Home > A Love Song for Rebels (Rivals #2)

A Love Song for Rebels (Rivals #2)
Author: Piper Lawson

1

 

 

September

 

 

A seventeen-year-old girl once told me I don't feel enough.

She was wrong.

Am I walking around with a flashing neon sign pointing at my heart saying, “Fuck me over. Here’s how”? No.

But heading into the grand auditorium at Vanier with a crowd of students my first day of second year, I feel plenty.

“The demo was great, and you know it,” I state into my phone, talking loudly to be heard above the noise of the crowd.

“Ty, it’s not the right time,” Zeke answers flatly.

I rub a hand over my neck. It still feels strange not to have hair curling over a collar, but the black Henley suits me better than Oakwood’s tailored shirts.

“Is it ever gonna be the right time?”

“Some people wait a lifetime for a chance. You had a golden opportunity, and you fucked up.”

My stomach clenches, but the record exec continues. “I could use you Thursday. The studio’ll reach out. You’re on my radar, kid. Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

He clicks off, and I barely resist chucking my phone into the throng of students.

“Smile, Ty. This is for posterity.” My roommate’s drawl shakes me back to the room.

Beck wedges himself next to me, his phone screen trained on us as we make our way toward some seats midway back.

“I’m Beck, and thank you for following my adventures at Vanier. We’re at twenty thousand subscribers, and I appreciate you. Today’s the first day of second year. For you math nerds, yes, that means final year for those of us in a two-year program, and it’s gonna be epic.”

He flips the camera outward to survey the scene. The auditorium’s a vast, sweeping space with a thousand upholstered seats. When you see it empty, it’s like a field waiting for battle.

The stage could be mistaken for part of that battlefield, but it isn’t.

It’s the prize.

Beck’s narrative continues. “First day of a new year means assembly, which is a chance to remind us how lucky we are to live in dorms or rodent-overrun apartments with barely enough time to practice for the survival jobs we’re gonna need when we graduate.”

His easy deadpan has me lifting a brow. Usually Beck’s a hundred percent optimism even when I’m not.

“You’re cheery after the long weekend,” I note.

“Came out to my parents. For future reference, Labor Day party in Southampton is a bold choice for announcing you’re bi.” He looks between the camera and me. “On the plus side, everything I own from home will be in our apartment by tomorrow. Including a kickass Bluetooth speaker. The bass will blow your mind… and almost make up for the fact that our fridge broke this morning.”

I want to ask him about the coming out part, but the recording light’s still on.

We turn down a row of seats partway back, moving past second years like us and the wide-eyed freshmen.

I refuse to believe we were that naïve a year ago.

“Even if I gave a shit what my parents think, there’s no going back. Guys give better head,” my roommate goes on, tripping over classmates as we pass. “Girls are enthusiastic, but a dude knows how to treat a dick.”

In the middle of the row, I grab his phone, hit the Stop button, and hand it back amidst his protests. “Beck. Seriously. Tell me you’re okay.”

His grin is lightning quick, but it takes a moment for him to respond. “I will be,” he says at last, clapping me on the shoulder.

I drop into a seat. He takes the one next to me.

“What’s new with Cap’n Z?” He nods in the general direction of the cell phone stuck in my pocket.

“Still won’t offer me a new deal.”

I could be cutting albums right now instead of busting my ass on etudes for class.

Beck frowns. “You should’ve told him what happened with your dad after you moved to New York.”

My entire body stiffens, and I flex my hand on the arm of my seat. It’s been months, but mentioning those events still affects me. Maybe it always will.

“Zeke is business. Last year was personal.”

When I left Dallas and moved to New York last summer, I’d thought there was nothing left in me to break.

I was wrong. Less than a month later, life brought me to my knees.

The one silver lining is that I poured all my feelings into music. I’m better than I’ve ever been, and I want to get the hell out of this place. I’ve had enough of school, enough of people telling me what to do and how to be.

“So, I signed up to be a peer mentor this year,” Beck announces. “Got any tips on educating the next generation?”

I shift back in my seat, scanning the rows of students. “Don’t fuck whoever’s assigned to you.”

“Appreciate the input. I’m gonna play that one by ear. You got some nerves to burn off yourself, roomie,” he continues. “You keep way too low a profile. And you’re gonna have to start paying me to keep out all the dreamy-eyed people showing up at our door. ‘Tyler around? I need to talk to him about class, the state of the Middle East, the state of my bikini wax…’”

His exaggeration makes me laugh.

Yes, I’ve had my share of offers, but it’s been a while since I took a girl up on one.

It’s ironic because with all the pent-up energy that’s been building lately, I could fuck someone.

God, could I fuck someone.

For an hour, a day, a month, until I forget the resentment and frustration and emptiness.

Most of the people around here would get that I don’t want a relationship.

It’s like the Olympic Village, an entire community of hot, young, ambitious men and women who need to burn off steam. But at the end of the day, they’re here for one reason—to build a career, a future that’s brighter than what we came from.

The lights dim, and we train our gazes on the stage.

Vanier is nothing if not theatrical. The college has a rolling slate of A-list guest faculty including musicians, actors, and dancers.

Today, several of them perform, and Beck’s phone peeks up between the heads. I wonder what he’s going to edit this into later for mass consumption.

Finally, the dean—herself a former principle ballerina with a national company—clears the stage for her remarks. “Vanier has the nation’s most prestigious performing arts programs. We are steeped in tradition, a history of commitment and discipline.

“Some would say technology holds the key to the future, but we believe the arts are more important than ever in these troubled times. Where there is dark, there is also light, and we are seeking to reinterpret this world of struggle, of inequality, of burgeoning possibility and hope, through the lens of the arts.”

I’m not here to reinterpret the world.

I’m going to find a way to get my contract back if it kills me. Starting today, I won’t rest until I do.

The decision fills me with resolve.

My gaze locks on two girls a few rows up, and I tune out the dean’s words.

They’re both pretty from the back—whatever the hell that means—but it’s the dark-haired girl who has me straightening.

Her hair falls in waves, a shiny river that ends somewhere below her seatback. The glimpse of profile when she turns to listen to something the blonde whispers shows full lips, a pointy nose.

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