Never Say Never Read online

  “So this isn't a yes or a no?”

  “There are no guarantees in life, Miss Knight. If you want an answer, we'll need to see more. I certainly look forward to seeing where and how you develop a few months down the line.”

  I wasn't sure whether to feel ecstatic or crushed. On the one hand – this wasn't a firm “yes,” far from it. Mr. Slayton didn't think we had what it took just yet.

  On the other hand, “in just a few months...” My heart began to beat faster and faster. Could we really have the potential to make it big?

  “We'll definitely get a few more performances in, sir,” I said, nervously shaking Mr. Slayton's hand.

  “Glad to hear it, Miss Knight,” said Mr. Slayton, bowing his head ever so slightly in a farewell as he walked off.

  I returned to Kyle, who was sitting alone – Geoff having gone to try on his charming-rocker act with a few girls more into it than I was. I shook my head. When we were kids Geoff had been great – respectful, smart, passionate about the band. But lately, it seemed that all he cared about was getting girls and doing drugs. His performance in the band was slipping – we all knew that, but none of us wanted to admit it. He had talent, but he practiced less than any of us.

  “What did he say?” Kyle turned to me with his enormous blue eyes.

  I told Kyle what Mr. Slayton had said.

  “Hmm,” Kyle considered, putting his arm around me. “Well, don't worry, Neve. We'll get there in the end – even if it means practicing every day for the next six months. Have we ever let you down yet?”

  “No,” I admitted, smiling slightly. “You haven't. We'll get there. I know it.”

  Kyle looked deep into my eyes, and I could feel the warmth – the trust – in his gaze. “I have every faith in you. In us,” Kyle said gently.

  “Thanks.” I rested my head against Kyle's chest as he gently pulled me towards him. There was something so reassuring about his touch. I'd gotten a lot of teasing about my relationship to the four so-called hotties of The Never Knights from the girls at USC, but I knew they were wrong. What I had with Kyle – what I had with all the boys, since we were kids, except maybe Geoff – went beyond attraction, beyond sex. We were like family: a relationship more important than mere romance.

  “We're going to do it our way,” I said. I knew the alternative – capitalize on my dad's name, get a reality TV show and a record deal in ten seconds flat if I was willing to throw up at a nightclub or get into a catfight or have sex on camera and leak it to the press. All I needed was a camcorder and a willing partner and I'd be top of the tabloids in no time.

  But I didn't just want fame. None of us did. We wanted something bigger. We wanted to change the world with our music, with our art.

  “I know he makes it hard for you,” said Kyle, and I knew immediately he was talking about my dad. “But if you do make it – you'll do it the way he did. As hard-headed and stubborn as he is.” He coughed slightly and flushed red. “Speaking of your dad, my aunt says your parents are expecting you home this weekend.”

  He always got a bit embarrassed. I loved Mrs. Jostens, his mother's sister and my dad's long-suffering housekeeper, but neither one of us liked to acknowledge that he'd grown up as the live-in nephew of my dad's live-in maid.

  I groaned and rolled my eyes, trying to steer the conversation into a topic we could both relate to.

  “I was looking forward to a night out in the dorms. I've only been in college for two weeks!”

  “I know, right?” Kyle laughed. “Then again, when I tried to use the washer in the dorm laundry room it got jammed – apparently someone left about twenty condoms in there as a joke and they clogged up the whole machine. I wouldn't mind some home-cooked food and an ironing board.”

  Kyle shot me his signature angelic smile.

  “You can take me home,” I said. “You haven't been drinking, have you?”

  “I had a couple of sips of beer an hour ago – but I'm definitely under the limit. Unlike Geoff.”

  “I don't want him taking me home!” I announced hotly.

  “Was he being creepy again?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It's not cool. I've said 'no,' I mean 'no,' and that's that. I didn't want him before, and I want him even less now that I know apparently he doesn't take “no” for an answer. What girl wants to be brow-beaten into having sex with him?”

  “You want me to have a word with him?” Kyle said.

  “No,” I said. “I want to have a word with him. When he's sober enough to remember what I said the next morning. If he cops a feel one more time while ‘checking the mic’ I'm going to hit him with his own guitar...”

  We were interrupted by the sound of crashing glass from the other room, followed by a male moan of pain and a girl's shriek.

  “I didn't do anything!” she was screaming.

  We rushed into the other room to find Geoff in the middle of a shattered glass table, wincing in agony. His arm was covered in blood.

  “He wouldn't leave me alone...” the girl's voice faltered. “I finally pushed him away – he sort of staggered over and fell into the table...”

  “Oh, for fuck's safe, Geoff...” I went over to him. “What have you done...?”

  “Ouch...” The alcohol had evidently numbed Geoff to the severity of the pain. Shards of glass were sticking out of his arm; it was painful just to look at him.

  “Call 9-1-1,” I said, my voice automatically reverting into “responsible mode.” “Responsible mode” was one of those things my dad had been careful to teach me early on – he'd watched one of his first band mates die from choking on his own vomit after a night of drinking, unable to save him, and it wasn't an experience he wanted me to repeat. “We need to get him to the hospital, now!”

  “Already called,” Luc walked over.

  “Geoff – you're gonna be fine, but you've got to stay still, okay...?”

  “I think I broke my arm...” Geoff was murmuring. “How am I going to play guitar now?”

  Luc and I looked at each other. Geoff was right. Looking at his injuries, I could tell he'd be out of commission for a while.

  “You're fine, Geoff; you'll be fine. Just wait for the paramedics to come help you, okay?”

  But I knew with a sinking feeling that we'd need to hunt for a new guitarist....

  Chapter 2

  It was good to be home again. As much as I hated to admit it, living in a Beverly Hills mansion with thirteen bedrooms and a swimming pool was a lot nicer than sharing a filthy USC dorm room with a girl who had a habit of vomiting in the wastepaper basket after a night out and covering up her nightly cigarettes with sickeningly sweet patchouli incense. Plus, Kyle was right – Mrs. Jostens was a lot better at doing laundry than I was; I'd already managed to turn my white dress a pale shade of dirty pink.

  But I didn't want to admit it. I'd told my dad I wanted to be independent, and I meant it. I resolved to ask Mrs. Jostens to teach me how to iron my clothes properly without my dad finding out – he'd just mock me in that good-natured way of his.

  It's just two weeks into freshman year, I told myself. You're not meant to figure all this stuff out right away. Still, the ruined pink dress was like a badge of shame. You might think you're self-sufficient, Neve Knight, but you're still a spoiled baby at heart.

  Never mind, I told myself. I'd learn. I headed down to the laundry room, finding Kyle sitting at the kitchen counter, wolfing down an enormous fried breakfast of bacon, eggs and sausages.

  “Careful there, fatty,” I said, stealing a slice of bacon off his plate. “You won't be able to fit through the door soon.”

  Kyle laughed and rolled his eyes. If there was anything Kyle wasn't, it was fat. He was as lean and fit as a fitness model – his metabolism converting every calorie of bacon into firm, taut muscle. He'd even done a few modeling shoots to pay for college – my mother had managed to talk her agent into giving him a shot in the latest swimsuit edition – and with his preppy blond hair, hard abs, and sleek golden boy
looks, I figured I'd see him on the cover of GQ sooner or later.

  I sat down next to him, and he scooped some of his breakfast onto my plate.

  “Better than dorm swill, huh?” I said. “Your aunt's got to be the best cook on the planet.”

  “Amen...” Kyle pushed a glass of orange juice towards me.

  “Maybe we should get some Tupperware,” I said, “bring her food back with us to the dorms.”

  “Let's not,” Kyle said. “Or your fat-jokes will turn into a reality before you know it. I can't eat like this every day or my agent will put me on one of those juice fasts.”

  “To be fair – if it's a juice fast or dorm food, I'd pick the fast.” I laughed. “Careful, though. If you want to compete with Steve as the most ripped guy in the band, you'll have your work cut out for you!”

  We both burst out laughing. Steve's overnight metamorphosis from scrawny stick-figure, the victim of several bully attempts in middle school, to bulked-up athlete had taken us all by surprise.

  “Oh, please,” said Kyle. “Everyone knows Steve gets up at six to “work out.” “Delayed puberty” my ass – that guy I'm too lazy. Once I turn forty or fifty and my metabolism slows down, I'll look like Santa Claus. And you know what? By then I won't mind. I'll be a famous rock star and nobody will be able to say anything.”works for his body. Me,

  “Come on!” I said. “Unfortunately, I can't say the same.” I'd grown up around the tabloids – and I knew exactly how cruel they could be to women who didn't fit the mold. My mother, Jessica Botano – a former swimsuit model – had gained a bit of weight when I was around twelve – barely noticeable to me, of course – and the tabloids had savaged her for weeks with vicious puns and photos taken of her in our pool. Not that anyone – tabloid or otherwise – had dared to criticize my father's paunch.

  I had secretly resolved to, when I was as famous as my dad, dump the diet – eat as much as I wanted – and give the proverbial finger to any tabloid that dared to criticize me for it. Unfortunately, to get there, as much as I hated it, I had to play the looks game for a while.

  “When we're forty we can stop working out,” I said. “Unfortunately, we're not forty yet. Let's head to the gym, okay?”

  Working out was always much more fun with Kyle present. Normally I got bored on the machines, but with Kyle we could take turns on the boxing bag, gossiping about whom we wished the bag was this week, taking out our aggressions. When I performed, I wore stage makeup – I think there's a law in LA about going out without at least a bottle of mascara on each eye – but only Kyle and Steve had seen me in my natural state: a sweaty, red-cheeked, barely out-of-pimpliness mess. They didn't seem to mind.

  “So, whom should we punch this week?” Kyle grinned his cheeky grin as he wiped off the sweat with a towel.

  “Geoff,” I said without missing a beat. “Between his womanizing and his stupidity in the bar last Friday...I don't know what I'm more annoyed about, that he got himself injured or that he was dumb enough to make a woman push him away in the first place.” I sighed, giving the bag a solid punch. “I feel bad for him and all – but he's really been unreliable lately. Slayton says we need more performances if we want to get signed – and our booker's got a ton of gigs lined up for us. None of which we can play without a lead guitarist.”

  “How long do you think Geoff will be out of commission?” Kyle asked.

  “Long enough,” I rolled my eyes. “He had a piece of glass sticking out of his arm – it was disgusting! I doubt he's going to be picking up a guitar anytime soon.”

  “Then who's going to play lead?” Kyle sighed. “Can't you...”

  “I'm nowhere near good enough. I can hold a melody on the guitar in a pinch but I've got fingers like sausages when it comes to the solos. You know that.”

  “Then who...?”

  “Beats me.”

  “We'll have to ask around.”

  “Geoff may be a sleaze, but he's a sleaze who can play.”

  “We could ask if your dad knows...”

  “No!” I said.

  “Don't stress.” Kyle put up his hands in mock self-defense. “We'll find someone. It'll be okay.”

  “If only we all had your sunny attitude, Kyle.” I smiled reluctantly at his inveterate cheeriness. Kyle knew just how to keep me confident.

  “Got it from you, Neve.” He smiled shyly. “Family resemblance?” He laughed. “You're basically family, after all. I can't remember a time before I lived here.”

  Can't, I couldn't help wondering, or don't want to? Kyle didn't talk much about the time before he'd come to live with his aunt, when he was six. But my dad had told me what had happened. His dad – a drunk who liked to rough him up – had shot his mother in front of him, and had gotten life in jail. His mom got a funeral that wasn't covered by her life insurance. Mrs. Jostens – and us – were all that he had in the world.

  “I can't either,” I said, slipping my hand in his. “What would I do without you around to boost my ego when I'm down?”

  “I'm just flattering you to get into your pants, clearly!” Kyle laughed. It was a joke we'd made a hundred times before – the sort of fake flirting that felt safe precisely because we knew it would never go anywhere. Normally I'd have just laughed it off. But somehow we both fell into an awkward, strange silence. He hadn't meant it – at least, he hadn't meant to mean it. But for the first time, the joke didn't seem so funny.

  I forced myself to laugh. “Don't you pull a Geoff on me, Kyle. Or I'll have to put you through a glass table and then where would we be?”

  He seemed relieved by the laughter, and started laughing too. “Please, I wouldn't even have to flatter you. According to the girls at USC, I'm apparently fresh meat – I've never had so many girls interested in me at once! Or ever. You'd be lucky to get with me, Neve!”

  “Sure I would,” I said, forcing the joke. “I've just been pining for you my whole life. Wishing you'd notice me...”

  “I thought you were like Queen Elizabeth,”

  “What?”

  “You know. The Virgin Queen of England. Refused to ever get married so she could focus on ruling her country.”

  “It's not that I'm not interested in dating,” I said. “I'd just never date anyone in the band...I've seen the VH1 specials. I know that's the surest way to break up the group.”

  “So why not date someone outside the band?”

  “I don't know anyone outside the band!” It was true. My band – Kyle, Luc, Steve, and even Geoff, no matter how much he annoyed me lately – were the only friends I was really close to. We spent all our time together; I didn't have a second free to date anyone I might see as a potential.

  “Well, don't feel sorry for me,” said Kyle. “Because I'm doing just fine outside the band.” He seemed a little on edge – almost defensive. I looked up at him in surprise. Was there something there between us? I laughed it off. I used to dress Kyle in my life-size Barbie clothes when I was seven – I'd definitely seen him naked a couple of times when we were changing our swimming clothes. We knew each other too well to feel sexual tension.

  Then why did things feel so weird all of a sudden?

  “Neve?” A female voice interrupted our conversation, followed by the appearance of my mother – which, as it had done consistently for the past ten years, made Kyle's jaw drop. Whatever feelings Kyle might have for me – feelings I refused to acknowledge, they paled beside his long-standing crush on my mother. In her early forties, my mother managed to look barely older than I was. I knew a lot of former models resorted to plastic surgery and punishing pilates to look gorgeous, disguising their age, but none had maintained quite the youthful vitality of my mother.

  “I missed you!” My mother ran to embrace me. “Two weeks was too long! Are you sure you don't want to commute to and from class – I'm sure Paul could drive you there and back every day...”

  “I don't need a chauffeur, mom,” I smiled. “I need a tiny dorm full of messy clothes and empty pizza boxes
. The real college experience. You know that.”

  “Can't you have the real college experience from the pool house? It's got its own kitchen, you know – you could put the pizza in your fridge...”

  “I don't think that fits the definition of ‘real adult’. Living in mom and dad's pool house.”

  “A lot of girls here do...Barry Monroe's daughter...” Dad's former band mate lived just down the road.

  “Barry Monroe's daughter never goes to class and has her dad call up her professor and exchange autographs for A's. I don't want that.”

  My mother sighed. “But we worked hard,” she said. “So you wouldn't have to.”

  I flushed red. I loved my mother, but she could be a bit oblivious sometimes – and right now, talking about money in front of Kyle, whose aunt probably worked a lot harder (although, to be honest, Kyle was too busy staring at my mom’s stunning swimsuit curves than listening to the words coming out of her mouth), she was being especially oblivious. She'd been discovered at sixteen in a shopping mall in Texas, catapulted to the top of her field in a matter of months – like my dad, she'd never really known what it was like to live without the easy world of fame and money. And as much as I loved her, I knew that that sort of a life wasn't for me. I wanted to find my own way as much as possible.

  “I want to work hard,” I said. “I want to learn stuff – I've got this great History of Classical Music class at 8 a.m. I'd never make it to if I had to drive from here...I want to earn my grades. I don't want to just be the daughter of Keith Knight and Jessica Botano.”

  “I guess,” my mother looked unconvinced. “I just want you to be safe out there, you know.” She finally noticed Kyle. “Well, if Kyle's with you, I'll feel more confident that you're safe.”

  “I'll keep an eye on her, ma'am,” said Kyle, only stuttering slightly.

  “Most students grew up without a private security detail,” I said, “and they do okay.”

  “But most students don't have paparazzi who can capture them in a moment of indiscretion...” my mother sighed.