AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Prologue
Cedar
Seventeenyearsold
I have a ticket in my hand.
A piece of paper that screams admittance, along with the lanyard around my neck, boasting the band’s handwritten insignia down each side in silver sharpie I can still smell. The cheap material comes together right over my heart and attaches a little plastic badge that includes my name scrawled neatly.
Cedar Jones- VIP
The ticket was a gift.
An early graduation present from my dad who absolutely hated the music that I listened to and would never admit I got my love of rock from the bad boy turned father—but loved me enough to get them for me anyway.
Jeremy was supposed to be here with me for our anniversary. We’ve been seeing each other for just short of a year and I had to put in long hours to scrounge up enough tips at the café his parents owned to buy him a ticket. I didn’t want to come alone, yet here I am standing in the autograph line with nerves fluttering up and then down in my stomach.
Alone.
Almost feeling out of place, which never used to be the case when music was involved.
In a bar too small for an event this size that happens to be filled to the brim with people who look like bikers, prison tattoo artists, and straight-up misfits. Not that I would know what prison tattoo artists look like, but that’s my best guess, considering I’ve seen the rest hanging around my dad’s shop. Noise fills the space between the postered and weathered walls, songs filtering low through the shitty speakers that are easily drowned out by the shouting and cussing.
I probably should be scared, but I’m not.
Considering the brand-new ring through my nose and the itchy doodles tattooed on my exposed thigh that I let Jeremy use as a practice pad for the tattoo gun we pieced together from garbage scraps, I feel more at home than I ever have.
So why do I feel so damn nervous? Sick almost.
Feet shuffle the line closer to the fold-up table littered with the band’s merch—one of the tee shirt’s I’m already wearing—and get us a few steps closer to what I’m really after.
The guitarist’s autograph.
To go with the shirt I have tucked into the belt loop of the ripped pants—jeans I picked just to show off the ink—that I’m planning to give to Jeremy for our anniversary, if he ever shows the hell up, in hopes that this time he’ll be convinced I’m serious about our relationship. And maybe he’ll even tell me he loves me.
Where the hell is he?
Pushing up on my Chuck-clad tiptoes to see over the crowd piling in, I try to get a closer look at the band members from our favorite band,The Saltwater Skulls.
Sinking my teeth into my upper lip when I come up empty, despite Jeremy’s promise to show, I fall back to flat feet and take another step closer to the men accepting items to sign and hands to shake. Only a few more feet and I’ll be able to see their faces as they reach out to the patrons in front of me, and that fills me with fluttering giddies I wish I could share with Jeremy. He’d be so excited right now.
The line moves at a snail’s pace, but I can finally see the man I’m after—the one everyone on Myspace claims is the next young Hendrix with chiseled features—and I’m filled with nerves beyond belief at the smirk on his thick lips and the crazy waves of jet black hair I’d really like to run my hands through. Even if it was just to see if the strands were as soft as they looked.
Not much older than me, Finland Montgomery is already covered in amazing tattoos I wish I could draw, has rings through his nose and lip, and according to the internet, is only five-nine. But judging from where I’m standing, his sitting position puts his head up past my shoulders. And I’m not short for a chick.
The internet lies sometimes.
“Dudette.” My attention snaps away from the end of the line, where Fin puts his Sharpie to another CD case and makes my stomach do a weird little somersault, to my right, where the lead singer ofThe Saltwater Skullssits, hand extended expectantly. “What do you want me to sign?”
“Oh, um...” I shake my head and turn my hip away from his grabby hands. “No thanks.”
“Whatever then.” He scoffs and swings his reach out to the person behind me who happily hands over a trucker hat for the singer’s endorsement. “Next!”
What a douche.
Another step forward and another awkward exchange with the drummer where I refuse his signature and gain myself a scrunched up nose, and a shrugged dismissal.
“Cedar?” I whip around at the voice, my stomach lifting for the first time since the show started, and settle my sight on the one person I wanted here the whole damn time the music played.
