Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) Read Free Page B

strumming
patterns, no plucking or anything fancy. Mitch is the instrument guy, after
all. I unfold my long legs beneath me and ease the case open, taking my starter
acoustic out into the open. I settle down onto my quilt, crossing my legs and
draping my arms over the body of the guitar. I hold it to me like I might a new
lover—tentatively, tenderly.
    I arrange my fingers into a simple G chord and strum. The
sound reverberates around my little room, and I add another chord to the
pattern. I move between them, adding others when the mood strikes. The new
melody begins to sing itself through me, weaving through the assortment of
chords. With my voice, I can bring new complexity to the impromptu song,
offsetting the basic chords. An illicit little shudder runs through me as I let
my voice slide all through my range—making music without Mitch feels a little
bit like cheating.
    My hands fall still, happy with the memory of movement. I
can’t quite shake the lingering tension of knowing that Mitch is angry with me,
but I’m not going to let it ruin my last night at home before we set out. I
place my guitar reverently down on my bed and head back toward the kitchen. Mom
is still hard at work coating the wall with sunny yellow. I cross to the fridge
and pull out a couple of cold beers.
    “Why don’t you take a break?” I suggest, waving the drinks
in front of her.
    She smiles, her forehead beaded with sweat. “Good idea,” she
says, letting her roller fall back into the tray. We trek through the front
hallway and step out into the early evening air. A few rusty lawn chairs are
arranged around the little deck, and we settle into them in unison. I hand her
a beer and clink my bottle against hers.
    “To your trip,” she suggests, taking a sip.
    “Sure,” I say, following suit.
    “What is it?” Mom asks, her brow furrowing, “You’ve got your
serious face on.”
    “It’s nothing,” I tell her, “That dumb kid from the diner
gave some information to a music blog, and I guess it’s been getting attention.
I’ve been getting attention, I mean. Now Mitch is all pissy, like he wasn’t
already dragging his feet with this whole thing.”
    “Mitch isn’t excited?” Mom asks.
    “Not really,” I tell her, “He thinks the festival is a waste
of time.”
    “Is that what you think?” she asks.
    “Of course not!” I say.
    “Well...I doubt that it’s the festival he’s upset about,” my
mom says, “You know he’s been waiting for you since you two met. Waiting to be
more than friends with you, that is.”
    “He can keep waiting,” I grumble.
    “People are going to ask, you know,” she says, “You can’t
wander around with an asterisk between your names and not expect people to
ask.”
    “We’re just friends,” I insist.
    “That’s not how it looks when you play together,” she tells
me, “You look like a couple of kids in love, is what you look like.”
    “That’s just the music,” I say.
    “It’s the music for you, and it’s you for him.”
    “You’re nuts,” I tell her, and we both know I’m dodging the
subject like a fast pitch aimed at my head. Kindly, she lets it drop. Almost.
    “That article is just the beginning, Ellie,” she says
softly, “The more exposure you get, the more money that’ll start to flow in. It
can be overwhelming, becoming successful all at once. I don’t want you getting
swept up in all this attention. I don’t want you to let it change how you think
about yourself.”
    “It won’t,” I tell her. But I know it’s not really me we’re
talking about. “I’m not like Dad, you know. I’m not going to turn into some
monster once I get a little money. If I get a little money.”
    “I know it’s kind of backwards,” she says, “But I sort of
hope you’ll always be a starving musician. Money does horrible things to
people.”
    “Well, thanks Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I’ll try and
not be very marketable.”
    “Just scowl at Mitch a lot