Hammers & Heartstrings Read online

  Contents

  Hammers & Heartstrings

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Coming soon from Elle Bennett

  about the author

  Hammers & Heartstrings

  LPD Records Book One

  By Elle Bennett

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Elle Bennett

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  ISBN 9781977094735

  CHAPTER ONE

  I didn’t catch her name

  But I want to catch her heart

  Don’t let this be the end of our story

  Let it be the start

  “My Favorite Month,” Peristerophobia

  Peristerophobia means nothing to some people. To some, it’s the fear of pigeons. To others around my town, it’s the local band fronted by Andrew Washington. To me, it’s an obsession. Some would say an unhealthy obsession, but those people can go fuck themselves.

  I stood outside of a massive stadium, waiting in line to get into their show. This wasn’t their usual scene. The biggest place I’d ever seen them play before was The Walnut Tree, and that venue didn’t exactly book major pop rock bands such as Like, I Like That.

  Like, I Like That dominated Top 40 and every alternative rock station. It was impossible to listen to a rock or punk playlist on a streaming service without one of their songs popping up. Their normal tour openers had broken up a week prior and KALT held a contest to have a local band open for them while they stopped in our town.

  Naturally, Peristerophobia won the contest. It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone who listened to the radio, considering they had been on the top ten every night on KALT for a week with their latest release.

  I was in a line outside of a stadium, by myself, staring off into space, waiting for the doors to open. I was more than ready to get away from all the people talking about Like, I Like That’s latest single, “I Don’t Wanna Deal (With You Or Your Stupid Friends).”

  It wasn’t the first time I’d gone to a concert on my own. I went to a good ninety percent of concerts alone, mostly because I didn’t know anyone else who wanted to go with me. But it was nicer that way, really. I didn’t have to worry about keeping track of a friend, or whether or not they’d be more comfortable in the back of the crowd versus in the middle of a mosh pit. I personally wanted to be in the front every time, as close as I could get to the stage without actually being on the stage. I wanted to connect to the music and not have a single care in the world. You can’t do that when you have a friend bothering you, wondering when the show will end, if they can go home early because they have school or work in the morning, and, “My god, April, don’t you know how irresponsible it is to stay out this late?”

  Live music was always going to be more important to me than a good night’s rest.

  “I’m so excited to see Fishsticks,” a girl behind me in line said.

  “Dude, they broke up. Some other band is opening now. It’s a local one. Prestolobi, I think?” her friend said.

  “It’s Pear-is-ter-o-phobia,” I interrupted. I pronounced the name slowly, so they’d get it. I don’t usually make conversation with people in line, but I had to correct them. They were butchering the name of my favorite band. “You’ll love them, they’re incredible.”

  The girls glared at me for interrupting them, then started off on Vic Hanzel and his ever-changing eyes. I was tempted to tell them that his eyes weren’t actually magical, that he actually changed up colored contact lenses every now and then, but I really didn’t want to talk to them more than I already had. Also, I was a little ashamed that I knew about Vic Hanzel’s contact lens habits. It wasn’t that I liked him or his band. I mean, I kind of hated Like, I Like That since they went more pop than punk. But I read about a lot of bands. When you read about a ton of different bands, you sometimes come across things about bands you don’t really care about. And sometimes it’s three in the morning and you can’t fall asleep, so you figure, why not read about Vic Hanzel and his eyes, maybe it’ll be so boring you’ll finally get some sleep.

  When the concert doors finally opened up, I made my way to the general admission area. I stood there alone, in a sea of overlapping conversations about music and life, and I really hoped that the freakishly tall guy near me wouldn’t worm his way in front of me for the show.

  The crowd seemed uninterested when Peristerophobia came on stage. Most people still talked over the music, or at least tried to. I ignored them and kept my attention to the stage, where my favorite musicians stood. It didn’t matter if everyone else talked over them. Everything else turned into white noise the moment the music started. It was just me and Peristerophobia, and not one fucking thing in the world mattered except for that.

  “How the fuck are you tonight?” Andrew yelled out to the distracted crowd, clutching his guitar as he played the ending chords to the song the band was finishing up. He grabbed hold of the microphone, one hand still on the neck of his guitar. “You guys excited for Like, I Like That to come out and play?”

  The crowd cheered. I stayed silent.

  “Well, too bad!” Andrew said. “You’ll have to listen to us for a few more songs first. I hope we grow on you.”

  He began to play the opening notes to the next song on their set list, which I recognized as “Eviscerating You In Chords.”

  Parts of the crowd began to dance around a little, getting more into the music that Peristerophobia created right there in front of them. I recognized a few people who had been to previous Peristerophobia shows. I was a little less alone as a fan in this crowd, but I still had no desire to talk to them. I didn’t need more people to tell me how great the band was. I was very much aware of that fact.

  Andrew held out his hand to the crowd, like he normally did as he sang to a crowd. His face fell as he seemed to realize he couldn’t actually touch the crowd, thanks to the security bar and guards in front of the stage. He couldn’t brush his fingertips against the hands of his fans, so instead he touched our hearts with his words, with his melodies. He sang with everything he had, and it showed. The performance was better than almost any other I’d seen from him.

  As the lead singer, guitarist, and main lyricist of the band, he was the one I’d paid the most attention to. Sometimes my eyes wandered over to Ken Ramirez on bass, Doug Belford on drums, or Chad Linden on rhythm guitar. But my eyes always landed right back on Andrew Washington. Of course, it helped that he was easy on the eyes. With his shaggy brunette hair that always seemed messy in that just-had-sex way and bright brown eyes, he gave the crowd a smile that could’ve melted the panties off of every person in the room.

  I closed my eyes, took a
deep breath, and let the music overtake my senses. I could feel the people dancing around me, the beat of the song pulsing under my feet. I heard a few of the regular fans singing along as he got to the chorus for the third time. But when I closed my eyes, it was just me and the band. My soul and theirs. It was all I needed to survive. It was magic.

  When I opened them again, the song was over, and Andrew spoke.

  “You’ve been a great crowd tonight. We’ve got one more song for you, then we’ll be on our way to the merch table. Feel free to stop by and buy our shit!”

  As the final song finished, a few of their fans screamed out for another song or two. Some people were still ignoring them, simply waiting for the main band to take the stage. I stood there, still alone, still in bliss. Andrew began to play one more song.

  After the band put their instruments away, my heart sank. I hung around for a little while, hoping that there might be a second band, though none had been announced. When the stage lit up again, it was covered in fog and I knew it was hopeless. Like, I Like That was ready to begin for the night. The crowd was deafening in their screams and cheers. There were hundreds of phones up in the air, recording and taking pictures as I wove my way back through the crowd.

  Vic began to play one of their more popular songs, and I let out a groan. I pushed my way through some more of the crowd and tried to get closer to the exit. People shot me dirty looks and pushed me back.

  “I’m not trying to mosh! I’m trying to leave!” I shouted.

  The music and the crowd were both louder than my screams of protest, and a few others pushed me around while I plugged my ears and tried to make my way to the exit.

  “This is our anthem, rocking out with the best of ‘em. My eyes are baggy, your sweater is too saggy. Now sing along, and our hearts can beat as one. If you want to be a frog, jump on that sinking log!”

  Every time I heard their lyrics, I always hoped that I’d misunderstood them. But a quick search online for the actual words proved that I’d heard them right the first time. I didn’t think I’d ever understand the lyric stylings of Vic Hanzel and his fellow bandmates.

  The crowd ate them up, loved them more than they loved Peristerophobia, that was for sure. I assumed that would happen, considering they had a way bigger fan base. They were known around the world, while Peristerophobia was known around the block.

  I finally reached the doors and made my way over to the Peristerophobia merchandise table. None of the guys from the band were there, just the guy that usually covered the table while the band was off doing God knows what.

  “Hey, any new stuff?” I asked.

  “Sorry, April,” he said with a shake of his head.

  I gave him a nod and a wave goodbye as I headed for the door back to the parking lot. I got stopped by a security guard who warned me that if I left the building, I couldn’t come back inside.

  “I’m good. My band is done for the night,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  And no matter where you go

  No matter how far

  I know you’ll always be around

  Wishing on the brighter star

  “Nine Alarm Wake Up Call,” Peristerophobia

  I wasn’t late to work the next day. Not technically. According the official rules of Cranberry’s management, you’re only late if you clock in three minutes after your shift begins. The moment I clicked on clock in the monitor read: O’Connell, April - 13:01. I knew it. I was fine.

  With a yawn, I grabbed the elastic around my wrist and tossed my red hair up into a messy bun before I tied the strings of my burgundy apron behind my back.

  “Keep this up and I’m going to have to have another conversation with Karen about your tardiness and disciplinary actions,” my coworker Phoebe said. Her nose was a little higher in the air than usual.

  I let out a snort of laughter.

  “Sure, go ahead. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear about last week, when you went to lunch at noon, and came back at three. At least I have a better excuse than you did. My car wouldn’t start. I had to get someone to give me a jump.”

  Phoebe let out a scoff and walked out of the kitchen and towards the front of the restaurant. She was on the register today, which meant I was going to work the tables. I enjoyed waitressing more than the register, and Phoebe had been told by Karen many times that she wasn’t her strongest as a waitress (her nice way of saying that Phoebe has bad people skills). Thankfully, Phoebe had opened that morning and Calvin was coming in to replace her.

  The differences between Calvin and Phoebe as shift leaders couldn’t be more obvious. Phoebe had a stick up her ass, and Calvin was every bit as laid back as he looked. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he looked like the perfect surfer boy. To my surprise when we first met, he told me he had never even been to the ocean before, and he was a pre-law student who spent his nights studying or reading for pleasure. It took a while to think of him as a future lawyer when he was so chill.

  When I worked with Calvin, my job was less tedious. I got to dance around the tables of the cafe when we had lulls and he let me keep the music on my favorite radio station. He’d even turn it up a little louder when Peristerophobia came on.

  My shift went by quickly, a blur of coffee orders and yelling at the chef for fucking up a sandwich three different times. By the end of the night, I was exhausted, wiping down tables while Calvin counted down the till in the back office.

  I walked over to the spot I’d been trying to ignore for the entirety of my shift - the stage for open mike nights. Someone had left their keyboard after playing on Friday night. They said they would pick it up on Monday, but considering it was already Wednesday night, I doubted that and their commitment to their craft. When I’d played the piano, I couldn’t be away from my instrument for longer than a day.

  The keyboard that they had left was not a normal one. It wasn’t a plain piano that you could find in any old instrument store. It was a glossy shade of black, reminiscent of a baby grand. My fingers ached to touch the keys. I hadn’t touched a piano in five years, but I was drawn to this one. It was just so goddamn beautiful.

  So as Calvin sat in the back office, far enough away that he might not hear the music, I let my fingers brush against it. I wiped off the fingerprints I’d smudged on there, and the skewed image of my fingers reflected back at me from the shimmer of the top of the keyboard. With a quick glance to make sure that Calvin was nowhere to be seen, I played a set of scales from middle C onward, my fingers gliding across the keys swiftly.

  I jumped away from the piano as Calvin poked his head out from the back.

  “Are you playing that piano?” he asked.

  “No, no. I was just… It had dust on the keys. I wiped it off. Made a little noise. Sorry,” I lied.

  “Oh, okay.”

  He walked back into the office and I let out a slow breath. I let my fingers brush the keys once more before I walked away from it for good. My fingerprints were left behind.

  I was scheduled for a short night shift the next day, so I spent the majority of the early afternoon dancing around my living room with my dog,Pigeon, to cheesy pop music. Eventually, I decided to look online and see if there was anything interesting going on. For once, I saw something on social media that made me smile.

  “I’m playing an acoustic show in Konfusion at the Sunvale mall today at two! My friend’s band Heads Up is playing afterward, so make sure to get your asses down here and enjoy a free show. - Andrew”

  Considering it took a good thirty minutes to get to Sunvale, and it was already 1:45, I figured I’d better move my ass. I threw on the quickest possible outfit, jeans and a black tank top. I let Pigeon out for a quick walk, brought him back inside the apartment, then I ran to my car.

  I went the speed limit the entire way there, mostly because I couldn’t afford another ticket, and getting pulled over would waste even more of my time. It was already twenty minutes after two when I pulled into the parking lot. Shit.


  When I ran into the store, I almost ran straight into an employee who was welcoming people and most likely trying to prevent thieves from running out the door. I was out of breath. Every muscle in my body ached. God, I was out of shape.

  “There are a few local bands playing in here today,” she said.

  “I know, that’s why I’m here,” I said, rushing past her.

  I wove my way through the shelves of factory-worn “vintage” t-shirts and past the display of Like, I Like That merchandise to get to the clearing where some guys were sitting on chairs, playing for people that stood in a circle around them.

  The music wasn’t half-bad, but it wasn’t Peristerophobia. I wondered if I’d missed their show, and I was going to be seriously pissed off if I did. I looked around to see if the band was even around. If maybe they were running late. That’s when I realized who I was standing next to. Andrew Washington. Holy fucking shit.

  There was no need to fangirl. I’d spoken to him before, after all. Once, at the merchandise table before a show, way back when they were first starting out and I bought my first shirt with their logo of a cartoon pigeon wearing headphones. It matched their first self-recorded album cover. Granted, speaking to him then was just, “Hey, how much is this shirt? Here, take my money.” But still. Running into him wasn’t that strange of an occurrence.

  Okay, it was a little strange. And to be honest, I did fangirl a little.

  But only a little.

  “Have you played yet?” I asked. I hoped my voice wasn’t shaking. I felt like it might be shaking. I felt like my entire body was shaking a little. “I didn’t hear about the show until it was almost too late to make it.”

  He looked at me for a moment, gave me a not-too-subtle up and down glance, then shook his head. My stomach did a thousand little flips as our eyes connected. There was something in his deep brown eyes that made my nerves settle a little bit, but I still felt like there was a high chance of me making a fool out of myself.