A Summer Soundtrack for Falling in Love Read online

  Kris tucked his last few bills in his pocket, raised his brows, and met the man’s gaze head-on. In response, the man peeled himself from the tree and approached. He was tall, dark, and handsome, almost ridiculously so, with legs that went on for miles, and a wild mane of deep brown hair that stopped just above his shoulders. He was dressed all in black, chic rather than goth, his shirt open at the collar to reveal a hint of tattoos against the brown skin of his chest.

  “Hi there,” the man said. He slung his hands in his pockets and smiled, bright and easy. “I was watching you play—you’re amazing.”

  “Thanks,” Kris said. “It wasn’t a planned performance, but these things happen.”

  “Do you mind if I sit? I’m Rayne. Rayne Bakshi.” Rayne offered a hand. He wore a ring on nearly every finger, and when Kris took it, his grip was warm and firm. He had a little mercury tattoo on the base of his left thumb.

  “I was about to go find some food, but sure,” Kris said. His stomach whined but he ignored it. There was something about the man that demanded his full attention, and a tingly feeling swept through Kris’s veins, suggesting he was perched on the edge of something momentous. He didn’t get that feeling very often; it felt careless to disregard it, especially in so strange a time as this. “I’m Kris.”

  Rayne grinned and slid onto the bench beside Kris. “I’ll be quick,” he promised. “I wanted to ask you about your music, if you have a second.”

  “Okay,” Kris said. Up close, he could make out a smattering of freckles across Rayne’s nose.

  “You’ve been out here for hours. Are you a busker?”

  “I’m between jobs,” Kris said. “Technically.”

  “Are you a professional musician?”

  “Not exactly. I was a mechanic. The stars didn’t align when I tried to change tracks, so now I’m . . . whatever will have me, I guess. It’s kind of a long story.”

  “But you’d like to be? A professional musician, I mean. I happen to need a guitarist, and here you are, so.”

  Kris stared at him. Rayne stared back. His eyes were the color of sea glass, a perfectly clear, pale green, startlingly light against the rest of his features. His eyelashes were unreasonably long. His face held no trace of insincerity; Kris must have misheard him.

  “Sorry?”

  “Also a long story. Do you like burgers? There’s this great place a few blocks over—it’s a bit early, but let me buy you brunch, and we’ll talk.”

  “Sure,” Kris said slowly.

  “No pressure,” Rayne assured him. “But the food is really good.”

  Kris’s stomach howled like a coyote, right on cue. “Burgers sound great.”

  He wasn’t one to turn down a free meal, especially not now with his money situation being what it was, but more than that, he was intrigued. Hope sparked in his chest; maybe he hadn’t lost his chance after all.

  Kris let Rayne carry his duffel bag, counting on him not to make a run for it. Rayne kept up a steady stream of chatter as they walked, which Kris, sleep-deprived and overcaffeinated, mostly tuned out. It didn’t seem to matter to Rayne whether Kris joined in; he was perfectly capable of carrying the conversation by himself, which Kris appreciated. As the streets grew busier, Rayne slipped through the crowds like a fish, with Kris floundering in his wake.

  When Rayne had said “burger place,” Kris had not pictured anything like the restaurant Rayne took him to. It was long, with ambient lighting and private booths lining the walls. The entire back wall was an aquarium; the fish inside shimmered and flickered back and forth, lit up in purple and green. It was classier than any burger joint Kris had ever seen, and he faltered as he walked in. The rest of his body was preoccupied with getting fed, and didn’t care about his insecurities. Rayne seemed oblivious on all counts, and led him to a secluded booth without letting up his one-sided conversation. Kris slunk in after him, trying to avoid eye contact with the staff. At the table, he stuttered as he read over the menu before settling on an innocuous-sounding cheeseburger and fries, and tried not to look at the cost. Unless they hand-reared the cows themselves, there was no reason for the prices to be so high. Rayne ordered a veggie burger with a salad, and returned the menus to the waitress with a smile that had the girl blushing and scurrying to the kitchen.

  “So I have this band,” Rayne said, twirling his straw between his fingers. “And due to unfortunate circumstances involving a lot of heroin and some even worse life choices, our guitarist is out of commission.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kris said.

  “Don’t be. His mom had to call us to explain that he’s in rehab—a week before we leave for tour. Don’t get me wrong,” Rayne added, “I’m glad he’s getting help, but his timing leaves a lot to be desired. Anyway.” He took a sip of his water. “Don’t do heroin.”

  “Right,” Kris said. “No, that wasn’t high on my list. When you say band—”

  “The Chokecherries,” Rayne said, as if that clarified anything.

  It sounded vaguely familiar, but not enough to bet on.

  “We’ve been auditioning people for the past six days, but no one’s worked out yet. The label’s threatening to send a session musician on tour with us, which would be fine, but only as a last resort. We’re a band; we should have chemistry, you know?”

  “Right,” Kris agreed. “Of course. How popular exactly is your band?”

  The waitress arrived with their plates, blushing furiously again and unable to meet Rayne’s eye. Rayne smiled like he was used to it, thanking her before she fled the scene. Rayne was attractive enough to cause that kind of reaction anyway, but Kris suspected he might actually be famous. Kris filed that away to deal with after eating. His cheeseburger was huge, nearly the size of the plate, and his mouth flooded with drool the second he smelled it. He chomped down a fry before returning his attention to Rayne, who looked amused.

  “We’re international,” Rayne said. “Where are you from?”

  Kris’s breath caught for a second before he swallowed. International was a lot bigger than Marty’s club owner could have offered. “Kansas. I don’t think I know The Chokecherries.”

  Rayne took a bite of his burger. He didn’t seem in the least offended. “Do you want to?”

  “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t have a lot else going on right now.”

  Rayne flicked through his phone for a second before handing it to Kris, who reluctantly set his burger aside. There was a video on screen, waiting for him to press Play.

  “We have two albums out now,” Rayne said. “Our second went platinum; we’re heading out on tour the day after tomorrow. The shows are already sold out. All we need is a guitarist.”

  Kris frowned and pressed Play. He could tell the music was good right away: the production quality was high, the guitar slick, and the bass throbbing. The band was dressed in leather jackets, torn jeans, and bright T-shirts, caught halfway between punk and impossible glamour. Their instruments caught the studio lights and flashed them around; their hair gleamed; and their makeup demanded attention. But it was the vocals that stood out above everything else, twining through the music, perfectly on key. Kris couldn’t catch any hint of auto-tune on the track, but no one had that kind of range anymore, not since Mercury. The Rayne in the video closed his kohl-lined eyes and purred into the mike, his fingers wrapping around the stand as he sang about a satisfaction just out of reach.

  “That drumbeat is really familiar,” Kris said. “I think my sister listens to you.”

  “Then she has good taste. So? Are you interested?”

  As the video ended and the screen went dark, Kris put the phone back on the table. The Chokecherries were a far cry from his old high school band, in aesthetic and musical talent both. They looked like a pantheon of young gods, and Kris was wearing a flannel shirt and worn-out converse sneakers. They also sounded different than any contemporary band he’d heard in a long time, seductive and aggressive all at once. Rayne sat across the table, watching him with an impos
sibly hopeful expression.

  “I feel like this is a weird lucid dream or something,” Kris said. “Maybe I fell asleep out there after all.”

  “What can I say to convince you you’re awake?” Rayne asked. “Actually—what can I say to convince you to play guitar for us, too?”

  “For real?”

  “I watched you play for an hour this morning. You’re miles beyond anyone we’ve auditioned so far.” Rayne leaned forward, his hands folded before him on the table. He looked so earnest that Kris squirmed under the attention, and then immediately pretended he hadn’t. “You’ve got talent, Kris. Real, raw talent, the kind most people practice lifetimes to get close to. Whatever you want, I can give you—just audition for my band.”

  “Whatever I want,” Kris echoed dumbly. His day couldn’t be more surreal if one of the fish leaped out from the tank and offered him three wishes.

  “Fame? You got it. Money? I promise, we will get you a really nice contract. You want to travel? Meet your favorite band? Whoever it is, we can swing it, I guarantee.” Rayne drummed his fingers against the table. His rings glinted in the low light of the restaurant. His nails were painted black, matte and immaculate. “Whatever it takes to get you to drop everything else, I will make sure you get it.”

  Kris’s head spun and he held up one hand. Rayne’s mouth snapped shut instantly, and Rayne waited, all ears, for Kris’s bargain.

  “You pretty much had me at the burger,” Kris said. “Even if I had something else to drop, this is— You’re serious? You want me in your band?”

  Rayne broke into a broad grin. “I can keep buying you burgers, if that’s all it takes. I can buy you a burger every single day. Ultimately, it’s up to our manager to accept new members, so this isn’t a legally binding arrangement just yet, but I think you could be the one.”

  “You might have to switch it up with pizza like, once a week or so. I wouldn’t want to get sick of them.” Kris ate another fry to give his heart a chance to return to normal speed. “You don’t even know me, though. You just saw me playing on a bench. I could be anybody.”

  “I can tell you’re not a junkie; I’ve gotten pretty good at reading those signs, unfortunately. Am I wrong?”

  “No, I’m not into drugs.”

  “Are you an ax murderer?”

  “No.”

  “Cultist?”

  “No.”

  “Republican?”

  “God, no.”

  “Then I’m not going to worry too much,” Rayne said. “Tell you what—we’ve got a private show tonight, before we hit the road. If you’re interested, come meet the rest of the band, audition and charm our manager, play with us, then sleep on it. Okay?”

  “About that,” Kris said, carefully studying the sesame seeds on his burger bun. “Sleeping on it.”

  “I know it’s short notice, but it’s just a little show. We’re only playing covers, so you don’t even have to learn our songs.”

  “No, I mean, I’m kind of technically homeless? At the moment? So I don’t really have anywhere . . . to sleep. As it were.” Kris bit his lip and glanced at Rayne.

  Rayne looked at him for a long moment, his expression intrigued. “You did say it was a long story,” he said eventually.

  “On the plus side, it doesn’t involve heroin?” Kris offered. He tried to drink his water too quickly and nearly choked.

  “How about we finish eating and you tell me all about it,” Rayne suggested.

  Kris shoved the rest of the burger in his mouth and nodded. “So I have this cousin . . .”

  “I’ve never auditioned for a band before,” Kris said. “I played with some guys in high school, but we were just messing around. You guys are legit.”

  “Yeah, but unless you try to murder our manager or start spouting conspiracy theories about the music industry to the people who sign our checks, you’ll be fine.” They were sitting side by side in the back of a sleek black cab that matched Rayne’s outfit as if it had been hand-picked for that reason. He smiled reassuringly at Kris from across the seat. “Just play like you were doing back in the park, okay? You’ve got this.”

  Kris nodded. His stomach twisted itself into knots and set itself on fire. He fidgeted, lacing his fingers together and undoing them again. Rayne reached over and patted his knee. The touch sent sparks zinging up and down Kris’s leg, and while it did nothing to loosen the Gordian knot inside him, he tried to leach a little comfort from it anyway.

  He hadn’t been this nervous when he’d planned to audition for that club owner, but there was something distinctly different between that imagined scenario and going to meet an actual international band. Kris didn’t know The Chokecherries; he wasn’t suddenly terrified of meeting his idols. This was just a bunch of musicians getting together to play some music—and if they didn’t like him, he’d go back to sleeping on the streets and begging for loose change to keep from starving to death. Or, somewhat less drastically, he’d go back home to live with his parents again. It was a totally no-pressure deal. Rayne had only met him an hour ago, and he believed in him. Kris could do this.

  “You look like you expect them to eat you alive,” Rayne said. “They probably won’t. Being a cannibal is on that same list as ax murderer and Republican, you know. Breathe.”

  Kris nodded and curled around Rayne’s borrowed phone. Tucking his earbuds in, he skimmed through the music collection. He passed playlists of foreign music, their titles long and with more syllables than he was used to, as well as lists of more familiar punk and indie bands, before he found The Chokecherries. As they headed out of Manhattan to the studio in Queens, he focused on memorizing their singles. Kris watched every video, running through the playlist from start to finish, studying the faces until he could recognize all the band members at a glance. Rayne stood out first and foremost, with dark makeup on his eyes and glitter on his cheekbones, his nails black as he played with the mike cord. There was something dangerous about his stage persona that Kris couldn’t see in real life—something dark and predatory that made Kris’s stomach flip, half-excited and half-terrified. Rayne could be an entirely different species, he was so far removed from anyone back home. Beside him, Rayne drummed his fingers against the door in a soundless beat.

  The rest of the band was just as captivating. A Japanese girl with ashy hair played keyboards, her eyes and lips and nails all painted gold, her expression never wavering as her hands flew over the keys. On drums, a black dreadlocked man sat shirtless, tattoos dancing over his body as he moved like they were alive. Bass was taken by a slight, dark-haired figure nearly vibrating with energy, wielding the instrument like a weapon. And last—there: the former guitarist who had landed Kris the opportunity in the first place. He was tall and lean, almost gaunt. Kris couldn’t tell he was a junkie just from looking at him, but makeup could cover a multitude of sins. The man kept his eyes down, either rapt in the music or a million miles away.

  Kris’s gaze flickered back and forth between the Rayne on screen and the one beside him, trying to reconcile the two. It was disorienting, but no more so than the rest of Kris’s time in New York so far. He could roll with it.

  The songs slipped from sultry to sexual to aggressively upbeat and back again, and no matter what Rayne did with his voice, Kris wanted more. He didn’t try to focus on the guitar just yet. Instead, he let the music wash over and through him as he tried to figure out what the band was all about.

  They weren’t going to eat him alive. They weren’t. Rayne wouldn’t let them.

  Kris took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let himself imagine being someone famous. He rekindled his old fantasy and pictured a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden, the heat from the stage lights, a roar of adulation—nothing between him and the oblivion of a million screaming fans but his guitar.

  He opened his eyes and tugged one earbud out to dangle around his neck. “Rayne? I don’t have an electric guitar.”

  Rayne glanced over. “You can play one though,
right?”

  “Sure, but I can’t afford one unless your record label wants to give me an advance on signing.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll get you one this afternoon.”

  Kris’s mouth went dry. “Business expenses?”

  “It’s all budgeted in,” Rayne assured him. “Don’t worry about a thing. I got you.”

  The studio was a little building with a burly security guy at the door, who seemed to be doing his best to come across as a more intimidating feature of the brickwork. He nodded to Rayne and looked Kris up and down with an impressively impassive expression. Kris waved.

  “This is Butch,” Rayne said. “He’s our guard dog.”

  “Hi, Butch,” Kris said.

  Butch sighed. “Get inside, Bakshi. They’re waiting on this big surprise you said you had.”

  “Please don’t say that’s me,” Kris whispered as Butch held the door for them.

  “That’s you! Hey guys, look what I’ve got!”

  The Chokecherries turned their heads as one.

  “Is it a guitarist?” the bassist asked.

  “Got it in one! Everybody, this is Kris. Kris, this is everybody.”

  The band let out a chorus of hellos as they crowded near, inquisitive and smiling. Rayne caught Kris’s hand and tugged him over to meet them halfway.

  “This is Maki, Stef, Lenny, and Brian,” Rayne introduced. “Maki on keyboards, Stef on bass, and Len on drums. Brian’s our manager. Guys, Kris is going to audition for guitar. I picked him up off the street and promised him none of you are cannibals.”

  “Hey,” Kris greeted. He offered them an awkward wave, his other hand still trapped in Rayne’s, which no one was commenting on. “For the record, I never actually thought anyone was a cannibal, but it’s nice to know for sure.”

  The band was less intimidating in real life than they were in the videos. They were dressed casually, hair down, without the flashy stage makeup. Stef wore a pair of thick-framed hipster glasses and a beanie. Everyone was in jeans and T-shirts. Only Brian, the manager, looked skeptical, his arms crossed as he eyed Kris over the tops of his glasses.