Brooklyn Rockstar (Kendall Family #1) (2 page)

“Yeah and I’m holding you to it!” he calls out as I slam the door in his face.

T
he white letters
“W E L C O M E T O N E W Y O R K” stretching across a red wall inside the busy airport send my heart into a wild staccato beat and my breaths become tight like there’s plastic wrap sealing my mouth. I’m actually doing this.
Me.
Farmer’s daughter who’s lived on an acreage in nowhere-ville Minnesota her whole life.
Have I lost my freaking mind?

After collecting my luggage, I stop to ask a third person where I can find the spot I was told to wait for my ride as the first two directions I received were as clear as mud. It’s intimidating to be surrounded by hundreds of people and have literally no one I can easily relate to. But for twenty-two years, I’ve been a big city girl at heart stuck in a small town.

For as long as I can remember I’ve dreamed of moving to New York. The idea seemed ludicrous until two years ago when I met Sharlo, the online friend of a friend who posted something about living in Brooklyn. I messaged her and we chatted non-stop, clicking like we had known each other our whole lives. Enchanted by someone who had lived in big cities all her life, I was eager to live vicariously through my new world-traveling friend. Before long, Sharlo was begging me to move into her apartment, and I was finding ways to convince my dad and crazy-possessive brothers that the farm could operate without me. That in itself was no easy feat, but I had to scrape my life’s savings together to make it work.

Before my mom died she would always say that I was a unique soul, meant for great things. I just hope my “unique soul” has finally found a place to fit in, because there’s already a slow unease trickling in, making me wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

Only a handful of minutes pass where I stand alone beneath a well-lit canopy in the cool summer night before a new Honda pulls in at the curb, honking madly. With the sight of my friend racing out of her car, my nerves even out and a swell of excitement burns through my chest.

This is finally happening!

It’s surreal to see Sharlo in person even though she doesn’t look any different from all our video chats. In a loose-fitting shirt in geometric designs paired with bright orange capri leggings, it’s just the kind of thing I would picture her wearing. Eccentric jewelry covers her wrists, fills multiple holes in her ears, and hangs from her neck. The braid crossing above her forehead is so Sharlo, the free spirited friend I’ve come to adore who could probably make an adventure out of brushing her teeth.

A sophisticated aura surrounds my friend that goes beyond her bohemian wardrobe, the lilt of her voice, and the sharp slant of her pierced nose. She’s exotic and charismatic, able to lighten up a room just by entering.

Beyond being roughly the same height, our physical characteristics couldn’t be any more different. She’s blond haired, blue eyed, and has a healthy booty that must bring boys running to her yard even without the aid of a milkshake. But she’s skinny in all the other places where I could stand to lose a few pounds and her luscious hair flows down to her elbows. Though I’ve seen the colorful half-sleeve of flowers and print covering her right arm, I see the large tattoo on her foot for the first time and wonder where the other eight are hidden.

Jumping up and down, I squeal as she makes her way around her car and launches herself into my arms.

“By
God
I feel like we’ve been waiting an eternity for this moment!” Sharlo declares, stepping backward and lacing our fingers together. “Just as bloody gorgeous in person as I pictured you. I trust your flight went well?”

“It was fine,” I answer, shrugging. Then another wave of excitement hits me. “You’re gorgeous too! I can’t believe we’re finally meeting after all this time!”

“It’s brilliant!” Her eyes shift to the two large suitcases on the sidewalk behind me. “Those both yours?”

“I couldn’t decide what I wanted now and what I wanted to mail,” I admit sheepishly. I was up until two in the morning repacking when I second-guessed my choices, worried I’d look like a country bumpkin. Waitressing at the local bar and working for my dad didn’t allow the kind of money it would take to move out here
and
buy a new wardrobe, so I had to make due with what I have.

“Come on, then, let’s load them up and we’ll grab something to eat at my flat.” Eyes wide, she slaps her hands over her mouth. “I mean
our
flat. Bloody hell. It’s going to take some time for that to settle in my noggin.”

Suitcases tucked away, Sharlo shuts the trunk and we slide into the front seats. She fires up the engine, then turns to beam at me, blue eyes sparkling and body radiating with energy. Before she opens her mouth I can tell she’s been dying to spill a secret. “I have a bit of a surprise! Your new employer gave us a pair of tickets to see
Charlie Walker
tomorrow night at the bar! He’s doing some solo bit while their band is on hiatus!”

“Who’s Charlie Walker?” Based solely on the way she looks ready to implode with excitement, I’m guessing he’s a big deal.

“Are you mad?” Mouth agape, Sharlo nearly collides with a taxi when she tears out of the parking spot. “You mean to say you don’t know Charlie Walker? The rock god from Thrashtag? The band from Brooklyn that became an international sensation with ‘Coney Island Kid?’”

I shrug in response. “Maybe if you sang the chorus I’d remember.”

“Did you
literally
live under a rock?”

With a snort, I roll my eyes. “You know I’m more into the classics.”

“No matter. One look at him and your knickers will melt right off your body. It will be the perfect way to celebrate your move into the city.”

The excitement brewing in my gut paired with our first face-to-face conversation makes the dark forty-something minute ride through Brooklyn seem impossibly fast. As we turn into a quaint little neighborhood, Sharlo leans over to say, “Welcome home.”

I let out a gleeful noise. I’d seen pictures online, but in person everything about it’s charming
,
like something out of a romantic movie. Old brownstones with wrought iron stairways line the narrow roads paved in cobblestone. Tall, gnarly trees beneath dimly lit street lights make for a picturesque canopy, as if making a path toward my new home. Other than a man strolling along with his little dog and a woman who jogs around him, the streets are empty and tranquil. It’s the kind of neighborhood where you’d expect to see children unattended in the daylight, playing in the streets and riding their bikes.

Sharlo points out our building as she parks in a small lot, but it’s easily recognizable from a picture she sent. What was once a monstrous Catholic cathedral has been restored and converted into loft apartments. I can’t help but grin when I think how happy my mom would be that I’m finally stepping foot inside a church. Wanting to surprise me, Sharlo hadn’t sent any pictures of the inside. So by the time my luggage is out of the car, I’m practically skipping as we head toward the side of the building.

“Here we are,” she says with a pleased grin, unlocking a big red door. “Home sweet home.”

I shuffle inside, feeling like Alice in Wonderland. Dropping my carry-on, I spin around to get a good look at the place. “Holy. Shit
.
This place is amazing, Shar!”

The two-story loft is the most confusing mix of cast iron catwalks and stairways, dark wooden beams, alternating brick and glass walls, and pine floors. A stark kitchen with marble countertops and state of the art appliances opens up to a large living area where two suede couches are filled with fluffy pillows. Several barn doors suspended on rollers can be seen on the second level, leading into what I assume to be the bedrooms. It's unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’m instantly in love.

“Impressive, eh?” Sharlo asks, still grinning. She tosses her keys on a narrow glass table and strolls to the kitchen where she opens a massive, stainless steel refrigerator. “My ex was the brains behind this place. Too bad he turned out to be a royal arse.” With two waters in hand, she shuts the door and her lips bend with one of her mischievous smirks. “At least we stayed friends, and I got a discounted rent. Come on, then, I’ll show you our rooms.”

Atop the open metal stairway Sharlo shows me her room. Painted Tiffany blue, it’s a collection of eclectic furniture and luxurious materials with an impressive view of colorfully painted brownstones across the street. The unmade bed pushed against the far wall, covered with pastel blankets and floral pillows, is a welcome, familiar sight from all the pictures and videos she’s sent.

Crackled picture frames line the largest wall, displaying artwork and pictures of herself in various places around the world. As the single child of an older father who got into the success of Silicon Valley early on and an eccentric British mother who loves to travel, Sharlo has admitted she’s not only wealthy, but quite spoiled. Based on the exotic locations she’s pictured in, I’d say she hit the nail right on the head. I recognize some of the places by their famous landmarks—the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Great Wall of China—and have only dreamed of visiting the others.

“Where
haven’t
you been?” I ask, studying a picture of her in a grass hut on stilts that overlooks a sea green ocean.

“Don’t you worry, one day we’ll go on holiday together,” Sharlo promises with a wink.

We cross a catwalk to my room. It’s considerably larger than Sharlo’s and bare except for the box spring and mattress she bought for $50 the same night I announced that I was moving in. My footsteps echo inside the peaked ceiling as I step closer to study a set of ten-foot-high stained glass windows in the most gorgeous shade of blue that flank either side of the room.

I draw in a deep breath, moved by the beauty of it. “Okay, I don’t understand. Why aren’t you in this room?”

“Because it was
our
room when my ex and I lived together. I couldn’t very well bring another man in here without having hideous flashbacks of Richard pounding away and thinking he was some kind of porn star when in reality he was the size of a number two pencil.” Arms folded beneath her breasts, she eyes the white walls with annoyance. “I know the perfect thrift shop in the village where we can find you a bed frame and whatnot. Then you can decide what color you’d fancy the walls.”

Bursting forward, I belly-flop down onto the mattress and grin widely. “I can't believe I’m really here! You’re the best friend ever to let me come live with you!”

Sharlo releases a bright, tinkling laugh as she flops down at my side. “Trust me, love,
you’re doing me a favor. I actually considered rescuing a
cat
the other day until it dawned on me I was one step closer to becoming one of those crazy old women who wears curlers on her head and talks to plants.”

I burst out laughing with the visual. Sharlo joins in, and soon we’re little more than a pile of hysteria.

S
everal hours
and a bottle of wine later, I’m ready to call it a night. I spend half an hour answering texts from my dad and brothers, wondering if I’m settled in. As expected, James is the most cagey, asking if I’ve looked into pepper spray and self-defense classes. Once they’re all calm, I reach out to each of my sisters, letting them know that I’m alive since they haven’t bothered to check in at all after I told them I was moving. I nearly fall off the mattress when Sofia replies with a simple, “awesome,” considering I haven’t heard anything from her in months. I swear once they left home they both wrote us all off. I promise myself I won’t do that to my dad and brothers—not that they’d let me do that anyway. As the youngest girl in the family, I’ve been babied to the point of suffocation.

Since Sharlo wouldn’t stop rattling on about this Charlie Walker guy and how she can’t wait to see him live, I settle in my new bed with my laptop and search “Thrashtag” on YouTube, clicking on the first video result: “Coney Island Kid Official Video.”

In the comments some of the diehard fans seem distraught with the drummer’s disappearance, worried he won’t be found and the band will either break up or find a less talented replacement. Others simply comment on how Charlie is “fucking hot” and make some seriously crude comments about what they want to do to his body. Rolling my eyes, I hit play.

The video begins with an incredible shot of the famous Coney Island park at sunset with the roller-coasters and Ferris wheel shown as mere silhouettes against the pink and purple sky. I want to jump up and down on the bed when I realize I’m close to Coney Island and will get a chance to visit it one day soon.

Then a grunge-sounding guitar rips into a few chords and the image of an empty warehouse comes into view. A set of ice blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes fill the screen, locking my breath in my chest.

Hello, gorgeous.

I sit taller as the camera slowly retreats to show the man’s entire face, tanned and smooth. His beautiful eyes, hinting at some unspoken complexity, are only the tip of the iceberg of what makes him attractive. Dark, unruly hair draped across his forehead hints at the need for a haircut, as if he’s going for the bad-boy look but doesn’t want to commit to a longer length. Angled jaw that could cut glass, slightly crooked nose, bottom lip as full as a rose petal, impossibly thick eyebrows—I can appreciate why Sharlo would suggest him and underwear melting in the same sentence.

His mouth opens to release a low, rumbling sound that vibrates all the way down to my toes, making the sweet spot between my legs tingle. It’s no wonder why the guy’s a rockstar. Between the looks of a Greek god and the low, scratchy voice of an angel, he’s extraordinary. I’m sure he has millions of women throwing themselves at his feet, desperate to feel those exquisite lips on their bodies.

As the song continues, I realize I
have
heard it a time or two on the radio. The melody is hard and fast, but his voice remains low and steady as he sings about starting over and finding his way in the big world. I melt a little more with the lyrics, realizing they may as well have been written for me.

The camera zooms out to show a thick, tattooed arm jerking up and down with the violent chords. I imagine that same hand stroking me, bringing my body to a blissful high, and bite down hard on my bottom lip. Hot damn, I can only dream about what kind of sexual fantasies someone like that is able to fulfill.