Fan Girl (Los Rancheros) Read online

  Copyright

  FAN GIRL © Copyright 2014 by Brandace Morrow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, printed, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express permission of the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy in any capacity of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events, occurrences, places, or business establishments is purely coincidental. The characters and story line are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN-13: 978-1494935955

  ISBN-10: 1494935953

  Editorial Services by Jennifer Sell

  Proofreading Services by Jenny Sims

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Acknowledgements

  There are a lot of people that contribute to the writing process. First and foremost my husband for telling me from the beginning to do whatever made me happy. For almost ten years he’s been encouraging every wild hobby I come up with and this was no different. I just didn’t know at the time that my ‘story’ would turn into a full novel.

  To my children for not freaking out too bad when a laptop was taking up precious lap space. I wrote this whole book with at least one kid in my lap, not easily I can assure you. For all of the forgotten chicken nuggets in the oven, or when I forgot to even turn the oven on, I apologize.

  To Bonnie, my fellow Army wife and friend who was the first to read the roughest of rough drafts. Thanks for actually saying it was good. My blurb would not be what it is without your help. Thank you!

  To my grandma Peggy Allen who stayed up reading this and told me how famous people had ‘posses’ and Deklan needed one. You rock.

  My beta readers! Jen, Mary, Jenny, Atalia, Amanda, Tara, Ashley, Gina, Cassie, Chundra, Lisa, and Misty, you girls have given me immeasurable feedback, and this book wouldn’t be the same without you.

  Faith, thank you for letting me bounce ideas off of you. I don’t know what my experience through this writing world would have been like without your thoughts and opinions.

  Katie and Becky, thank you for always standing behind me and encouraging me along the way.

  To my dad for giving me my first romance novel all of those years ago, this is all your fault.

  To Calia and Syreeta for your suggestions and advice. Thanks for answering all of my questions.

  Najla, thanks for taking what was in my head and making an amazing cover. It’s exactly what I wanted.

  Jen and Jenny, thank you for shaping my ramblings into shape. This story is immensely better because of you two.

  Last, but not least to Brittany. Thanks for ‘daydreaming’ with me for all of those years. One day I will find our old written stories. So sorry you wound up being a red headed bitch. I have a feeling you’ll love it though.

  For my mom, who always took me to every concert she could.

  Prologue

  Bodies leaning toward each other, hands squeezing tightly together, palms sweating, and knees shaking under our evening gowns, we look toward the lights. Sitting in our plush velvet seats, with smiles so wide our cheeks hurt, we don’t look away from the men on stage. As the lead singer thanks me for being the ultimate fan girl, I reflect on the journey that brought us here over fifteen years ago.

  Early 2001

  Once upon a time, there was a girl who was too stubborn for her own good. Her parents wanted her to be a Barbie doll, so she strived for the opposite. They wanted her to wear cardigans and pearls, but she opted for nose piercings and concert t-shirts. And when she would reach for a cookie, her mom Veronica would admonish her craving for sweets by saying, “Do you really need that?”

  This is my story. I'm that girl who wants to defy her parents, yet I failed to accomplish my objective. Rather, I added fuel to my parents’ antagonism. At five foot two and a size fourteen frame, at least I was consistent at something: maintaining my weight at a solid one hundred eighty-five pounds. Instead of turning to drugs or alcohol to cope with my overbearing never-satisfied parents, I turned to food, and thus became a statistic.

  Chapter 1

  Hearing the sound of a muffled car horn from my room, I grab my backpack and stomp down the stairs.

  “And where do you think you’re going, young lady?” My mother comes from the kitchen and meets me at the bottom of the stairs. She is dressed perfectly, as always, in her pant suit and perfectly coiffed hair.

  I smile my brightest, and fakest, smile. “Out with Stacie, Mom! Then I’m spending the night. Gotta go!” My sneaker squeaks on the polished hardwood floor as I spin and turn to go. I slam the door behind me, and I hear the predictable, “Alaina!” screamed from inside.

  A ‘96 two-door blue Tercel waits for me outside. I slide in and set my backpack down at my feet. Twisting around, I turn to look at Stacie in the back seat with her punk outfit, and I feel my chest burn with envy. My mom would brick up my bedroom door if I ever wore anything like that. Stacie’s brother Bobby is behind the wheel, and he is dressed the same way. Heavy eyeliner, tight black jeans, silver jewelry everywhere, and lace-up black boots.

  “Hey Alaina,” Stacie calls from the back seat.

  Automatically I reply, “It's Ali now.”

  My plain-Jane outfit that consists of an old pair of jeans, Nikes, and a hoodie stands in drastic contrast to their punk style.

  I ask, “Where to tonight, guys?”

  My mom does not approve of Stacie and Bobby, or how they dress. Their dad, however, is my dad’s boss. It helps my parents to have the connection of me hanging out with their rebellious teens to help step up the corporate banking ladder. That’s why I can spend time at their house. It gives my mom a reason to come pick me up and commiserate with Stacie’s parents about our shenanigans.

  “There’s a garage band I want to hear, and you guys better not do anything embarrassing,” Bobby orders us.

  I roll my eyes at Stacie. I don’t embarrass anyone but myself. I don’t shovel food into my mouth unless my mom is being a witch, and I only do it in front of her. I don’t try to dance, because who wants to see that travesty. I sit in a corner, bob my head, and shake my foot to the music. The only reason we even get to tag along with the ultra-cool seventeen-year-old Bobby is because Stacie started getting boobs, and in turn, is getting him in with the bands. He wants to be a roadie when he grows up. This is distressing to their parents, but it won’t stop him. He’s looking to find the next big thing and ride the wave to success.

  “Shut up Bobby,” Stacie fires back at him.

  “This one is it, I know it,” he fires back.

  Bobby likes to think he’s clairvoyant. But he says this every time, and it’s just wishful thinking. Stacie and I nod our heads obediently in agreement, as our parents have taught us.

  An hour later I’m in someone else’s backyard in L.A., sitting by the in-ground pool and watching six boys in lawn chairs on the other side as they perform covers of bands like Pearl Jam, Queen, Nirvana, and Lonestar; a very diverse set of music, it must be noted. Taking out my video camera from my backpack, I tape a few songs. I do this every time we go to a show; Bobby insists. But this time I tape a little longer.

  The band plays like they practice in their sleep, but it’s the lead singer that has my attention. His chin length hair is tied back in a bandana, and his bright green eyes draw me in. There’s stubble on his chin that’s dark, making him look older. His voice is raspy, but smooth, yet gravelly when it calls for it in a song. He’s got a high falsetto and scrun
ches up his face when he hits the high notes. I shiver as I feel real attraction for the first time. At nearly sixteen years old, I have yet to even experience holding a boy’s hand, and that has never been more blatantly obvious to me than at this moment.

  The band takes a break, and they all get a drink of water. I watch Stacie saunter over and start flirting with the band. The guys eat it up, but the lead singer already has three other girls surrounding him, so she can’t get too close. She smoothly introduces her brother and then rushes over to me, a skip in her step.

  “Ohmigawd?!” she gushes, turning it all into one word. “They are so hot! I love my brother!”

  “What’s their name?” I ask.

  She turns to me and grabs my forearm, squeezing in her excitement. “Their band name is Rolling Bridges. Isn’t that brilliant? There’s Tag, Peter, Alan, Tommy, Fandy, and Deklan. Tag has the frizzy curly hair, Tommy has the mullet, Fandy has the afro, and Deklan is the lead singer. Did you see his eyes? Ohmigawd,” she says in a rush. Not in one breath, but it’s close. That leaves me with Peter and Alan to match faces. “I feel like I’m obsessed already! Is this what it means to be a teeny bopper? I think I just became one. I’m going to see where their next gig is. You have to go with me!” She bounces up before I can say a word, and walks back to the band. I watch green-eyed Deklan schmoozing with the skinny girls clad in bikinis hanging around him. He smiles, laughs, and pushes the hair over one girl’s bare shoulder.

  I sigh. He is good looking. Probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in person, but I’m the equivalent of a potted plant. No one notices unless you bump into it.

  Three hours later, Stacie and I are in her pink frilly laced bedroom, and she’s still talking about him. We have the video camera pulled out, and she’s rewinding it over and over again. “Look at his hands on the guitar, ugh. I love him!” She’s pointing out every single thing Deklan does, including every twitch of his lips.

  “You should go for it, Stacie,” I say. ”You are way prettier than those other girls.”

  “You are so right, Ali. Next gig I’m totally giving him my number.”

  “What are you going to do, though, if he wants to take you out on a date? Your parents said you can’t date until you're sixteen.” I can’t either, but that’s irrelevant. I don’t have anyone to go out with.

  She shrugs. “I’ll just tell them I’m going to your house.”

  ~

  The next weekend Rolling Bridges is playing at a little bar on the outskirts of L.A. that doesn’t card. The bar doesn't have any bouncers, and they don’t have windows either. They do, however, have t-shirts with the bar’s name, Dickey’s, in extra-large, which is just my size. The band plays more covers, including “Ice Ice Baby,” which gives me goose bumps when I hear Deklan saying baby over and over again.

  Stacie is determined and marches right up to him before he’s even off the stage. He smiles and puts his arm around her. They’re cute together in a dark, grunge punk way. She’s taller than me, five foot four or so, and her boobs are way more proportioned to her body. I’m a 40C, but it looks like I’m a 40A. She’s already got an hourglass figure happening, and I’m more of a tater tot.

  Stacie walks with Deklan to a table across the room from me, and she doesn’t look back at me once. She has mastered the art of flirting. I see the hair flips and hear the giggles, even over the music from my spot twenty feet away. I watch like a voyeur. He looks at her hair every time it flies over her shoulder, and by the fifth hair flick, he glances away from her like he’s trying to find someone. Bobby swoops down on him seconds later, and Deklan gets up and walks away with him, leaving Stacie alone. I watch my best friend, and see the disappointment on her face as it quickly turns to anger.

  Stacie stomps back to me. “That bastard cock blocked me! I hate my brother!”

  I pat her shoulder. “It’s okay, Stacie. I don’t think he was into the hair tossing and giggles. Or maybe he knows you're a statutory rape case waiting to happen.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’ll be sixteen in three months, Ali. Geez!”

  I smile encouragingly, or so I hope. “Maybe you should try in three months, then?”

  We stay at the bar, listening to the other cover bands. Both of us wince at the screeching electric guitar and too loud bass that Rolling Bridges doesn't need. Bobby comes to gather us like children, and Stacie lets loose on him for putting a stop to her advances with Deklan.

  Later that night, I slowly push open my front door, trying in vain to prevent it from squeaking. It’s midnight, and my curfew is ten, so I know I’m in for it. I just wish I could have stayed the night with Stacie. It would have made things so much easier. I get one hand on the banister and one foot on the stairs, when a table lamp in the living room suddenly lights up.

  It’s the formal living room, so no one is really allowed to sit in there. I snap my head in that direction, and there is a person sitting in the end chair next to the table. The limited light casts shadows on her sunken cheeks and highlights her protruding collar bone. I try not to recoil. “Mother! Jesus Christ,” I breathe out as I try to not have a heart attack.

  She menacingly stands, as her brown eyes glare at me. “Who do you think you are, Alaina Dawson Pierce?” I look around the room, trying not to laugh, because I’m pretty sure her question was rhetorical.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” she screeches, making me jump. My mother begins to glide around the room in her silk robe, looking like a fair imitation of a walking corpse.

  I wrap both hands around the railing to prevent myself from backing away from her. “I’m your daughter, Mother,” I try to say in as soothing a voice as I can muster.

  Mother slowly shakes her head, and I half expect it to start rotating on her shoulders. “You must think you’re a Dawson. Only your father’s hippy parents would raise a child to be so disrespectful. They would probably provide you with your own supply of drugs and alcohol. Make no mistake child, I am not them. You will learn one way or another. There are rules in this house, and I won’t stand for you to break this one, too.” She’s always bad mouthing my grandparents; I’ve never met them, but I’m pretty sure they’re not that bad. My dad is a successful banker so that means they did okay, right?

  She holds out her hand, but I know it’s not for me to take. I must have taken too long to respond, because she snaps her talon like fingers under my nose. “Take out your nose ring, you little brat! You will never have a piercing while you are in this house. I’ve half a mind to ban you from the Newman children, if it didn’t interfere with your father’s work connections.”

  I can’t believe I have to take it out! Bobby did it for me in his room about four months ago, and it hurt. Really bad. On the other hand, I’m surprised she hasn’t taken pliers to me in my sleep by now in an attempt to get it out herself. I take the tiny jewel out of my nose, and hand it to her. I hope there are boogers all over it.

  My mother walks over to the front door, wretches it open, and hurls the little piece of stainless steel into the yard before slamming the door shut again. “Now go to bed. You’re grounded for a week.” She sweeps by me, polluting my air with her Chanel #5 perfume, and leaving me to trail in her wake while holding my breath.

  Lingering on the top stair, I hear the master bedroom door shut. The sound of ice rattling against glass causes me to spin, and I look behind me. My father Phillip slowly advances up the stairs, still wearing his suit and tie from the bank, and holding a snifter of scotch. His drink of choice.

  “Your mother is right. My parents were weak and misguided, and never gave discipline when it was needed.” He stops on the step below me. “I will not make the same mistake. Do not disobey your mother again, or you will answer to me.”

  As he walks past me, I shrink against the wall and try to edge my foot around the corner, just in case he tries to push me down the staircase at the last minute. What the ‘F’ did “discipline” mean? And why did “answer” sound so ominous?

>   ~

  Stacie tries again with Deklan at the next show, which I am thankful wasn’t the following weekend. She continues trying to get his attention at every other show we go to over the next few weeks. Bobby is finally in with the band, and is helping them load up their equipment at the gigs, so we stow away in his car if we have to wait. He leaves the back door cracked open so we can sneak into the places that card. I collect more and more t-shirts when they have my size. Stacie never gives up the tried and true giggly-valley-girl act, even though I know she isn’t normally like that. When there’s a cute boy around, it’s like her brain gets sucked out, and popcorn is filling the space.

  Deklan continues to pick the older, more mature girls, over the vapid groupie my best friend becomes. Soon after her sixteenth birthday, she gets together with the lead in our high school theater production, and is “so done with musicians. Actors are the shit.”

  This causes some dissension between us. I'm her best friend, but I'm not into high school theater. I'm into garage bands, Rolling Bridges to be specific, and not just for the view. These guys had the talent to make it far. I knew it now. Bobby was right. I begged and pleaded with Bobby to let me go with him, and promised to stay out of the way. I finally had to pay him twenty dollars a show in bribe money.

  It takes two shows for Deklan to notice that I’m there and that Stacie isn’t. After a set, I have cardiac arrest when he comes to my table and pulls a chair out. He flips it around so it’s facing backwards, and straddles the seat, resting his forearms on the back of the chair. He gives me a chin lift, and I try not to drool. He’s even hotter up close. His muscles are visible, because he’s wearing a wife beater, and his arms and chest are glistening with sweat from the lights on stage. Now I feel like my head is filled with popcorn. No wonder Stacie acted like a groupie!

  “Your friend finally got the hint?” he asks me. His tone seems rather rude, but his voice is sexy and raspy, and I try to ignore the way it makes me feel.