Strings Attached (Braebeach Rockstar #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ASH

She had no idea of the impact she had on my heart then, just as she has no idea how fast it beats for her now.

As I strum the last four chords on my acoustic guitar to a Beatles anthem, Calla Bryson catches my eye as she descends the steps of the double-decker bus.

I recognise the girl who stole my heart in secondary school instantly.

I'm still mesmerised now, after all this time.

There was a familiar excitement fuelling my gut when I first realised it was her, just like it was yesterday.

The rucksack she carries is much too big for her tiny frame, and when she drops her bags to the path, the weight almost pulls her down with it.

Her flowing black hair rides the summer breeze while she tries, and kind of fails, to gain her balance and I catch how her unmistakable fresh-faced glow explodes with a blush of red.

It’s been five years since the last time I saw Calla, but she hasn't changed a bit.

It's baking hot and busy on the beach today, but she spots an empty bench by the pier.

I note how quickly she drags her belongings over to grab it before anyone else does.

Sitting back on her hands with her eyes closed and nose in the air, she breathes in the fresh sea air.

She sways rhythmically, one way then the other as if floating against every chord change I make.

Her mouth—oh my God, that mouth—is something else.

What I wouldn't do to catch the words forming across her lips. The same words I sing for my audience. Calla always loved music; it’s one of the things I remember most about her.

Maybe the crowd gathered around me, singing at the top of their voices, is what she hears more than my voice alone. Let's face it; nobody could get the lyrics to Hey Jude wrong. It's practically a national anthem.

I finish on a crescendo which earns me a round of applause from my audience and a few pound coins into grandad's old cap.

Like a magnet, her beaming smile signals for me to seek her out from across the road, and my blue eyes catch her own.

If I believed in all that shit, I'd say we lit a spark, a split second of connection, but then this isn't the first time I've had these fireworks inside.

I was crazy about her once, and with one strum of my plectrum against the strings of my guitar, I'm back to square one.

The sixteen-year-old boy from Braebeach Secondary School is making a reappearance all this time later.

A call from the audience grabs my attention. “Give us some Elton John.”

I check the time on my phone to see if I can fit in one more song. Shit, I have to get out of here, but the middle-aged woman has this pleading gaze. “Just for you,” I reply, giving her a wink while playing the first few chords to Your Song.

She places her hand to her chest. “This is one of my favourites.”

I bow my head in thanks while I sing the song as if it's written for her, but every now and then, I chance a look at Calla, who hasn't moved from her spot.

I sing my heart out, nodding to passers-by who drop a coin or two in my cap and aim the occasional smile at the woman who requested this song. I can turn the charm on when I need to.

After collecting up a few scattered coins, which didn't quite hit their target, and thanking the people who stayed for the encore, I chance one last glance towards the bench, just to see if she's still there.

She is. Seeing her beautiful face has been an awesome distraction today, not that I don't love to busk.

Music is my first love, but it could easily have been Calla—I think, given a chance, she might have felt the same way.

I pack away my guitar in the boot of my car, while simultaneously watching her collect up her luggage. The coastal wind blows black strands of hair across her eyes while her delicate fingers place it back behind her ear.

Once I've slammed the boot shut, I take one last glance before heading home. Her face is still innocent and pure, its contours more defined than before and her skin a little more sun-kissed than I remember, but she's still my Calla.

As soon as I turn my back, a pain-filled shriek flies through the air.

I turn to find Calla holding her head, crying out in pain.

“What the—.” I run straight into the road, between braking cars, holding up my hands to shrieking horns and abusive calls.

I almost trip over my own feet to get to her, but when I do, I come to an abrupt stop.

Calla sits on the curb, elbows resting on her knees, holding her head in her hands. A much older woman wraps her arms around her shoulders, asking questions.

I crouch down, “What happened?” I look to both of them for an answer, but it's Calla's panicked blue eyes which stare into mine. She squints a little, “Ashton?”

“Yeah, it's me, Calla.” My stomach flies, knowing she recognises me. “What happened to you?” I ask again.

“I'm not sure. One minute I was on the path, the next I'm flat on my bum. My head is stinging like a bitch! I'm in agony,” she panics.

“You were too busy looking over the road and walked straight into a lamp post, love. You smacked into it with a hell of a bang, then stumbled back on your arse,” the woman replies while glancing over to me.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” I ask. Quickly realising how that must have sounded, I add, “Not at your arse obviously, at your head.” She faintly smiles, biting her bottom lip in pain, so I take it as a yes.

With some apprehension, I lift her fingers gently from her forehead to discover an egg-shaped, purple and blue bump which swells by the second.

It looks pretty painful, so I try to catch Calla's eyes to check if her pupils are dilating.

They seem fine. “Do you feel dizzy or sick?”

Her tears are welling up while her hands continue to grasp around the side of her head. “Not sick, no. I'll be fine if you can help me up.”

The woman steps aside while Calla wraps her arm around my shoulder. I slip my hands easily around her back, holding her at the waist. She only just stands before her legs give way, but I'm there to catch her. “I've got you,” I reassure, scooping her up quickly into my arms.

“It might be better if you take her to the hospital love, in case she's got a concussion or something,” the woman says to me before directing her next question to Cal. “Is there someone we can call?”

Cal continues to hold her head with one hand, but winces when she says, “No, my grandparents are abroad; I can't think of anyone else.”

“No one at all?” The woman seems shocked.

“No, no one.”

Without hesitation, I offer my services. “My car is just over the road,” I signal with a tilt of my head towards my old, black VW Golf. “I can give you a lift.”

Her head tilts towards me, a weak smile on her lips, “If you could drop me home, I'd really appreciate it. I don't need the hospital.”

“Whatever you want.” At this point, I don't argue, I'll try to talk some sense into her while we drive.

Then I size up the situation, first looking at the older lady who came to help, then at Calla's rucksack and bags on the pavement.

I desperately look around with Calla still in my arms. I was hoping to catch the eye of a passer-by, but everyone who walks past has somewhere else to be or is blatantly ignoring us.

“Right,” I say more to myself while debating how to handle this.

I'm reluctant to put her down when she can't walk, but what to do about her bags?

I turn to the woman staring up at me like she's waiting for instructions.

“Can you do me a favour and wait here with her stuff while I get her in the car? It's just over the road, not far.”

“Love, you do what you have to.”

I glance down at Calla. Tears are now streaming down her cheeks while she bites the inside of her lip in obvious pain. “You okay?”

“My head is banging.”

Now I'm getting worried. “You know, I think it might be better if I take you to the hospital, just to get you checked over.” Luckily, our local hospital has an A&E department, so it isn’t far away.

Her head lifts slightly, and with a pained smile on her lips, she reluctantly agrees.

“Don't worry, it'll be okay,” I reassure her.

She smiles up at me then rests her head against my shoulder. “Thank you for this. I'm sorry to put you out.”

“It's all good, I've got you,” I whisper. Selfishly, I relish how good it is to have Calla in my arms but know it’s wrong of me to feel this under the circumstances.

The traffic stops this time, while we cross to my parked car. Now I have a real dilemma and not one I want to ask a passing stranger or Calla, but I don't have a choice.

“I need your help,” I say as she glances up, placing her peaked hand over her blue eyes, protecting them against the beating sun. I take in a breath. “Can you reach your hand in my pocket? I need my keys.”

She shifts slightly, then oh so slowly, her hand drifts against my white t-shirt.

Her fingertips trace my stomach, down to my belt then into my jean pocket where the material is thinner.

Having your mid-teens crush root around too close to the goods, was once a gift from the gods.

Unfortunately for me, now is not a good time.

Is it wrong my knob is on the stir? While she continues to root around my pocket, a passer-by asks if they can give us a hand.

I can't believe it. Now we get an offer of help?

“We're fine,” she answers, the warmth of her hand radiating against my groin when she stills, “but thank you for asking.” She smiles wearily to the guy before he walks on, not realising the party she's causing in my boxers.

All I can do is smile my thanks like a gormless idiot. Thank God she didn't accept his offer.