Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) (8 page)

“Haven’t you ever tried to make friends with other people in the industry?”

He nods. “It’s hard though. You never know if someone likes you for you. I used to spend time with Candy Roxanne, you know, the country singer? Then I realized she never wanted to hang out at home, watching a movie or listening to music. We always had to be seen somewhere together, like at a party or a restaurant, and people were always taking pictures that ended up in
People
and
Us
Weekly
. It was never about friendship. She just wanted to be seen with me. And you know what happened with my ex, Stacey.”

“But not everybody will use you. Some people
are
good, Jess…”

We sit, listening to birds singing, to wind blowing through the trees. To the beautiful song of Tennessee.

“Marco,” I say.

“Polo.”

I tentatively scoot his way. “Marco.”

“Polo.”

I crawl over next to him, touch his forearm. His brown eyes look so pretty and warm in the late afternoon sun. He touches my dress, twisting the black tulle in his hand. “I ruined your outfit.”

“I know.”

“I’ve liked getting to talk to you today. You’re different.”

“So are you.”

His lip upturned, he leans back onto his hands, squinting at me, and I pull my eyes away from the line of water trickling down his flat stomach into places I still shouldn’t be thinking about.

He catches me looking. “Sure you don’t wanna have sex?”

I slap his arm. “Would you behave?”

He grins. “So what’s up next?”

“As soon as our clothes are dry, I’m driving your Harley.”

• • •

Jesse tells me that his favorite part of being a musician is writing. It makes him feel calm and excited all at once. Calm, because it’s quiet, and he gets the opportunity to think. Excited, because he never knows what might come out of his pen onto the paper. I’ve never been much of a writer, but I love that feeling of success, like when I figure out how to play a particularly hard transition.

“So you do all your writing at your Pa’s fishing hole?” I ask.

“I’ve got a few other places too. My studio is one. The other is a secret.”

“Tell me!”

He grins. “Are you serious about driving my bike?”

“You better believe it.”

“I trust you after seeing you drive that red car earlier. You know the way back to Second Avenue in Nashville?”

As I climb on his Harley, I feel like I’m hitting a high C, the note that, as an alto, I always have problems singing. With Jesse securely behind me, I kick-start the bike and carefully steer it back onto the road. It’s a lot bigger than my Suzuki, but I manage it okay. I head toward downtown Nashville at seventy miles per hour. Jesse clutches my hips as I speed through yellow lights.

Zooming down Franklin Road, we pass by Vanderbilt University and the Frist Art Museum. I honk and wave at the NashTrash Tour’s Big Pink Bus as I drive down tree-lined stretches of road, passing by Music Row and heading for the waterfront.

At Second Avenue, I pull over and park. Jesse takes off his helmet and sits on the Harley, panting for several seconds. “Good God, woman. Never again!”

“You’re just jealous I’m a better driver.”

He leads me to a Chinese restaurant, and I’m about to ask if he’s craving dim sum when I see a small sign with an arrow pointing down to a place called the Underground.

Is
he
taking
me
into
the
sewer?
When we reach the bottom of the mossy, crumbling stone steps, he pushes open a door, and I gasp. A used record store. It’s totally hidden away. How has it stayed in business?

I feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine. Band posters and magazine articles coat the walls, and tables filled with used CDs, DVDs, magazines, records, VHS tapes, video games, and cassettes stretch the length of the room. Cardboard cutouts line the aisles: Eddie Vedder, Mariah Carey, John Lennon, Cher, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Jim Morrison.

Jesse nods at the guy running the cash register. The boy salutes Jesse, then goes back to plucking away at his bass. The place is empty except for a few customers who are digging through stacks of magazines and DVDs. I wonder if they’re looking for something in particular or just browsing, because I could spend my whole life looking through everything that’s here.

Jesse wanders over to the classical section as I beeline for the rock. In a relaxed silence, he and I dig through milk crates and boxes full of cracked CD cases and old records coated with dust. I discover a Queen Christmas album that I might buy.

“Got it,” Jesse says, slapping a CD against his palm.

He’d been fishing around in a milk crate for a couple of minutes. With his gaze fixed firmly on mine, he grabs my hand and leads me to a rope ladder in the corner. It goes up to what looks like a loft.

“That’s the listening room,” he says. “You can take records and CDs up there if you want to relax and listen to music. I write there when I need to get out of the studio.”

“This is your special place?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

We climb up into a cozy crawlspace with a low ceiling. I scoot across the floor and rest on an elbow. The loft is dark, only lit by black lights and a glimmer of sunlight streaming through a peephole. It smells like patchouli and incense. Patterned pillows and velvet cushions are everywhere.

“Do you like it?” Jesse asks, taking off his hat.

“I might have to steal your secret spot. I would love to hole up in here with my guitar.”

He puts the CD in the stereo while I take a look at the case:
The
50 Most Essential Pieces of Classical Music
. The first song is Adagio in G Minor.

I relax onto a purple quilted cushion and listen to the violin as Jesse writes in his notebook. It’s insane to think he could be composing the next Grammy-winning song of the year right next to me. I’m glad he’s getting a chance to write, since this is what he likes to do on his day off. He’s taught me so much today, I want to do something for him.

I swipe my cell screen and check the details for the Belle Carol Riverboat online, then find a text from Dave:
Saw pics of you on Access Hollywood!!!!!!

There are pictures of me online? Dr. Salter is going to kill me. I won’t just get a detention; I’ll be in detention until I graduate. I scroll through the rest of my messages. My sister sent no fewer than twenty texts reminding me to get Jesse’s autograph for her.

I hold my breath when I read a text from Hannah, asking if we can talk. I don’t know what there is to say. She just stood there while the guys kicked me out of The Fringe. Not to mention that she’s with Nate now. Granted, she didn’t know I had feelings for him and we’d been fooling around, but still. I don’t feel like talking to her.

I text Dave back:
Best day ever.

Today really has been the best day. We’re getting to be real friends. But what if that feeling is one-sided and I never see him again? What if he cuts off all contact with everyone after he quits the business? It’s not like people will suddenly stop mobbing him just because he doesn’t record albums anymore. How will he feel when he’s no longer playing music full time, after he’s given up his heart? He loves singing and playing guitar and loves being onstage, but that’s being drowned by all the drama offstage.

Maybe all he needs is a real good friend.

And then my cell buzzes. Dave is calling.

“Is it okay if I take this, Jess?” I ask, and he nods. “Hi,” I answer.

“Hey. I saw you almost got arrested for jumping in a fountain with Jesse Scott. There’s a video of you running from a cop.”

I cover my mouth. Yup, detention is definitely in my future. “Yeah. Jesse’s kind of crazy. How’d working at the Donut Palace go?”

“I learned how to make a bear claw!”

“Would you shut up about the bear claw already?” I hear a guy say in the background. It must be Xander, Dave’s college boy he met at Taco Bell.

I take a peek at Jesse. He’s very interested in the purple cushion all of a sudden. Is he sad?

“How’s it going with you, My?” Dave asks.

“It’s been a great day,” I reply, and Jesse looks up at me.

“Tell whoever it is I said hi,” Jesse whispers.

“Tell him yourself. His name is Dave.” I pass the phone to Jesse, who takes a deep breath.

“Hello?… I’m not gonna lie, she’s pretty nuts. She hijacked our whole day. We were supposed to go on these educational tours, and then Maya kidnapped me and made me go test-drive a sports car, and then she made me play hopscotch and go shopping for boots… Yeah, I’m being totally serious… Oh, and she won’t have sex with me either.”

I snatch the phone out of Jesse’s hand and put it to my ear, giving him a look. He lies back on a cushion, dying of laughter. “Pay no attention to Jesse Scott. He’s ridiculous.”

“Girl, he wants to have sex?” Dave blurts. “Take your clothes off!”

I tell Dave I’ll text him later and hang up, setting my phone on the floor. It makes me happy that Jesse was willing to talk to Dave on the phone. Maybe Jesse’s not as closed off as he thinks he is.

The classical CD switches to a new song—a piano medley. It’s really relaxing, and I can see why Jesse loves writing in this loft.

And that’s when it dawns on me.

I’m lying next to Jesse Scott.

This is a far cry from when I used to lie on my bed at home and stare at the poster of him tacked to my ceiling.

I suck in a deep breath.

“So,” he says and props himself on an elbow, looking down at me—like a real-life-size poster.

“So.”

His eyes trail over my legs, and he softly sweeps a hand up my arm. It makes me shiver, even though the loft is nice and toasty and I’m feeling warm all over. A sliver of sunlight streams through the tiny window as I stare into his beautiful eyes and he looks back into mine, and I wonder how it would feel to dig my fingers into his silky brown hair that curls around his ears down to his shoulders. He slips his fingers in between mine and rubs my palm with his thumb. This feels even more personal than seeing him in his underwear, and that makes me laugh nervously.

His mouth lifts into its signature smirk. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say, struggling for air.

He edges closer, tangling his boots with mine, and my mind goes to war with itself, wondering if I want him to kiss me—of course I do!—but also liking who he is as a person and not wanting to mess up something that might become a friendship, especially when we both need a friend.

“Jess, I told you you’re not my type.”

“You’re not my type either, Maya Henry.”

A voice calls from downstairs. “Jesse, man, the store’s starting to fill up. School’s out, you know?”

“Thanks, P.J.,” he calls down, then turns to me. “We should get out of here before people discover we’re up here and mob us.”

I let out a long breath, glad that the moment—whatever it was—is over.

We start to climb down the rope ladder. A few girls see Jesse and start freaking, but we rush out of the store and up the crumbling stone steps. As we walk back to his bike, Jesse asks how I got to be friends with Dave.

“In third grade at recess, this totally bitchy fourth grader, Shelley Cross, was talking to a bunch of the girls about how this guy liked her, but she didn’t like him. I asked a question, and she yelled in my face, ‘It’s none of your beeswax!’ I started crying, and Dave told Shelley that she had boogers, even though she didn’t.”

Jesse smiles sadly as we walk up to his bike. “I’ve never had a friend like that.”

I squeeze his hand. “You can have me. I’ll be your friend.”

His lips part, but he doesn’t respond, and I’m kicking myself inside for being so forward. I probably scared him off. Thank heavens my phone beeps and the moment is over.

“No more calls.” He snatches my cell from my fingers and pockets it. “This is our day, and I’m not sharing you.”

“I have a surprise.”

“Oh yeah,” Jesse replies. “What is it?”

He straightens his cowboy hat, and I scan the boats lining the banks of the Cumberland River.
Good, it’s there.
“We’ve still got some time.”

“You’re not gonna make me swim in the river, are you? Like as therapy or something?”

I giggle. “Yup. To get over your fears, you’re going to meditate and become one with the water.”

“Smart-ass,” he says, his lips forming an amused smile. “What are we gonna do in the meantime?”

“Not sure.”

“Let’s go up to Gibson then.” We take the brick walkway toward Second Avenue. He doesn’t try to hold my hand again like in the loft, but our shoulders rub against each other. “So. You and Dave. You’re not together, right? From the way you talk on the phone, it doesn’t sound like you have chemistry.”

“I would hope not. Dave is gay.”

“I figured you weren’t with him. I can tell when people hit it off,” Jesse announces. “I have precognitive relationship skills.”

I snort. “And who have you used your so-called precognitive relationship skills on?”

He pauses outside the door to Gibson. “Holly and her husband, Jay. And I just know Uncle Bob has a thing for Mark.”

“Get out! Dr. Salter is gay?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m cool with it; I just had no idea. No one at school knows that.”

“My parents know.” Jesse’s body deflates as he leans against the store’s brick wall. “They reacted badly when they found out. My dad hasn’t spoken to Uncle Bob in almost five years.”

Poor Jesse. And poor Dr. Salter.

But jeez—if anyone at school finds out that Dr. Salter is gay, I bet some closed-minded parents would storm the school carrying torches like in some kind of medieval crusade. I hate that about our town, that a lot of people are so closed-minded.

“My parents and grandparents stopped talking to him when they found out,” Jesse says. “And I told my grandparents I wasn’t coming back for Christmas or Thanksgiving until they let Uncle Bob come, and well, I haven’t been over there in years.”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head.

“It hasn’t been the same since Pa died anyway.”

“Good for you standing up to your grandparents like that. But it must be hard not being part of their lives.”

Jesse nods. “It’s complicated.”

If his parents are this judgmental, I have no idea why he values their opinion so much. He must really love them if he’s willing to retire from the music business so he can rebuild their relationship. But then again, I stuck with The Fringe for a whole year, even when I didn’t want to play metal. I just wanted to belong, to be a part of something.

“Jesse,” I whisper. “How will I find another band? What if I can’t find people who want to play the same music as me? Should I just settle and play whatever?”

And right there in front of Gibson, on the busiest street in Nashville, he folds me into his arms. A whisper in my ear: “I don’t know what’s right for you, but even after I retire, I’m not gonna stop playing guitar and writing. Because that’s who I am.”

Me too. Even if I have to sing stuff like “When the Saints Go Marching In,” I love performing, so I might rejoin the show choir. And regardless of whether I find another band, I’m gonna sit on my front porch and play awesome covers of eighties songs. Because that’s who I am.

I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tight. A cacophony of cameras sounds around us as people take pictures with their phones, but I don’t care. Even if he didn’t answer my offer to be friends, I know we are.

“Can we go in Gibson now?” I ask. “I’m dying to see the new Les Paul.”

He pushes the door open, making the little bell on the doorknob jingle. We step inside a music utopia, and I feel crazy lust for the guitars.

A middle-aged man darts up, buttoning his gray suit. “Jesse! It’s a pleasure.” He keeps his hands folded in front of him.

“Nice to see you, Max,” Jesse replies. “Maya, meet Max—he’s the manager here.”

Max gives me a warm smile and a firm handshake. “I didn’t know you were coming or I would’ve closed the store,” Max says to Jesse, swallowing as he looks around at the other customers. Some of them are already staring.

“It’s okay. We’re just looking around.”

Jesse and I head over to the Les Paul section and look up at the new Jimmy Page limited edition electric displayed on the wall.

“Amazing, huh?” I say.

“I like the archtop series myself.”

“Want to try it out?” Max calls from across the room.

“Maya wants to,” Jesse replies.

A minute later, I find myself cradling this heavenly $15,000 guitar. Max even hooks it up to an old-time Fender amp, so I can hear what it truly sounds like. I pull my lucky pick out of my purse. With trembling hands, I play the first few measures of the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” and then I start blistering through the guitar solo—one of the toughest there is—and Max’s eyes grow wider than supper plates. Some of the other customers crowd around us, staring and beaming at me.

“She playing backup for you now?” Max asks.

“She could be,” Jesse replies, taking the Les Paul from my hands. “My turn.” He throws the strap around his neck and adjusts the guitar in front of him, and the other customers scream.

Jesse pays them no attention as he starts playing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive.” It’s like a little concert in the Gibson store, and everyone cheers and claps when he’s finished.

He hands the Les Paul to Max. “I’m gonna go look at the Citation for a sec.” He strides across the room to look at a guitar that must be worth more than my house.

Max says, “You’re welcome to come back and play anytime, Maya.”

I look over at Jesse. “Yeah, maybe sometime.”

“You don’t have to come back with him,” Max says. “You just drew a crowd playing solo.”

That makes me feel really good. “Thanks! I’ve always wanted to come in your store—I was excited when Jesse suggested it.” I smile over at him. He’s staring at the Citation’s toggle switch like a scientist examining a molecule under a microscope.

Max lowers his voice. “I’ve known Jesse for a long time, and he’s never brought anyone here but his manager, and even that’s rare. He usually makes appointments and comes by himself.”

Wow. So coming in here with me was a big change for him. Maybe he would be open to getting out even more. How can I show him he doesn’t have to stay holed up, alone and friendless?

“He’s such a nice person,” I say.

“I’m sure he is. It’s a shame he’s quitting…I’ve never had a student who’s that good.”

“You give lessons?”

Max folds his hands in front of him. “I teach advanced guitar to a few talented people. Some of my students have gone on to get scholarships at Vanderbilt.”

“Wow.” I would love to go there to study music, but it’s very expensive, and the only way I could go is if I win one of those scholarships. I’ve been planning to try out for one later this fall, but if that doesn’t work out, I’ll go to Middle Tennessee State. It’s more affordable, and the music program is pretty good.

“Are you still in high school?”

I stare down at my boots, then nod.

Max pulls a card out of his wallet and passes it to me. “If you’re interested in some lessons, email me. I could help improve your technique.”

My hand shakes as I accept the card. “Thank you.”

Jesse finally tears himself away from the Citation. “Gotta go, Max. I’ve got some sort of surprise waiting.”

Outside the store, we walk beneath a pink sky toward the waterfront. The sunset gives his face a rosy glow.

“That video Uncle Bob showed me doesn’t do you justice. You’re really good on guitar.”

“Thank you.” I tell him about Max offering to give me lessons and how some of his students went on to get big music scholarships. “I’d love to win a scholarship to Vanderbilt, but I don’t have the money for lessons…and I doubt I’d do well in auditions, you know, by myself.”

“You have to take chances to get a chance at your dreams.”

I pause. “Did you graduate high school? Would you consider going to college?”

He stops. “I got my GED, but I have no idea what I’d even study in college. I don’t really have other interests besides music. And with my life, it’s like I have nothing left to go for. I have all the money I’ll ever need. My goal was to win a Grammy, and now I’ve got three.”

“You need a new goal.”

“Like what?”

“Figure out how to be happy again.”

His face hardens into a frown. “I’ve been happy today, you know, talking to you about music and your life.”

“You really helped me with my technique. And you said you thought something was missing in your life…maybe you could give music lessons?”

He takes a step back. “No way. People don’t really want to learn; they’ll just want record deals and favors and shit. They’re not like you.”

I get right back in his face. “You can’t lump all people together like that.”

That’s when the boat whistle toots. It’s time. Shit, we’re gonna be late. I start sprinting down to the docks as best as I can in my booties.

Jesse calls out, “Where’re you going?” but I keep running. I wait until I’ve made it to where the boat is docked and turn around. He chases after me in his cowboy boots, holding his hat on his head so it doesn’t blow away. When he’s close, I run up the plank and hop down onto the riverboat’s deck. A sign reads, “Private Party.” I can already hear the music.

“No,” he says, still on land, out of breath. His eyes glisten as he stares at the Belle Carol Riverboat from the docks. “No way. I can’t.”

Suddenly the engines roar to a start.

“Come on!” I yell and wave at him to join me. Giving me a desperate glance, he rubs the back of his neck and jogs up the plank and jumps down onto the deck. Seconds later, a boat hand comes up to retract the plank as the boat casts off.

“Remind me to run next time the word ‘surprise’ comes out of your mouth,” Jesse says.

Darkness is beginning to dye the blue sky. I sneak down the hallway, heading for the stairs that lead to the upper deck where music is blaring.

“Maya!” Jesse whispers. “What are you doing? You’re gonna ruin the party.”

I turn as he catches up to me. “
Au
contraire
,” I reply, poking him in the chest. “Whoever’s party this is will love me forever.”

I dart up the steps and find, like, ten thousand purple and pink balloons.

And a hundred young teen girls.

A “Happy 13th Birthday, Katherine!” banner stretches across the wall behind the band.

Jesse emerges from the staircase and swallows hard. “Shit.” And the screaming starts.

Girls encircle Jesse, and he looks at me, shaking his head, his lips pursed. I expect him to flip out or be a jerk like the night we met in his dressing room, but then he cracks up. We laugh at each other as the girls swarm him and separate us.

I head toward the stage to approach the band. “Know any Bon Jovi?” I ask the lead singer.

“Sure.” The man nods past my shoulder. “Is that Jesse Scott?”

“Yes. And it’s his dream to sing on the Belle Carol Riverboat.”

“Well, get him up here then.”

I grab the mike and say, “Happy Birthday, Katherine! My gift to you is a performance by Jesse Scott!”

I swear, the shrieking is so loud, you could hear it on Pluto. Jesse makes his way up to the stage, the girls hanging all over him like barnacles. Narrowing his eyes at me, he grabs the microphone out of my hand. “Where’s Katherine?” he asks, and this skinny girl with glasses pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She raises a trembling hand.

“I also got you a gift,” Jesse says. More screaming. Girls are holding cell phones above their heads, taking pictures and recording.

“Thank you,” Katherine says, so happy, tears are rolling down her face. She’ll be the most popular kid at school after this.

“My gift is a duet,” Jesse says and grabs my hand.

“Oh no.” I shake my head as I back away. He keeps a firm grip and pulls me close.

He whispers in my ear, “Surprise.”

The band starts playing “Livin’ on a Prayer.” The drums make the stage vibrate, and the guitar’s squeal causes my arm hair to get staticky. I love it.

“Nice choice,” Jesse says. A mosh pit forms around the stage. We start to sing together, and Jesse’s face is happier than I’ve ever seen it—in person or in the tabloids. Together we belt the lyrics into the microphone, and the girls point at me and take pictures with their cell phones. The back of my neck is damp with sweat, and I shut my eyes, drowning in Jesse’s beautiful voice.

On the last verse, Jesse stops singing. I stop singing too, but Jesse elbows me.

“Keep going,” he says, dancing to the beat. “You can do this.”

I can’t let him—or myself—down. I fill my stomach with air like he taught me, and I’m careful not to sing out of my throat. I control my voice, and somehow, it doesn’t crack. The new technique works! I can’t believe I’m singing a solo in front of an audience. I don’t faint, and my voice doesn’t crack—I just sing. And, God, it feels good to hear those cheers. It’s just like in my dreams.

When the song’s over, I whisper-yell in Jesse’s ear, “That was so fun!”

“You were great,” he replies, helping me off the stage. “Really great.”

“Did you have a good time?”

The sun disappears behind the horizon as he whispers in my ear, “Definitely.”

“Jesse, how can you give this up?” I ask, grasping his T-shirt.

“Not every day is like this one.” His voice breaks. “I want to live.”

He gives a bunch of autographs and takes pictures with the kids. And it shocks the bejesus out of me when some girls ask to have their picture taken with me. One who recognizes me from the Access Hollywood video of me running from the horse cop asks for my autograph. News travels fast when it involves Jesse Scott.

“I love your dress,” one girl says.

“Are you Jesse’s girlfriend?” another wants to know, bouncing on her toes.

“No.”

“But he’s so great!” another girl squeals.

With my blood still pulsing like crazy, I turn to stare at him as he gets a photo taken with the birthday girl. “Yup, he sure is.” I try not to think about what’ll happen when this day’s over.