and slip them on. I let my fake deep red hair down—you know, Jean Grey—so it cascades down my back and I quickly run my fingers through it. I don’t worry about makeup, just slab some gloss on my lips. After all, I am “sick.” But girls like me have to look good at their worst.

I throw a light blanket over my shoulders and walk back to Cody. He still has his back to the entryway.

Okay Geek Zoe, it’s been fun, but Cody can’t know you exist.

I take another deep breath and get ready for my act. “What are you doing here?” I ask, letting my phony anger soak into my voice.

He turns around and his eyes widen at my ensemble.

See? There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s Zak who has a problem.

“Uh …” he stutters as he clears his head. “I thought maybe since you were too sick to go out, we’d stay in.” He holds up a movie, which I’m surprised to see is a total chick flick. Gross. But popular Zoe likes that crap.

“Do you feel guilty about something?” I’ve been through this stuff before. He’s totally trying to make up for something he did that he shouldn’t have done.

Oh well, time for a new boyfriend anyway.

His eyes lower to the floor and I take in a deep breath and wait for it. The inevitable “I cheated on you” or “I found someone else.”

“I’m sorry about that text. I didn’t mean to make you upset. I was only kidding, really.”

I stare at him, not able to erase the shock from my face. “Huh?”

“I know you haven’t had the best luck when it comes to your exes. I was being stupid. Forgive me?” He throws me a puppy-dog face.

Now I’m really thrown and I’m not sure how to respond. So I just mumble incoherencies.

“Um … I guess … sure … uh-huh …”

“So,” he says, furrowing his brow and crossing over to me, “we’re cool?”

I give him a nod, but then remember I have a part to play. I fold my arms across my waist and gaze up into his handsome face. His dark hair has been tousled across his forehead and frames his deep brown eyes perfectly. He’s getting a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. Yeah … definitely a status thing with him.

“Don’t treat me like that. I deserve better.” I don’t really mean that. In fact, right now I deserve a lot worse.

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

He takes me into his arms, but I keep mine folded, not responding to his hug. I do let out a fake sigh of defeat and say into his chest, “Okay.”

He pulls back and tilts my face to slap a kiss on me. As usual, I remove myself from the embrace—metaphorically—and think about more pleasant company. Maybe Obi-Wan, but not like old fart Obi-Wan. Heck, I’d take Neville Longbottom before I made out with an old guy, even if he did have The Force.

A different kind of urgency pushes from behind Cody’s lips and I’m snapped back into reality. I pull away, afraid of what he’s thinking.

“I’m sick, remember,” I say, wiping my soggy lips with the tips of my fingers. Gag.

“I don’t care,” he says as he tries to pull me in again. I put my hands on his chest and push back, leaning my head away from his face.

“I do.” I use my stern and controlling voice, but it’s not fake this time. He better keep those pervy lips away from me.

He looks like he wants to argue, but he lets go. I almost let out the huge sigh of relief I’d been holding in my chest, but I catch it before I do. I mean, for all he knows, I’m a girl who lets just about anyone between her legs. He entwines his fingers with mine and mumbles, “So … do you want me to go?”

“Yeah. I don’t want you to catch it.”

“You don’t sound sick.” His voice is barely audible.

“Well, I am.”

He pauses a moment and looks behind me, into the hallway. I crane my neck to see what he’s looking at, but I’m forced back into an awkward embrace, his mouth trying to swallow me whole.

I can’t move. His fingers latch into my spine and yank some of my hair. What the hell is he doing? I start clawing at his body, trying to break free from his strong arms.

“Holy shit, Cody!” I shout the second I get his face away from me. “What the hell was that?”

“Come on, Zoe.” His hands continue to dig into my back. I wish I would’ve kept the baggy pajamas on because I’m sure he’s drawing blood.

“Get. Off. Me.” I’m wiggling around, hoping he’ll let me go, but his grip tightens.

He smiles. Not one that’s sexy or anything, but a very nasty and uber-creepy grin. If my legs weren’t trapped, I’d knee him right in the balls. “Every guy you’ve been with only dated you to get in your pants.” His grip tightens again and I try to keep my face as far away from his as I can. “You know it. I know it. You can’t be mad at me for doing exactly what you were doing.”

“Which is what?” I spit. He really needs to let go before I go bat-shit crazy on him. This is getting really scary.

“Dating each other ‘til we got something out of it.”

I can’t find my heart anymore. My eyes fill up and the tears almost spill over. He’s right. Which sucks. I’m so stupid. I should have expected at least one of the boys I dated to be upset about not getting some, so upset they’d take it into their own hands.

“I want you to leave me alone.”

“I helped you out. How many people get jealous whenever I touch you?” He reaches up and brushes my hair from my face. I’m tempted to bite his finger off. “How many clubs have you gotten into because I know someone?” His lips are near inches away from mine, his hand now locked around my jaw so I can’t move. “I think since I’ve done my part, it’s only fair you do yours.”

My lips form obscenities around his as he mashes them against me. I’m wiggling like crazy, trying with every bit of strength I have to get away from him. I think I got in a good hit somewhere, but he’s not letting go.

He bites down on my bottom lip, causing a yelp of pain to escape my mouth. I keep quiet after that and he moves his kisses to my cheeks, my neck, my chest, while I still try to get out of his grasp.

Oh my gosh! Is this really happening? What is he going to do to me? How far will this go? I try to detach myself—again metaphorically—but it’s impossible. No one has ever attacked me like this before, and tears start to leak out the corners of my eyes.

One of his hands clasps my butt cheek as he moves me upstairs. My stomach plummets as I hope against all hope Sierra stays in her room. She cannot see this. I don’t want her to see this.

We get to the top of the landing and I hear a doorknob turn, but it’s not from Sierra’s room. It’s the front door which is in plain view from where Cody has me pinned. Cody hears it too and he shoots upright, letting go of me long enough so I can fix my top before someone walks in.

“Hello?”

I’m too relieved to be confused about Zak standing in the doorway. I jog down the stairs, coming within inches of his body, but stop myself from hugging him. My arms drop and I pretend I was going to scratch my head, looking like an idiot. His puzzled face would be comical if it weren’t for the tense atmosphere. I take a small step away as Cody descends the staircase. I search deep inside my voice box for a cheery tone and blink away the water from my eyes. “Hey, uh … my dad’ll be home in a minute and he can get you that book you wanted. I’m not sure where he put it. You can sit over there if you wanna wait.”

I’m so glad Zak knows when to act stupid and when to play along. “Thanks, Zoe.” He goes into the living room and sits down, not taking his eyes off me and my now very ex-boyfriend. No way will that guy ever get near me again. Cody looks like he just got attacked by fire ants with how red he is. He clears his throat and looks at me.

“I better get back to the party. You comin’?”

“No.” Hell no. I don’t look him in the eyes, because now they scare the crap out of me. “I’m sick, remember?”

“Your loss.” He shrugs out the front door and I almost break into tears right there in the entryway. But Zak’s presence shuts me off from losing it.

“Are you all right?” he asks, getting off the couch and stepping closer to me. I quickly try to erase the pain and horror from my face, putting my calm mask on.

“Yeah. I’m just not feeling well, like I told Cody. So, I’m going to go upstairs and sleep it off.”

“Zoe, don’t pretend like I don’t know what just happened.”

I feel all the color drain from my body. So much for looking calm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Zak bores his eyes into mine. I fold my arms again and stare back. He’s not going to get me to admit to anything. I’m not even sure what happened. It’s like my mind can’t catch up with the reality of it all.

“Well, next time I see him attack you like that, I’m calling the cops.”

Agh! What the crap? How did he …? I gaze out the window behind him and I see he has a perfect view of the living room if he’s in his kitchen.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” I lie. “Really, it’s always like that.”

“If that’s the case, I’m calling the cops right now.”

“Wait,” I say, coming up short on excuses. I don’t know why I care so much, or why I’m giving Zak the attitude, especially since he just saved me, but I find myself trying to keep up my fake persona. “Don’t call the cops. I just … uh … we got in a fight, and he wanted to make up. And … uh, I wasn’t exactly done being mad at him, you know?” Great, now I sound like a rambling fool.

Zak studies my face. His eyes search mine for any deception, but since what I said isn’t completely untrue, he lets it go.

“Okay. Sorry I barged in. I thought it was a problem.”

“No, there’s no problem.”

He studies my face once again before going out the door. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until the hot air escapes my nose. I jog upstairs, slam my bedroom door and put on my baggy pajamas before curling up under my sheets and crying myself to sleep.

Also look for THE FUNERAL SINGER, a young adult contemporary romance, coming from Swoon Romance on September 24, 2013

THE FUNERAL SINGER

Linda Budzinski

Chapter One

Normally I didn’t attend my father’s funerals unless I was scheduled to sing, but it wasn’t every day Dad buried a rock star.

No way would I miss Mick Nolan’s service. It was by far the coolest thing to ever happen at Martin’s Family Mortuary. I rifled through my closet full of black dresses—eight in all, but none quite right for today. I wanted to look good, but of course, this was a funeral, not a concert, and I was in mourning. Mick was my second favorite member of The Grime, behind bassist Zed Logan.

Ah, bass players. Soulful, brooding, background guys.

I finally settled on a knee-length dress with long, sheer, flowing sleeves. Its neckline dipped low enough to be sexy but not, I hoped, disrespectful.

Turned out, I shouldn’t have worried. Downstairs looked like the set of a music video. Girls in miniskirts, midriff tops, and strappy heels pranced around guys in torn jeans and t-shirts. A sea of tattooed arms, legs, bellies, and backs clashed against the lobby’s soothing rose-and-tan striped wallpaper.

My dad walked around solemnly shaking each person’s hand and intoning over and over, “Thank you for coming,” and “So sorry for your loss.” His dark blue suit, which usually helped him blend into the background, had the opposite effect, and he stuck out like … well, like a funeral director at a rock concert.

“There you are, Melanie.” My mother thrust a wreath of red and white chrysanthemums into my arms and pointed me toward the chapel. “Set this with the other arrangements and then head out front to help Dawn hand out the programs.”

The wreath was so large I could barely see around it, but I knew every inch of the chapel as well as I knew every word of “Candle in the Wind.” I wound my way down the aisle and toward the front, where Mick’s Grecian-style urn, hand-painted with The Grime’s logo, sat on top of his keyboard. I waded through dozens of wreaths, sprays, and bouquets until I found a place to squeeze in the new addition. The sweet scent made me dizzy. Never before had I seen so many flowers. Of course, never before had we held a service for someone famous.

I stopped by the urn and said a quick prayer. Mick had overdosed on cocaine at age twenty-one. My first reaction when I’d heard the news—and I’m not proud of this—was: What would happen to the band? That was almost a month ago, and there had been a small, private service a few days later. Today’s event, “A Celebration of Mick’s Life,” was open to everyone.

As I turned to leave, I spotted an older woman seated in the front row of the chapel, fingering a delicate gold cross around her neck. I’d read somewhere that Mick’s grandmother had raised him. That had to be her. I turned, hoping to escape before she noticed me, but she stood and called out. “Excuse me, sweetheart. Do you know how long it will be before the service begins?”

I glanced at the clock on the back wall. “About twenty minutes.” If I were my father, I’d offer her some water or ask if she needed anything while she waited. Maybe I’d even sit down and take her hands in mine and ask how she was holding up. Instead, I turned and ran.

Avoid close family. That was my rule, and though I’d been to hundreds of funerals in the past few years, I’d somehow managed to follow it—most of the time, anyway.

The trick was to sneak up to the chapel’s balcony just before the service began, perform my songs, and disappear as soon as it ended. Let my dad deal with the dearly beloved. The bereaved. The very word felt heavy, loaded down with a heartache and pain and emptiness I had no clue how to handle.

I made my way down the chapel aisle, through the lobby, and outside onto the porch, where Dawn, our receptionist, shot me a panicked look and handed me half of her stack of memorial programs. “Thank goodness you’re here. This place is a madhouse.”

The Grime hadn’t had a hit in almost two years, but they still had plenty of fans here in their hometown, just across the river from Washington, D.C. The line wound all the way down and around the end of our block. “No way all these people will fit inside the chapel,” I said. “Dad’ll have to come out and shut the doors soon.”

Dawn pointed toward a pair of cop cars parked across the street. “That’s why I called them to come out early.” The police normally didn’t arrive until the end of the service, so they could escort the funeral procession to the cemetery.

“You don’t think we’ll have any problems, do you?”

Dawn looked around. The crowd was large, but tame. “No, but better safe than sorry.”

A few girls from my high school called to me from halfway back in the line. “Hi, Mel! Love your dress!”

I pretended not to hear them. They treated me like the Freaky Funeral Girl at school, and now they wanted to act as though we were best buds?

I scanned the parking lot. Only one news van—our local Channel 4. Too bad. I’d hoped TMZ would show up, or MTV, or at least Entertainment Tonight. Then again, Mick had two strikes against him: First, The Grime’s second album had tanked, after which Rolling Stone had labeled them a “one-hit wonder,” and second, he played keyboards. Keyboardists got no respect.

A woman with poofy blond hair rushed over, signaling a cameraman to follow. “Hey, you! Girl with the programs! Can you tell us where the band members are?”

I shook my head. “They’re not here yet.” The Grime’s crew had come by this morning to set up their equipment and tune their guitars, but the band was nowhere to be seen.

The woman sighed and turned back to her cameraman. “Fine. Let’s keep doing fan interviews. One of these idiots is bound to have something interesting to say.”

They cornered a girl with pink-streaked hair and a pierced lip. “Hello, I’m Andrea Little, Channel 4 News. Mind if we ask a few questions?” About halfway through the interview, the girl started sobbing, her makeup forming two dark tracks down her cheeks. Now there was a girl who didn’t go to many funerals. Should’ve gone easy on the mascara and made sure it was super waterproof.

My mom was big on the value of crying. She said holding back could make you sick, and that her job as a grief counselor was to get people to let it all out. That was one thing we had in common. When I was singing up in that balcony, I wanted to make people feel something—sadness, anger, relief—whatever it was they needed.

One thing was for certain: Pink Hair Girl didn’t need help from me, my mom, or anyone else. As I watched, she fished a tissue out of her bag, wiped her cheeks, and blew her nose with a loud honk. Andrea Little backed up and grimaced, but she motioned at the cameraman to zoom in closer.

Dad came out and called over one of the cops. “We’re at capacity,” he told him. “We need to shut the doors.”

“But, Dad …” I said.

“Fire marshal’s rules, honey.” He pointed to the speakers mounted at both ends of the porch. “We’ll pipe the sound from the service out here. Everyone is more than welcome to stay and listen.”

“But, Dad, the band members aren’t here yet. We have to let them in.”

Dad glanced at his watch and stepped back inside. “Right. When they show up, send them into the chapel. But no one else.”

While the cops explained to the crowd what was happening, Dawn and I walked around and passed out the rest of the programs, souvenirs for people to take home even though they couldn’t get in. As I handed out the last few, I spotted my best friend, Lana, making her way through the crowd. Apparently she’d gotten the memo about the miniskirts.

“This is insane,” she said when she reached me. “Mom had to drop me off a block away.”

I nodded toward her oversized purse. “Let me guess. Your Randy-approved outfit is in there.” No way would her uber-strict stepdad have let her out of the house wearing so little.

Lana grinned and opened her bag to reveal a full-length black skirt crammed inside. “What Mr. Control Freak doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Well, you look great, as always.” I led her up the stairs onto the porch. “It’s standing-room only inside. Dad shut the doors, so I’ll have to sneak you in.”

She ran her fingers through her tight blond curls and adjusted her sweater to bare her right shoulder. “Is Bruno in there?” Lana was obsessed with The Grime’s lead singer, Bruno Locke. He seemed like an arrogant, self-absorbed jerk to me, but then again, that would fit right in line with her dating record.

I shook my head. “No sign of the band yet.”

Just as I opened the door for her, a limo pulled up. It was longer, sleeker, and somehow even a little blacker than my dad’s limos. And unlike my dad’s cars, it had shiny chrome bumpers and chrome-spoked wheels.

Lana grabbed my hand. “That must be them.”

A huge guy with a shaved head stepped out from the driver’s seat. Andrea and her cameraman rushed over. “Back up,” he yelled at them. “The band will not do any interviews. You can film them walking in, but they won’t stop to talk.”

I held my breath as lead guitarist Jon Marks and drummer Ty Walker stepped out. Next came Bruno, and Lana squeezed my hand so tightly I thought my fingers might break. Bruno paused for a moment and eyed the crowd. When he noticed the camera, he tilted his head and gave his signature sneer. Oh, please. Couldn’t he give it a rest, even for one day?

Finally, out stepped Zed. Shorter than he looked in their videos but otherwise even better in person. The messy dark hair, the brown eyes, the scar on the left side of his chin. So hot.

I held the door open and they filed past.

Zed shot me a half-smile. “Thank you.”

“You too.”

You too? Ugh. Real smooth.

Table of Contents

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

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SAMPLE: HOW TO DATE A NERD

SAMPLE: THE FUNERAL SINGER

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 469