Part 45 (2/2)
”What?”
”Two years. In lectures. Around campus. Wanted to talk to you, but I was too shy.” He giggles.
”Shy?” The loudmouth Will and Nate aren't who I'd call shy. ”You didn't look very shy five minutes ago with that girl attached to your lips.”
”That's before I knew you were here!”
I cross my arms. This guy has the weirdest lines. He may be telling the truth about seeing me on campus or lectures, but I am not Will Campbell's type. If Will expects me to believe this behaviour is more than a game, he's wrong.
Ethan. The longer I stand talking to this drunken d.i.c.khead, the more he'll think I'm hitting on a rock star. Desperately, I look over attempting to catch Ethan's eye again, but he's not looking anymore. Nate appears in my line of vision.
”Hey, Will, what you up to?”
”Tell your brother to leave me alone.”
They really are identical. I've never been close enough to see their faces clearly, but I can't see any difference. I expected a freckle, something, but no. Nate rubs his chin. ”C'mon, leave her alone. She's not your type, man.”
”Fleur's cute. Don't you think she's cute?”
Nate pulls an apologetic face. ”Sorry. He probably can't even see you properly.”
”I can! She has eyes like the sky and hair like straw.” Will frowns to himself. ”No. Not like straw, I mean the colour. Her hair's soft. So pretty...”
Will reaches out to touch again and Nate grabs his hand. ”Dude!”
I'm aware of whispers. I side-glance people around and an uncomfortable number of eyes are on Will and me. Loud, obnoxious Will.
”Who thinks Fleur's cute?” Will calls and indicates me. ”Seriously, I'd do her!”
Whoa. Out of line. Biting back a retort, I shove him in the chest. The action escapes Will's notice, but the incident attracts more attention. Everybody close by stops their conversation to watch us.
”Move!” I hiss at Will then look at Nate for support. No point - Nate's joined the amused crowd in watching for drunken Will's next move.
As if things couldn't get any worse, Will launches into a high-pitched version of James Blunt's ”You're Beautiful”.
OhmiG.o.d. This is not happening to me.
The quiet giggling intensifies, as does Nate's amus.e.m.e.nt at his stoned or drunk or maybe both brother.
If I were a lesser person, I'd run, crying at the embarra.s.sment; but I don't put up with this c.r.a.p from anybody.
”You a.r.s.ehole,” I say in a low voice, hoping n.o.body hears.
Will apparently doesn't either, and he stares over my shoulder for a moment, rummaging in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and mutters, as he focuses on the screen.
Next thing, Will has an arm wrapped around my neck and his phone camera flashes in my face. ”What the h.e.l.l?” I yell at him, blinking away the white across my vision from the flash. I sling his arm off my shoulder and step back.
”f.u.c.k, Will!” Nate s.n.a.t.c.hes the phone off him. ”s.h.i.+t, sorry, Fleur.”
”I only want a picture to remember her by. I don't think she's going to talk to me again,” slurs Will.
”Correct! Come near me again and I will not be responsible for my actions.”
Will pouts then giggles. Unable to take any more, I push past the twins, ignoring the stunned silence around, and head to Ethan.
Who is now talking to another girl.
2.
TWO WEEKS LATER.
WILL.
Touring with Blue Phoenix fooled us into thinking we'd hit the big time and would never return to our ordinary lives again. Yeah, Ruby Riot dominates our corner of the music scene, we're bombarded with questions and posts on social media, fan mail, and the whole deal. But, at the end of the day, we're three guys and a girl in a band.
The band's progress halted and life rewound when our lead singer, Ruby, danced off into the sunset with the Blue Phoenix guitarist and a baby on the way. Jax lost his s.h.i.+t over Ruby getting knocked up by Jem; but what's the point in freaking out? She'll come back; Ruby lives and breathes her music more than any of us. Apart from Jax, who was recently caught in feminine wiles of his own. Tegan, Bryn Hughes sister, kicked his backside into line in a spectacular fas.h.i.+on. I can almost see the thumbprint on his forehead. Things lulled as we finished the alb.u.m and while Ruby has her baby. Then, we try again.
So, me and Nate rewind several months, back to studying and fulfilling our promise to parents. Mine still think we need a back-up plan for when our little musical venture fails. If they'd bothered to pay attention to our lives over the last few months, Mum and Dad would know this isn't likely to happen any time soon.
We spent all our money from the tour within weeks. Now the choice is a job, which equals less time and energy to rehea.r.s.e, or doing what the parents want and dutifully completing our degrees. No big deal, only a year left now.
Okay, big deal because I f.u.c.ked up last year. I need high marks in all my courses this year or I'm going to fail my degree. An Arts degree. n.o.body fails an Arts degree.
Living the rock star dream involved more than the odd weekend gig rehearsals, obligatory partying, and girls. Hangovers equal missed lectures; but somehow, Nate juggled his student/rock star life as adeptly as his drumsticks. Nate studies the same course as I do, but we choose different cla.s.s times. As only a handful of people in the world can tell us apart, between us we manage to attend at least one of the cla.s.ses a week and keep our attendance average.
Nate became slack at note-taking last year, his hungover haze interfering with the ability to open his laptop, but somehow he muddled through and pa.s.sed. I came a tiny percentage away from failing the majority of courses.
I only have myself to blame.
The worst subject is history. Nate talked me into this as our major, and I agreed, thought it would be easy, but no. Hardly any cla.s.ses to attend, but so much f.u.c.king study. We study English lit too; that's easier to sc.r.a.pe through by reading notes and creating my own crazy theories. History is b.l.o.o.d.y complicated.
Two weeks in, and things are off to a bad start.
”s.h.i.+t!” I throw my paper at Nate, across the table in the cafe.
He looks at the a.s.signment-marking sheet on the front and screws his nose up. ”Oh, man. Fifteen percent? Was that for getting your name right?”
”I'm f.u.c.ked!” I grumble and sit next to him. ”What about you?”
”Sixty-three percent.”
”How? How do you do that?”
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