The Complete Rockstar Series

Is it possible for today to be both the best and worst day of my life? Touching my still tingling lips and feeling the throb in my stomach from Callum’s knee, I decide that yes, yes it can.

3

Adam

“For fuck’s sake, Reynolds! Don’t you know how to throw a punch?”

Dax is angry, and rightly so. “I guess I don’t,” I mutter, feeling unbelievably stupid that I mangled my hand on that arsehole Murray’s face. I can’t do anything but watch as my best mate paces the length of his family’s flat.

“You stupid fucking sod! How are we supposed to play on Saturday? We finally have a chance for a real gig and your fucking hand is all busted up!” He yanks open his freezer, puts a few ice cubes into a towel, and shoves it into my chest.

Bristling at his crap attitude, I snatch the makeshift ice pack and shout back, “I can still play, you fucking wanker! I’m not letting a few bruises stop me, it never stops you! And what were we supposed to do, let that bastard rape her?” I hiss in pain when I press the cold towel to my swollen fingers.

Dax whips his head around and scowls at me, but his tone is softer. “Of course not, but you could have done it without breaking your hand. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to fight?”

“My dad tr

ied, but probably not in the way you’re thinking.” I frown as I attempt to ignore the freezing ice burning into the split skin. “Murray has a really hard head. You take him next time and I’ll get Mason, he’s a fucking marshmallow in comparison! And you know I hate fighting, Dax. We can’t all be like you, beating the shit out of people for fun.”

“Next time?” Dax’s eyes go wide and he stares at me like I’m daft. “You plan on making this a habit? Are you Batman now or something?”

Laughing, I shove him away with my good hand. “Bastard.” I manage to evade his question, not wanting him to know that I have every intention of making sure no one touches Ellie Palmer like that ever again.

* * *

School goes back to normal the next day, well, as normal as it can be when you find yourself inexplicably obsessed with someone and come up with every excuse you can just to stare at her. I start ignoring all of the girls who approach me, their attempts at being sexy lost on me when all I can think about is Ellie.

I can’t bring myself to be the confident flirt I was yesterday. Chatting her up after she was nearly raped yesterday is a bad idea. Plus, the last thing she likely wants right now is a bloke all up in her face looking for a quick fuck.

I never manage to work up the courage to talk to Ellie about the incident with Callum or the kiss either, and she seems to feel as awkward as I do, so we stick to exchanging small nods every morning and then go back to pretending that we don’t know each other.

By the end of the week, I can very nearly convince myself that Ellie wasn’t almost raped by Callum Murray and Ryan Mason, and that I didn’t break four of his ribs and his nose to stop it. Then I clench my hand in anger and it aches from the swelling, and the reality of it all seeps back in.

The final bell rings on Friday and I hang back so Ellie can get a head start home before I follow her, just like I have every day since she showed up five days ago. I pull my bag up on my shoulder and head for the door of the school, but a hand on my arm holds me back.

“Oi! Where are you going?” I turn and see Dax staring at me with a look that says he thinks I’ve gone completely mental.

Annoyed, I tilt my neck around him to see if Ellie is out of sight yet. Thank God, she’s still outside talking to another girl.

“You’re a twisted fuck,” Dax laughs, following my line of sight and spotting Ellie. “How many days are you going to stalk her, mate? Better yet, how many girls have you turned down since meeting her even though you haven’t gotten in her knickers?”

“Shut it!” I yank my arm away from Dax’s tight grip and frown. I’ve turned down a lot of girls. Girls that I once found attractive, I’m suddenly finding pushy and annoying. I hadn’t realized he noticed.

“Well, make it quick. We have to practice with your fucked up hand to get ready for tomorrow. Don’t forget, our usual place at six.” Dax whirls around and leaps down the front steps of the school, laughing until he’s out of earshot.

When I get to my crap flat an hour later, I dump my stuff on the mattress in my room and grab my guitar and notebook. Ellie hung out in front of the school talking to that girl for nearly twenty minutes before she started for home, so now I’m going to be late to practice and Dax is going to kill me.

“You’re la-aate!” a voice sings out from the open basement window of an abandoned business near Dax’s flat.

“Shut your gob,” I toss back as I slither through the grimy opening and drop to the floor, turning to tug my battered guitar case through the hole.

Dax doesn’t answer. Instead, he strums his guitar, humming along wordlessly to some random tune he plucks out off the top of his head. This is where Dax and I fit together perfectly, songwriting. We both have this weird ability to complete each other’s thoughts. I’ll start a melody. He’ll bring it somewhere I’m not expecting. He’ll think up a few lyrics, and I’ll finish them perfectly. It always comes out brilliant in the end.

I pull out the beat up old acoustic guitar that I bought second hand doing odd jobs here and there for my older brother, Danny. Jobs I’d rather not think about, except every time I run my calloused fingers over the strings it reminds me of how fucked up my family is.

“Does it hurt?” Dax has stopped playing to watch me carefully, a concerned look on his face.

“Of course it fucking hurts, but I’m not going to let it stop me. Let’s do this.”