Just a Girl

Just a Girl
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Loveswept Ebook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Liz Czukas

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

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OVESWEPT
is a registered trademark and the
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OVESWEPT
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

ebook ISBN 9780425284582

Cover design: Caroline Teagle

Cover photograph: © annebaek/iStock

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v4.1

ep

My ears were ringing with the roar of the crowd as I walked off the stage. Adrenaline had me feeling like a champagne bubble even though I was breathing hard. I’d left everything I had on that stage.

“Great show,” one of the stagehands said with a smile.

“Thanks.” I grabbed my bottle of water from the out-of-the-way spot I’d shoved it in before we went onstage.

Brendan, Dixon, and Shawn were already disappearing into the distance on their way to the green room, but I stayed in the wings for another minute, absorbing the applause and screams of the crowd. Their energy fed me, even though I could have sworn I’d used up all my reserves belting out our set. The crowd was much bigger than usual, but that was to be expected when we were opening for Everyday Extraordinary for their L.A. show. It was the biggest opportunity we’d had yet, and I felt so amped I could have climbed a mountain.

Onstage, the roadies rolled the drum kit back on its platform to make way for the next act’s equipment. Their precision was incredible; it was obvious they’d been working together for the entire, long tour. At last, the tour DJ cranked up some music to keep the crowd going during the switch, and I lost the sound of their enthusiasm to the beat. Downing the rest of my water, I made my way to the green room.

The guys were all inside already. I grinned at them as I entered. “That was fucking fantastic!”

“That’s the kind of crowds we should be playing for every night,” Dixon said, pointing at Shawn like he was adding to an ongoing conversation.

“I know that,” said Shawn impatiently.

“Seriously, how fucking great was that crowd?” I demanded, flopping down on the saggy green couch next to Brendan. He didn’t drop his arm around me like I expected him to. We were in a good place right now, and that usually meant he could barely keep his hands off me, especially after a show. I looked over at him. “What’s up with you guys? Were you not on the stage just now?”

“Presley,” said Shawn, “we need to talk.”

My postshow high faltered. “Why?”

“We know about the guy from Atlantic.”

Oh thank God. “What about it?”

“That’s the second label to offer you a deal for a solo gig.”

“Yeah, and I told him no. The Luminous 6 is a package deal. I told him that. It’s all of us or none of us, you know that.”

“That’s the problem,” Brendan said.

“What is?”

“They all want you. They don’t even give a shit about the band.”

My temporary relief was gone. “So what? We’re gonna find someone. Look at this show! There’s no way we don’t get something out of a show this big.”

Shawn, always the diplomat, spoke. “We just feel like we’re never going to get the attention on the band as long as we’ve got you up front. We want to be taken seriously.”

“What are you saying?”

“We…we all agreed that it would be better if we went on as a band. You know, just the band.”

I literally could not comprehend what he was saying. I turned to look again at Brendan, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“You’re out,” Dixon said flatly. “We want to make it on our own.”

“Come on, man,” Shawn said. “You don’t have to be a dick to her.”

“Are you guys fucking with me?” I desperately hoped they were, but the crack in my voice said I knew they weren’t.

“You’ll be fine,” Shawn assured me. “Somebody will pick you up as a solo.”

“But I’m not a solo act.” Like that was supposed to make a difference to him. I turned again to Brendan. “Are you okay with this? You cannot be okay with this. We started this fucking band. Together.”

He shrugged and rubbed at his nose with the back of one hand. “It’s for the best.”

“The best?” I got to my feet and backed away from them all. “Just who exactly is this best for?”

“Just quit it, Presley. We already decided. Don’t make such a big fucking deal.” Dixon rolled his eyes and turned to get a beer out of the minifridge.

“Who the fuck do you think is going to sing for you?” I curled my fingers into fists.

“We’ve been looking at a couple of guys out here,” Shawn said. He at least had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

“ ‘Guys’?” I echoed. “What the fuck?”

“You’re too much of a gimmick,” Dixon said. “Nobody even listens to the songs when there’s some chick on the stage.”

“I am not ‘some chick,’ you asshole!” I shouted. “I fucking started this band. We”—I jabbed my finger at Brendan—“started this band.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re a fucking distraction, Presley. We’re sick of being your backup band.”

“Fuck you, Dixon.” I returned my attention to Brendan. “You are not seriously letting this happen.”

He shrugged again. “Come on, Presley, things change.”

“Are you kidding me? Things change? That’s all you have to say to me?”

“I knew this was going to be drama,” Dixon muttered. “I told you she’d be a bitch.”

“Don’t you fucking talk to me, dickhead.” I stormed across the room and stood toe-to-toe with Dixon, sticking my finger in his face.

“Get off me.” He knocked my hand aside.

Shawn tried to intervene again. “Presley, come on. Why don’t you come with me and cool down a little?” He put a hand on my arm and I shrugged him off without hesitation.

“I don’t want to calm down.”

“You need to chill, babe,” Brendan said from behind me.

Without thinking, I snatched the bottle of beer out of Dixon’s hand and whirled around, launching it at the wall above Brendan’s head. It smashed, showering my so-called boyfriend in foam and glass, and I screamed, “Fuck you!”

And less than a minute later, Shawn had me out in the hall, arms wrapped around my waist while I kicked and thrashed and tried to get to the assholes who’d kicked me out of my own band.

But it was done. And after Shawn made sure I had my feet under me, he disappeared into the green room, closing the door behind him. I heard the lock click a second later.

It was like hearing the door locked on my own soul.

I beat on the door, screaming obscenities at them until someone from the security team hustled down the hall to shut me up. Before he could put his hands on me, I gave the door a final kick and walked away.

Everything I’d worked for, the reason I’d moved to L.A., the only meaning in my life for the last three years was gone.

Just like that.

Replies:

@MeBroHorny Dumb bitch.

@ClassyChassy NOOOOOOOOOOO!

@LivFree WTF? Since when?

@TheDude2point0 Bitch so stupid. Waste of skin. Kill yourself.

@LivFree Fuck you @TheDude2point0 What the fuck do you know about it?

@TheDude2point0 @LivFree You should kill yourself too.

@theLum6Band

Check out our new singer at our show tonight!

@theLum6Band

Thanks to our true fans who came to the show tonight.

Replies:

@LivFree @TheLum6Band You guys suck without Presley.

May 1

Mom

You can always come home, baby.

May 10

Liv

Are you still having a pity party? Text me back.

May 11

Me

I’m here. Went back to my parents’ house. So pathetic.

May 13

Liv

OMFG I just saw Brendan out with some chick. Linus says she’s a porn star.

Hel-lloo?

May 13

Liv

Did you get my message about the porn star? Hello, this requires a response! You are killing me! What is he thinking?

Me

I don’t want to know. Fuck him.

Liv

I’m sure she is.

Me

You’re not helping. Stop. I don’t care about that asshole.

Liv

I can tell. Fuck those guys. Come back to L.A. It’s stupid that you left.

June 1

Liv

I told Brendan he had to tell you this himself but he’s being an asshole so, PLEASE DON’T BE MAD AT ME, but you need to get tested for chlamydia.

Me

FUUUUUUUUUCK.

June 5

Liv

So, did you get tested?

Me

Yes. Negative. But I fucking hate him. Set his dick on fire next time you see him.

I was born in a music store. I don’t mean that in the metaphorical sense, like when people say they were born with a baseball in their hand or something like that. I mean my mom went into labor at the music store my parents own, and apparently I wasn’t the kind of kid to take all day being born. The whole thing took less than an hour from the first contraction until I was wrapped in a flannel shirt in my mother’s arms while we waited for the ambulance to arrive.

I was raised in a music store. I was the baby in the carrier on my mom’s chest, or in the playpen behind the counter. My very first job was dusting when I was four. Then I graduated to filing sheet music once I could read and alphabetize. Eventually I moved up to stocking shelves, running the register, and ultimately performing every other job in the place. Inspect a rental violin when it’s returned? You bet. Clean the bathroom? Can do. Schedule your precious darling’s private trumpet lessons? I’m your girl.

And now, apparently, I’m going to die in a music store.

“Presley, you’re going to be late!” my mom hollered from the kitchen, giving me acute high school PTSD. I’d lived away from home for only a couple of years, but that had been all it took to make me sure I didn’t want to go back home again.

And yet, there I was, in my childhood bedroom, in Waukesha, Wisconsin, flat on my back with one of my blues LPs spinning on the turntable. I was playing the part of my former self to a tee, it seemed.

“Presley!” my mother shouted again. This time her voice was closer.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” I called back.

After three months, I’d worn out my parents’ patience on trauma recovery. They’d decided it was time for me to rejoin the working world. And with only my high school diploma and no practical working experience since I was eighteen, that meant I was going back to the Continental, my family’s beloved music store.

I pushed myself to a sitting position and shoved my feet into the black biker boots I’d left beside the bed some uncertain amount of time ago. I didn’t know how long I’d been staring at the ceiling, but the Billie Holiday record had finished a while ago. Crossing to the turntable, I killed the power and grabbed my crap before heading out to the kitchen.

My mom was at the back door with her keys dangling from one finger. She looked annoyed when she first spotted me, then her face morphed into something between exasperation and pity. “You have got to get out of the house, child. Look at you.”

I didn’t want to look at myself. I didn’t want to be standing in my parents’ kitchen. I wanted to be getting ready for a gig in L.A. I wanted a time machine to go back to when things were okay with me and The Luminous 6. “Let’s just go.”

My mom let me pass her and patted me on the back. “You’ll feel better as soon as you get back into it, I promise.”

“Mmm,” was all I said.

“Maybe you need to get laid.”

“Mom.”

“You look cute, anyway. I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to find someone.”

“Mom!”

“I’m just saying…might help.”

“Mom. Seriously. Stop.”

Maybe I was lucky to have a parent who didn’t question my style, which tended toward tough girl, rock ’n’ roll, boots, miniskirts, and torn-up band T-shirts, but it was often creepy to have my mother evaluating my ability to lure in a guy.

We didn’t talk on the way to the Continental, but that was nothing unusual. I couldn’t remember a time that my mother’s car wasn’t filled with the sound of music. That day’s selection was Jimi Hendrix. Rolling into the spot labeled “DINAH,” my mom parked and gave me one last appraising look. “All right, Presley Girl. We are now entering the sacred space. It is time to check yourself. Leave your mood in the parking lot, where it belongs.”

I met her steady gaze for a moment, then leaned forward in my seat to peer up at the sign through the top of the windshield. Just as I remembered it. The massive red neon scrawl,
CONTINENTAL MUSIC
,
above the smaller white block letters,
INSTRUMENTS EQUIPMENT SALES RENTALS LESSONS
. My parents’ lifeblood, the Continental was a giant. A local legend and a touchstone for musicians from across the country.

The bottom of the second N had a slight flicker, as it always did. They’d even had repair guys look at it, but it never burned out and never stayed steady. The Continental was determined to be just shy of perfect.

It looked like a well-disguised prison to me.

“Okay, let’s go,” I said, because there was no way I was getting out of this.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

We got out of the car and made our way inside.

Within its warren of rooms, the Continental pulsed with the blood of music. The muffled rumble of someone in drum lessons, the occasional screech of a sour note from a violin, the inevitable tinkling of a display piano being put through “Heart and Soul” by someone who only knows the one song. The gurgle of the coffee machine in the parents’ waiting area outside the classrooms, and the murmur of sales associates walking people through the specifications of this Gibson or that Fender guitar.

It sounded like my life. Or the life that I used to live. It sounded comfortable and familiar, like the past, but now it had the ominous undertone of potentially being my whole future. I closed my eyes for a second, hoping to feel like I used to when I was here, like I was home, but I didn’t quite.

“Well, go on.” My mom prodded me in the back, herding me toward the long horseshoe of display cases, where the registers were busy with customers.

One of the cashiers lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Dinah!”

And just like that, everyone knew the great Dinah Mason had entered the building. The greetings rippled through the staff like a benevolent virus, people calling out hellos and offering smiles and waves. My mother returned all the greetings as we made our way toward the staff offices in the center of the store. On the way we passed the bathroom where I was born—a unique experience that I bet most people don’t ever want to go through—before opening the unmarked white door.

My parents each kept an office back there, and the doors faced each other across a narrow hall.

“Rick, baby, we’re here!” my mom called before she could even see through my dad’s door.

“You got Presley with you?” he said in a loud voice.

“I do.”

“ ’Bout time.”

I walked the last three steps and peeped through his door. “Hi, Dad.”

“Good to see you out of the house.”

I shrugged. “I was getting pretty good at the whole recluse thing.”

“There are enough professional hermits in the world. You belong out in the world.”

“Or at least at the Continental, right?”

He lifted both hands with a grin. “The Continental
is
the world, Presley my girl.”

As long as I was channeling my high school self these days, I figured I could let loose with an eye roll. “What do you want me to do, anyway?”

“I should make you start at the ground floor and dust.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I haven’t had to dust since third grade.”

“And you were so humble and grateful back then. Might do you some good.”

My mom chuckled. “You were never humble, girl. Don’t listen to him.”

My family, ladies and gentlemen.

“Your name tag should still be under the counter up front,” my dad said. “Why don’t you go back and help Todd?”

Todd was the manager of the guitar department, and he didn’t trust new people. I didn’t know how I was going to rate on his tolerance scale, as I hadn’t clocked any time at the Continental for a few years. “Is he gonna
let
me help him?”

“I think you’ll be surprised by how many people are happy to see you back home again.”

“All right.” I was still suspicious.

“Go grab your name tag and get your Continental on.”

I went to the front of the store again and slipped behind the registers looking for the small plastic basket where everyone ditched their name tags at the end of the day. It was right where I knew it would be, and I sifted through the pile until I found mine at the bottom. And there it was:
PRESLEY
. Forever off-center.

Name tag as metaphor.

I couldn’t quite bear to put the tag on yet, but I carried it with me to the back of the store, where I knew I’d find Todd lurking somewhere among the guitars. Todd had been at Continental as long as I could remember. He was in his fifties by now, and looked every inch the aging musician. Gray ponytail and beard, jeans that were legitimately distressed over years of wear, and always a band T-shirt of some kind. When I found him, I wasn’t surprised to see he was wearing one of his favorites—Pink Floyd, “The Dark Side of the Moon.”

“Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ,” he said when he saw me. “Presley Mason. The prodigal daughter returns. That’s some hair, kid.”

I’d gone from an artificially light blonde to fire-engine red after I moved back from L.A. “I needed a change.”

“I bet. Damn, girl, we have missed you around here.” He laughed and held me by the shoulders for a moment, as if he couldn’t really believe what he was seeing, before grabbing me into a bear hug. “For what it’s worth, those guys don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground, Presley,” he said softly. “Fuck them.”

I squeezed him. “Thanks.”

Todd released me and propped his fists on his hips. “So, I hear you’re back at the Continental.”

I nodded with resignation. “Looks that way.”

“For how long?” he asked.

“I don’t know. A while.” It was true, I couldn’t be sure. But right now, it sure felt like forever.

“You gotta get back on the horse, kid. Don’t let a couple of jackasses keep you away from music.”

“Yeah,” I said noncommittally. “I just need some time to figure out what I’m doing next.”

Todd looked at me thoughtfully, long enough that I had to look away.

“So, uh, what kind of help you need around this place anyway?”

He smiled. “I got just the right job for you.”

“Does it involve a dust mop and the acoustic room?”

“Aw, Presley, it’s like you never even left.”

It was either amazing or pathetic how easy it was to slip back into the routine at the Continental. There was inventory to manage, displays to clean, phone calls to answer, and endless customer questions. Although there were a few new brands or models out since I’d last been an employee, most of the instruments’ specs were burned into my memory. It was like the needle of my turntable slipped into the grooves of my brain and out came the words stored there.

By lunchtime, I’d already made a sale on a pretty decent electric guitar. Todd high-fived me as soon as the customer was out of sight.

“You still got it, girl.”

My momentary thrill of victory was dampened a bit by the thought that I was facing an interminable future of high fives over the sale of who knew how many instruments. Was singing not my actual fate? Was I born to sell other musicians their dreams?

After lunch most of the instrument teachers started to make their way in. Their schedules tended to be heaviest in the hours right after school, and most of them didn’t even start work until mid-afternoon.

The teachers turned over a lot. They came and went as they got gigs touring with this band or working as a studio musician for that producer. A lot of them were just biding their time until they could find another way to support themselves as musicians. Then there were the die-hards, of course. The career teachers. They’d been there as long as I could remember, and some of them had even been my own teachers.

I heard a lot of prodigal-daughter jokes.

The customer traffic tended to pick up after school as well. Parents brought in their kids for one kind of lesson or another. There were always guitar strings, drumsticks, and music stands to be replaced; rosin and sheet music books to be purchased; and larger chin rests needed for violinists who’d outgrown their three-quarter-sized instruments.

It was the Continental, breathing music, pumping it through the aisles, pulsing with the sounds of lessons and wannabe rockstars trying to lay down a Led Zeppelin lick in the back, the sour brass of trumpet players learning a new song. It all felt so familiar. And I was awash in nostalgia and loathing and peace and nervous energy.

In short, I was a mess.

Up at the register, I was inspecting a returned rental violin when the chime over the door announced another customer. Automatically, I glanced over to see what the newcomer would need. I could tell right away he wasn’t a customer. He didn’t have that usual look of shock the first-timers always did when they took in the vastness of the store. He was too young to be a parent, and too old to be a student. He looked to be in his early twenties, with dark hair and aviator sunglasses, which he couldn’t take off thanks to his hands being occupied with two guitar cases.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He paused, setting down one guitar case to remove his aviators. “Yeah, I just need to know what room I’m in today.”

“Are you a teacher?”

He looked at me then, showing me amber-colored eyes like beautiful spun glass. My heart stuttered unexpectedly. “You’re new,” he said.

“Actually, I’m about as old as they come,” I said.

“What?” He seemed flummoxed by that.

“And you are?” I prompted.

“Paul? I teach guitar?”

I grinned at his tone. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Paul, I’m Presley.” I extended my hand. Might as well get it over with before he found out from someone else: “My parents are Rick and Dinah.”

His hand stopped millimeters from taking mine for a shake, and he looked startled. “Presley?
The
Presley?”

Which is exactly why I told him right away. I’m an only child, and my parents talk about me. A lot. “That’s me.”

“Huh.” He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but instead just shook his head. “Okay, well, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.” I smiled, automatically slipping into my store-ambassador role. “You need me to walk you back to your room?” I asked, gesturing toward the small waiting area outside the practice rooms.