Fake It (The Keswick Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Fake It

  The Keswick Chronicles: Book 1

  Victoria Kinnaird

  Published by Encompass Ink Teen

  An imprint of

  CHBB Publishing, LLC. Novi, Michigan 48374

  Fake It: The Keswick Chronicles: Book 1

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover art by Rue Volley

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by CLS Editing

  Copyright © 2015 Encompass Teen Publishing

  All rights reserved

  For every person who queued for hours to see their favorite band,

  For every person who’s pre-ordered an album, spent way too much money on merch, or ended up with their favorite band’s lyrics or logos tattooed on their skin,

  For every person who sang so loud at a concert and ended up without a voice the next day,

  For every person who turned the music up in times of crisis, pain or triumph,

  For every person who travelled to see their favorite band play,

  For every person who found their best friends through a mutual love of music,

  For every person who’s still going through their rock “phase” (17 odd years and counting),

  This is for you.

  “Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down” – Fall Out Boy

  Everyone remembers the moment they fell in love with JJ Keswick.

  For Kelly Matthews, it happened on a hazy summer morning, the first day of sophomore year. JJ had spent the previous year attending a stuffy all boys’ school in England, or Switzerland, or something. Kelly wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Details weren’t really Kelly’s thing. But JJ Keswick?

  He was Kelly’s favorite thing, from the second he climbed out of his driver’s car with a scowl twisting his lips. She barely caught a glimpse of the purple blue smudges under his eyes, evidence of another night spent partying with the older kids, before he slipped on a pair of ridiculously expensive designer shades that Kelly knew he hadn’t picked up anywhere near their crappy little town.

  JJ had only been back for a week, and he had already reclaimed his old reputation as the hardest partier for miles around. He didn’t have a back pack, books or any intention of giving his precious attention to the classes he would have to suffer through that day. He walked the easy walk of an incredibly attractive athlete who had more money than sense, the scowl becoming a smirk when he realized that every pair of eyes in the crowded parking lot had fixed firmly on him. That was when Kelly Matthews fell in love with JJ Keswick.

  ****

  It was a cold winter’s morning when Isabelle Edwards fell in love with JJ Keswick. He had just turned sixteen a few weeks before, but he stood hunched in the town graveyard like an old man, shivering in the long wool coat he couldn’t button up all the way because of the white sling holding up his left arm. Nearly every resident of Wayville was at the funeral, a mass of black clad mourners who glanced at JJ at every opportunity.

  Isabelle thought he looked hollowed out, the quiver in his shoulders a warning sign to all nearby that he could cave in on himself at any moment. His eyes, a startling shade of blue when they weren’t hidden behind his designer shades, were rimmed red and still full of tears. It was raining, just a little, and the drops mingled with the tears trapped in JJ’s long, gold tipped eyelashes. If he noticed her staring, it didn’t bother him, his gaze fixed on the coffin being lowered into the sodden earth. That was the moment Isabelle Edwards fell in love with JJ Keswick.

  ****

  For Alex Johnson, it was at a basketball game. It felt like the whole school was there, and the rest of the town besides, all of them yelling like a pack of wild animals. JJ was just finishing up tenth grade, sixteen going on seventeen, and he was the school’s star player. At five foot seven, he wasn’t the tallest basketball player around, but JJ was quick on his feet, fiery, determined, and fierce – everything you couldn’t train an athlete to be.

  Alex hated basketball. Organized sports were out of his comfort zone, especially if it meant spending more time with his peers than he had to. He hadn’t been to a game all year, but he was secretly dating James King. Well, he thought they were dating. He had gone to the game on a whim, hoping James would see him in the crowd and smile at him the same way he smiled when he spotted Alex alone at a party.

  JJ was playing hard, as if his arm had never been broken, as if he hadn’t sat out two months of games and practices after the crash. He seemed so strong on the court, focused in a way he never was outside the gym. His skin glowed under the lights, and his blond hair fell over his face in the rare seconds where he was completely and utterly still. In those seconds, he looked lost. In those seconds, Alex Johnson fell in love with JJ Keswick.

  ****

  And for me, Jack Daveyson? I never fell in love with JJ Keswick. I fell in love with the boy behind the reputation. I will always remember that moment.

  He was lying on his back on the counter of my dad’s music store, his head pillowed on the hoody I’d discarded there earlier in the afternoon. His legs were bent at the knee, toned calves and thighs exposed in the black skinny jeans he’d seemingly painted on that morning. A book was propped up against his legs, and he had tucked one hand under his head while the other rested carelessly on his stomach, lifting gracefully to turn the page every few minutes.

  His hair was like spun gold, glittering in the late afternoon sunlight spilling in from the sheet glass window behind him. He was singing under his breath, the corners of his pink lips turned up in a knowing grin when he felt my eyes on him. His thin cotton tee shirt was riding up ever so slightly, exposing the flawless tanned skin pulled tight across his elegantly carved hipbones.

  He was at peace in that moment, content in a way he rarely was. It was just me, him and the music blaring from the store’s stereo system—beats, smiles, and squealing guitars, quiet and easy. There were no designer sunglasses, no smirk, no attitude, and no sarcasm. In that moment, he was a person most people never saw.

  That was the moment my life changed.

  “The Taste of Ink” – The Used

  Music drifted up from the kitchen, distorted by the static on the radio, but music nonetheless. I hummed along, unconsciously, unable to name the song or the band, but comfortable enough to murmur half lyrics and second-guesses to myself as I stretched under my faded cotton sheets.

  I could hear my aunt singing along, in full voice and apparently in a great mood as I dragged myself out of bed. The first day of the school year is always hard, but the first day of your last school year? The fuzzy edged 90s rock twisting its way up the stairs helped, but it would take more than an alluringly androgynous frontman to put a spring in my clumsy step. I had promised myself the night before that if I made it through the day without fantasizing about punching someone, I would shut the shop a half hour early as a reward. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be closing up early.

  My scrubbed wooden floor was warped under foot, but thanks to my end-of-summer clear out, there were no stray tee shirts lurking in shadowed corners, waiting to trip me on my way to the small bathroom. It was more of a girl’s bathroom really. The walls had been rose petal pink when my mother was alive,
but they’d faded so much that the whole room looked like the last gasp of a disappointing sunset. I’d slipped in the tub during a rare experiment with alcohol before leaving town for the summer, tearing down the shower curtain with a curse and a giggle. The new curtain was blue, my aunt’s attempt at making the bathroom a bit more masculine, but it just threatened pastel induced nausea.

  The shower gurgled to lukewarm life, and I reluctantly climbed under the water, closing my eyes and tipping my head back. This year would be different. I’d finally get The Band together. I’d tell my dad I wasn’t going to college. If a boyfriend happened to miraculously appear, that would be cool, but I didn’t hold out much hope.

  I had to prioritize. Music had to come first, always. The fearless pursuit of my dreams seemed like a fairly decent second act. Growing a pair so I could be honest with my dad about what I wanted to do with my life was also high on the To Do list. If the universe felt like throwing me a bone— it owes me—so I could get more practice in the romance department, I’d appreciate it, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it didn’t happen. Lots of rock stars are completely awkward around people they find attractive, if my favorite lyrics were anything to go by. I’d fit right in.

  I’d had some practice, if a quick fumble backstage while the relatively unknown band my dad was working for that month played to an uninterested crowd counts. I had begged my dad to let me spend the summer away from Cookie-cutter-ville, and he’d finally agreed to let me go on the road with him.

  When it comes to life on the road, there’s not much my dad can’t do. He’s tough enough to pull off being a tour manager. Wrangling hard partying musicians is like herding cats, but Daniel Daveyson is surprisingly good at it. It’s not as if he’s strict or anything, but God help anyone on the receiving end of his “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” glare. Over the years, my dad’s travelled hundreds of thousands of miles with dozens of bands. I had wanted so badly to go with him. After months of pleading and a couple of epic guilt trips, he’d caved.

  Louis was one of the other roadies on tour with Garrett, the band my dad had been on the road with for the summer. Six foot tall, skinny and smirking, he wasn’t what I thought I’d be attracted to. What my best friend Jessica had long suspected turned out to be glaringly obvious. I’m an idiot. I found myself charmed so quickly it was embarrassing. I became the human equivalent to one of the snack bars he picked up at the truck stops every day. It had stung a little (a lot), but I’d returned to Wayville older, wiser and ready to find something real. Ish.

  “Who needs roadies anyway?” I huffed as I stepped out of the shower, dark hair dripping.

  I used my toothbrush as a microphone, singing some song that had been stuck in my head for a few days. My voice echoed back at me, filling the bathroom with noise. I tested out my I-do-so-love-my-anonymity smile while I combed my hair, pushing it back from my pale face before heading into my room to get dressed.

  Getting dressed is not a time consuming process for me. My closet is full of black clothes—shirts, long-sleeved shirts, hoodies, jeans, socks, and sneakers – all black. I had a gray band tee shirt once, but it just didn’t feel right. It was hanging up in the back of my closet somewhere, waiting for the day when I blossomed into a well-adjusted, functioning member of society who fully embraced the spectrum of color. I hoped it wasn’t holding its breath. It would be waiting a while. Maybe I’d dig it out for a reunion tour, if I was feeling uncharacteristically cheerful. I’ve got clothes in at least five different shades of black: new black, washed-a-couple-of-times black, doesn’t-quite-match-my-jeans black, faded black and might-as-well-give-up black.

  I fished out a pair of might-as-well-give-up black jeans that I’d torn across the left knee while skateboarding the year before, a Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge tee shirt and a doesn’t-quite-match-my-jeans black button down shirt to wear over the top, sleeves rolled up. A pair of battered Converse completed my I-don’t-give-a-damn look, and within ten minutes, I was stumbling down the stairs, stomach rumbling.

  My aunt Rose was waiting in the kitchen for me, like she was almost every morning. She fluttered around the sunny room, chirping along to the radio with her bright eyes and sleek, feathered blond hair. She was, even at first glance, a woman of contradictions.

  She was tiny, not even five feet tall, but what she lacked in height, she made up for with sheer steel. Her narrow shoulders were always set, and her head held high. Rose had little lungs but a big voice and an even bigger heart. She’d dreamed of a life on Broadway once, a decade ago before her big sister had died suddenly of cancer.

  My mom had left behind a shell-shocked widow, a confused young son and my beloved aunt Rose. She had folded up her dreams like she folded my laundry, neat and perfect, and put them away. My dad fled, working through his grief across endless miles of asphalt, and Aunt Rose moved in, stepping up without so much as a grumble of complaint.

  What sort of twenty-four-year-old woman takes on an eight-year-old, big brown eyed, gangly kid, and does it with enough grace that she actually kinda taught that kid everything he knows about responsibility? It wasn’t until I got older and taller than her that I realized what she’d given up for me. I wasn’t sure if I would have been able to do the same thing in her position.

  “It’s a bit too early to be getting misty eyed, kid,” she grinned at me as I swept her up to plant a kiss on her crazy hair. “Sit down, I made breakfast.”

  I was halfway through my pancakes when Jessica Rosenfeld, best friend and all round bad ass showed up, stomping in through the back door wearing her biggest pair of boots. A pair of gray skinny jeans and a dark green tank top that contrasted sharply with her shoulder length, jet-black hair completed her don’t-mess-with-me ensemble.

  “Sweetie, why aren’t you wearing a jacket?” Aunt Rose asked, clucking like a mother hen as Jess sat down beside me, grabbed a chunk of pancake with deft fingers and popped it into her smiling mouth.

  “I’m young and foolish, Aunt Rose,” Jess replied, reaching out for my pancakes again. I slapped her hand, and she laughed. When Jess laughs, I laugh—even when she’s stealing my food. It’s kind of like her superpower, but no one ever made her promise that she would never use it for evil. Or stealing breakfasts.

  “Here,” my aunt said as she handed Jess one of my freshly laundered hoodies.

  It was way too big for Jessica’s slim frame, but she made it work somehow—pushing the sleeves up and letting it slip from one pale shoulder. Everything about Jess was effortlessly cool. She never looked ruffled, not one hair out of place. From the flawless sweep of her liquid eyeliner to the twinkle in her green-gray eyes, she was utterly settled in her own skin and apparently not too bothered about starting our senior year.

  “So Jack Daveyson, are you ready to start your last year at high school?” Jess asked me, raising a perfectly shaped brow in my direction. “Also, are you really going to wear those jeans?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with these jeans!” I protested through a mouthful of pancake.

  “They’re ripped.”

  “This is a genuine rip,” I told her. “I didn’t buy ‘em this way.”

  “Are you sure?” she murmured, narrowing her eyes. She hates pre-torn jeans, it’s one of her many quirks that makes sure life is never dull.

  “Absolutely,” I assured her. “So, potentially traitorous jeans aside, how do I look?”

  “Like you need a haircut, but in an adorable sort of way,” she responded, any sting to it balanced out by the sweet smile she flashed at me as she reached out to ruffle my hair.

  “Yeah, adorable is the look I’m going for,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. I was only joking though. Wayville High isn’t exactly a gay hotspot, and I wasn’t harboring any secret hopes that I would run into anyone worth looking good for.

  We finished my breakfast, and I even let my aunt Rose take a picture of us together. My dad had gotten her a Polaroid camera for Christmas, and she was obsessed with it, alwa
ys taking photos of my friends and me. When I protested, she’d remind me that these were apparently the greatest years of my life. One day, decades from now, when I’m old and cranky, I’m going to be glad she took so many pictures. Or so she says.

  It was a gorgeous morning, still early enough for the air to have a bit of a bite to it. Jess and I fell into step without speaking, our shoes slapping off the tarmac the only sound on the quiet street.

  “So . . . you ready to talk about it yet?” Jess asked after a moment, bumping her shoulder against my swinging arm.

  I curled my hands round the straps of my backpack and shrugged. “Talk about what?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” she replied with a huff. “The piece of shit roadie that robbed you of your virginity, probably in the back of some scummy venue, or the fact that your dad didn’t turn up on your first day of senior year, or—”

  “I didn’t sleep with Louis!” I interrupted with a sputter. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it never went that far.”

  I ducked my head to hide my blush, my hair falling over my face and temporarily blocking out the sunlight. Jess was my best friend, knew every single thing about me, but admitting I was still a virgin after my first serious chance at romance was not something I could do while maintaining eye contact.

  “I’m your best friend, it is definitely my business,” she replied, stopping to grab my arm.

  I sighed at her as she leaned in and pushed my hair away from my face.

  “You gotta get this cut, it’s bordering on ridiculous.”

  “Thanks,” I said, hiding my smile as we started walking again.

  “What about your dad? I thought he’d be here. This is a pretty special milestone, or so my parents want me to believe.”

  “He’s working,” I told her. The standard response whenever anyone asks where my dad is. He’s Wayville’s man of mystery. Most people know his name but have never seen him, despite the fact he’d grown up here.