Rocked Up

Rocked Up by Karina Halle & Scott Mackenzie




For those who haven’t forgotten how to dream.

And for Bruce.





Prologue





Lael





Seven Years Ago


“He’s so hot.”

I glance over at Shelby who’s staring down at the cover of Seventeen magazine with a crazy smile on her face. “Like, so hot.”

“I know,” I tell her. That’s all we’ve been talking about this entire limo ride to the venue. It’s all I’ve been talking about ever since I first heard Brad Snyder’s voice playing from the speakers in our house, let alone from the moment I first saw his face.

Brad Snyder is the lead singer and guitarist for one of my favorite bands, And Then. Actually, I swear I would totally love the band even if Brad wasn’t in it and especially if they weren’t represented by my dad’s record label, Ramsey Records. They’ve just got this killer sound, heavier on the rock than what normally does well on the charts, and it speaks to my soul. It makes me want to be a rock star more than anything.

Of course, my father would be the one to do that but he doesn’t take me seriously at all. He says I’m too young for that (I’m fourteen) and that I don’t know what I want yet. I always point out that he discovered Brad when he was the same age but he just dismisses me as he always does.

At least I’m finally going to see them live. It’s taken a year of extreme begging for this to happen. I mean, considering who my father is, you’d think that I’d have seen them a bunch of times already, but no. And every time the band has been in the office – they’ve even been in our house! – I’ve been at school.

My boyfriend, Ken, didn’t want to go with me to this show. I think he’s totally jealous of Brad, he just won’t admit it. I can’t blame Ken a bit. I mean, Ken is cute. But he’s fifteen. I used to think it was so cool that he was a year older than me but, come on, he’s no Brad Snyder.

Of course Brad is way too old for me, even if I ever did have a chance. He’s twenty-years old. Super fit, super hot. He’s not the type to strut around the stage shirtless or anything or pose for steamy pictures. You know the ones of the rock boys with sweat dripping off their abs and stuff. He’s not like that. Instead he’s just him. And even though all his fangirls would profess to know him, I really do know him.

My father doesn’t tell me anything, of course, even who he’s dating (though it seems he’s always dating some hot young actress or singer), but I know on some weird level who Brad really is. It’s like I feel connected to him through his music, like his songs speak just to me and me alone. There’s a lonely boy behind the hot fa?ade, someone with loneliness I can understand.

At least my friend Shelby doesn’t think I’m nuts when I talk about Brad that way. If I’m his number one fan, she’s probably number two. Or three. Not as obsessed as me, and definitely without the connection I feel, but she knows all their songs by heart and has posters of Brad on her wall.

My obsession is subtler, maybe because it seems super weird with my father being in charge of them. I don’t have their posters on the wall but I do have a sketchbook I keep for magazine cut-outs and sheet-music, plus when I feel like doodling (usually sketches of the two of us), or writing my own lyrics I jot it down in there. I keep the notebook under my bed – not that anyone would care to find it. My father barely knows I’m alive most days.

Which is why I’m surprised he bothered getting us backstage passes for the show. It’s not even my birthday. The only problem is that we’re meeting my father at the venue, so it’s not like Shelby and I will be able to run around unchecked.

The concert is at the Palladium Theater in Hollywood, a long limo drive from my house in Calabasas which has given Shelby and I plenty of time to giggle and get super nervous.

“Do we get to go on the side stage?” Shelby asks, even though she’s already asked me this a million times.

“I think so,” I tell her. Last time I told her yes, the time before that I told her maybe.

“Do you think we’ll be able to talk to the guys?”

By guys, she means Brad. She doesn’t care about the other guys in the band, Switch, Calvi and Nick. I don’t really care about them either. They’re all older than Brad and that Calvi is like some Italian mobster wannabe. But they’re all integral to the sound, even though sometimes I think they could be easily replaced. The only one who can’t be is Brad. He’s everything.

“I hope so,” I tell her, twirling my hair around my finger. I’ve got stick straight long blonde hair that I’m dying to do something rebellious with. Like dye it my favorite color, teal. Or chop it all off into a Miley Cyrus look. But my father would hate it. My mother had long blonde hair and he used to say that we looked alike. He doesn’t say it anymore. He doesn’t talk about her at all. She died from cancer when I was only four years old, so my memories of her are pretty much nonexistent.

The only memory I think I have is of her taking me to my first dance class. My chubby tummy in a bright pink body suit and pale pink tights. Dancing is the only thing I’ve really stuck with over the years and I like to think it’s because I know it’s what she would have wanted.

But even though my father never talks about her, I know he misses her. At least, I like to think he does. He must be terribly lonely sometimes, having to work all the time and boss people around. I imagine my mother must have made him more human, at least for a little bit.

“Oh my god,” Shelby cries out softly, a big toothy smile on her face. “What if your dad introduces us? What are you going to say? What are you going to do?”

“What are you going to do?” I retort, giving her a look. I know she thinks I’ll turn into a screaming blubbering mess like those fans did in the sixties when they saw The Beatles but believe me, I have complete control over my emotions. She’s the one who’s going to lose her mind.

“I’m going to play it cool,” she says, trying to sound cool and failing miserably.

Yeah freaking right.

By the time the limo pulls up and goes through the gates at the back of the theater, I’m practically having a panic attack.

We’re in the place where normal people don’t get to go! All my friends from school are out there beyond the fences lining up or maybe already in the venue. Maybe even hanging around one of the entrances, trying their hardest to catch a glimpse of one of the band members. And yet here we are, feeling like rock stars ourselves.