The Girl in the Garden: Awash with Summer Roses, #1

By Kestra Pingree

Along the trails of endless pines, I search for truth and follow signs.

 

How's your summer going? Mine is ruined.

 

Hi. My name is Ri. I'm the kind of delinquent teenage girl you hear horror stories about.

 

My parents thought they could reform my "bad" attitude and get me away from my "troublemaking" friends in the city by shipping me off to my grandparents' house in the countryside for the summer. I'm supposed to stay clear of the "forbidden" forest and piss away my days in my grandparents' stupid rose garden alongside a boy named Avery.

 

Avery is seventeen, but he chooses to work for my grandparents because he likes roses. 

 

Well, the joke's on them. I'm getting the hell out of here, and I won't let anyone stop me—especially not some weirdo boy. 

 

—

 

Awash with Summer Roses is a young adult contemporary coming-of-age story and romance with a splash of magic. 

 

All books have been published; this series is complete. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kestra Pingree
• Release date: May 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201435462

Book preview

The Beginning of Summer

IT’S THE FIRST NIGHT of summer. I’ve got my guitar placed snugly into its travel case and I’m ready to go. Technically, I don’t even need my guitar, but it feels better than the one Malcolm has up for grabs. I won’t bring an amp or anything, though. Malcolm has better equipment anyway.

I leaf through the wad of cash in my hand. How much did I take out of my dad’s wallet this time? I don’t know because I didn’t count, but I’m sure it’s enough to get us into the Pit.

I pocket the cash and sling my guitar over my back as I hear the familiar growl of Duane’s old junker—a car that’s probably 40 years old or something. I don’t know. I just know the thing is ancient, but it gets us around.

Taking one last look in the mirror, making sure my platinum-blond and purple-streaked hair is in place, and that my makeup is perfect, I run out of my room and down the stairs. The house is dark, but I’ve run this route a million times in my life and don’t need the light to guide me. I reach the front door with ease, twist the doorknob and feel the warm air of a summer’s night brush past me. Then I promptly lock and close the door behind me. Sneaking out is easy when your parents are never home.

I slow my walk as soon as I can see Duane’s car and shining headlights. I let the heels of my black boots guide my legs into that elegant stride that drives the guys crazy, letting my hips swing back and forth, exaggerated by the tight leather pants I’m wearing… I can do it perfectly, even with my guitar on my back. Duane has told me himself that he loves this walk, and I’ve seen plenty of guys who can’t keep their eyes off me when I do this. I like the attention.

Duane honks at me, and I grin in reply. I stop screwing around and open the back door to place my guitar in the back seat next to his. Then I get into the front passenger seat. Duane’s leaning toward me, expectant. His black hair is long and constantly in his eyes. I want to brush his bangs back, but I don’t.

What? I ask coyly.

C’mon, Ri, Duane says as he leans closer and grabs my arm, pulling me to him.

I turn my head so his lips meet my cheek. Is that any way to ask me for a kiss?

Why do you have to do this all the time? It’s just a kiss, something we’ve done a billion times. It’s not even a big deal. What boundaries do we even have anymore?

Well, as much as I love Duane, he’s not big on building the moment. He just wants to get in and get out.

Fine, I say, slightly annoyed as I lean in for that kiss. I’m expecting something nice, but Duane kisses me hard and it kind of hurts. His breath stinks too. I push him away. Have you been drinking?

No. He’s obviously lying.

Get out, I order. I’m driving.

It’s not a big deal. I’m not drunk. We do this all the time anyway.

Just let me drive!

I get out of the car and slam the door. After I open the driver door, I tap my foot at him and fold my arms. He slowly gets out and slinks over to the passenger seat.

I’ve always preferred being the one to drive, but since my parents have been too stingy to give me a car of my own, I have to take every chance I get to drive Duane’s.

Once I’m behind the wheel, I feel much better and in control. I’ve got this itch to go fast. It’s the same itch I always get right before a performance. Duane chooses to numb those feelings with alcohol, and I choose to revel in them while they last.

I back out of the driveway and speed down the street, as fast as I can go without spinning out whenever I take a turn. Duane holds fast to his seat, probably trying not to hurl. I make the most of my speed while I can. Once I hit the main road, I have to slow down because of traffic. Not many people sleep in Palaer, especially deeper inside the city. My house is located almost exactly on the city border, so my neighborhood is the exception to that rule—and the only nice neighborhood in the city, where people with money live. That’s what Malcolm tells me, and I’m inclined to believe him. I’ve seen enough of the city to see the drastic differences between the city’s heart and outskirts.

Looks like we should have left earlier, Duane comments after he’s finally got his motion sickness under control.

We’ll get there in time, I say. Trust me.

scene change

The parking lot for the Pit looks more like a junkyard. Every time we come here all I see are junkers and more junkers. But I also see a lot of broken windows. Anyone who brings a nice car to this place would find it dismantled and every piece stolen. Probably.

Duane is still struggling with his seatbelt after I’ve already gotten out of the car. I hope he doesn’t act like that on stage. He’ll screw up the whole band. I open the back door of the car to retrieve my guitar and hand Duane’s to him after he finally gets out of the car.

Give me my keys, he says.

Here. I drop the keys in his hand and thrust his guitar into his chest when he’s taking too long to put the keys in his pocket.

Let me lock the doors first!

Just manually push the locks down! Your car doesn’t have automatic locks. You don’t need the keys.

Duane mutters something under his breath and I walk up to the chain-link that circles the perimeter of the Pit. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. Past the chain-link is a black tarp, or something, concealing the building inside (and it probably acts as a barrier to stop a draft from coming in through all the broken pieces of brick walls). The Pit is easy to overlook because it only has a base floor and every building surrounding it is stories high. But, on the inside, the Pit is the best place ever. It’s party central, full of bizarre decorations, expensive vases and other weird modern arts, strobing lights, avant-garde costumes… And you can’t forget the people. The Pit is full of the most exciting people you’ll ever meet, people with actual stories, amazing feats, adventures that make my heart race and long to be one of them.

I look down the chain-link to my right and see an open gate with a really huge guy guarding it. Even being feet away from him, I can tell he’s not someone I’d want to mess with—or that anyone in their right mind would choose to mess with.

All right, let’s go, Duane tells me as he walks down toward the gate. I think he sees how huge the bouncer is, because he immediately steadies his walk, straightens his back to show his whole six feet of height. It’s a pretty sad demonstration though. Duane is still shorter than the guard and he doesn’t have half the muscle mass.

I follow behind my boyfriend. The bouncer has been watching us since we arrived. Now that we’re at the gate, he grins, showing gaps in his mouth where teeth used to be. You two must be Ri and Duane. The rest of your band’s already inside.

Great! I say, giving him my best smile.

The big guy bows down in one fluid motion that seems too elegant for his boxy frame. Then he gestures us inside with a hand. We were afraid you wouldn’t make it in time, but you never let us down, do you? Welcome, and enjoy your time in the Pit.

Thanks, Duane and I say in unison as we walk past him.

I notice Duane let out a huge breath like he’d been holding it too long. I bump into him playfully.

Calm down, babe. We’ve come here a bunch of times already. I dunno why it still makes you nervous, I say.

Duane shakes his head. Just not into making big guys angry. That’s all.

As we near a piece of the black tarp, I can feel the vibrations of bass frequencies hum from the building, pulsating a constant rhythm. Duane moves loose fabric aside and we’re bathed in flashing neon lights. There are girls wearing outfits that look like nothing more than fancy lingerie, serving drinks. Duane grabs one as soon as a girl walks by. She gives him a big smile when he brushes his fingers across her arm while retrieving his glass.

I smack him, making him drop his glass. The server gives me a disgusted look, and then walks off, probably to get someone to clean up the mess.

Your girlfriend’s right beside you, idiot, I inform.

Damn it, Ri! You made me drop it! Duane complains.

You don’t need any more! We’re performing in just a few minutes. Now get your ass up on stage and let’s do this thing.

I push him toward the stage. It pisses me off when he notices other girls. He always tells me I’m the only girl for him, but his wandering eyes tell me different.

We shove past wriggling bodies, trying to keep our guitars from getting smashed or snatched off our backs. I’m relieved when we can finally see the stage. I want out of this sweaty pool of people.

Ri, Duane, glad you could make it. In front of us, at the base of the stage, stands Malcolm. His bald head and distinctive tattoos make him easy to pick out in a crowd. He’s also wearing a custom-made white suit with gold pinstripes and a mess of gold jewelry. Did you bring my money?

I nod and fish inside the back pocket of my leather pants. I produce the cash I stole from my dad’s wallet. The money’s the only reason my band, Deep Down, is allowed to perform here at all. But I don’t mind paying Malcolm. He gives us the opportunity to perform in front of a large audience we wouldn’t be able to perform in front of otherwise. And everyone here loves us. I’m sure my dad has noticed money missing by now, but he hasn’t said anything to me about it, so I’ve decided I’ll worry about that when the time comes. For now, I’m going to enjoy myself.

Thanks, kid. You always were my favorite, Malcolm says as he takes the cash and places it safely inside the inner breast pocket of his suit. Go show these people a good time.

I nod at him. Then Duane and I rush past and behind the stage, concealed by big black curtains.

Nice of you guys to finally decide to show up, Janel greets us with her usual sarcasm. She’s messing with her short bleached-blond hair, spiking it up and stopping only when she’s satisfied. The light blond looks really unnatural against her dark brown skin, but, like the rest of us, she does it to stick out. And even though she’s the shortest of us, she’s probably the toughest looking—which is great, since she’s our singer.

We ran into traffic, I say simply.

Sure. Janel nods. But I think we all know you and Duane were fu—

Have you warmed up yet? Duane interrupts.

I was about to. I couldn’t do anything with my hair.

I let Janel and Duane fight it out as I turn my attention to our other band members. Scottie leans over his bass, jamming in his own little world while his mid-back-length oily hair falls over his face, blocking out the rest of the world.

Hey, Scottie, I say.

He says nothing back. I grin. He’s in the zone. That means he’ll play well tonight. Then I turn my eyes to Horace. He’s twitching, tapping lightly on one of the smaller drums of his drum set. I know he wants to pound the thing with all of his might, but he’s keeping it down for our sake and so his playing doesn’t clash with the pulsating music sounding through the speaker system outside.

I would say Horace is the most normal looking out of the five of us, but that’s not really true. He doesn’t care about appearances like we do. He keeps his natural brown hair color and keeps it short, but he’s got a bit of a violent tic. Piss him off and there’s no telling what he’ll do. He’s got the scars to prove it. But I love his enthusiasm.

You ready to show them what we got? I ask him.

He gives me that fiery look of his. I dunno how much longer I can wait.

You don’t have to wait any longer. We’re starting right now. I cue one of Malcolm’s guys hanging in the back with us. Get in your places, everyone! Let’s get started.

In a blur of motion, we’ve all set up our instruments, taken our places on stage, and stand ready. The curtains will move any minute, and I can feel electricity undulating down to my fingers, itching to play my guitar. I’m stuck on rhythm since Duane is arguably better at playing than I am, but I’m working my way up. One day I’ll play solos the world won’t believe. I’ll play solos that take this electricity and blast that energy out through the amp to shower down on all the people watching me.

The curtains move. I start our first song, setting the pace. Duane joins in, and it’s just two guitars rocking and singing together until Scottie and Horace join in. Then, last but not least, Janel lets out her power vocals, me on harmonies, belting and screaming into the microphone. Lights are flashing around us and the crowd is already cheering. Everyone is jumping up and down in time with the music.

This is it. This is what makes me feel alive.

We’re building up to the climax of our first song. The Pit is humming with our music, drowning out everything else—except the sound of sirens. They’re growing louder too. At first, I try to ignore them. Sirens go off all the time in Palaer, but why do they keep getting louder?

My fingers slip and I screw up a chord. The sirens grow louder. I try to ignore them and pick myself up from my mistake, but I can’t get into it. All I can hear are those sirens. I think they’re coming from… just outside.

BOOM.

A blast of light shoots through the Pit’s entrance. I plaster my hands to my face. My eyes are burning and I’m seeing spots, even with my eyelids closed. There’s a horrible ringing in my ears, and I must have fallen to the floor because I’m practically kissing dirty concrete. I move my hands to my ears, desperate to stop the ringing.

Someone is yanking me to my feet. They pull at my arms and I stumble backward. It’s Duane. His mouth is moving. I think he’s saying something, but all I can hear is that damn ringing. He must realize I can’t hear him, because he starts pointing, out toward the audience. I attempt to clear my head by shaking it. Then I look to where he points.

Cops are everywhere, and people are running with their mouths wide open. That’s when I start to hear it: the screaming.

Ri! I’m sure Duane’s shouting, but it sounds like a desperate whisper amid the ringing of my ears. We have to get out of here!

I nod and force my legs to stop shaking. Janel and Horace have already got Scottie under the arms and are dragging him out while Duane and I follow after. I don’t know why the Pit is being flooded with cops, and it doesn’t really matter. The fact is, the Pit is an adult club, and we teenagers aren’t supposed to be in here. We have to disappear.

We have an advantage since we should be able to slip out the back of the stage. Or at least, that’s what I think until I see Malcolm standing in front of us, grinding his teeth together. He looks like he’s seeing red… and he’s looking right at me.

Stupid kids! You brought the cops right to us! My ears are still ringing, but I can hear what Malcolm is saying loud and clear. He storms up to us and pulls me right out of Duane’s grasp by the fabric of my tank top. "It’s because of your damn parents, Moriah, he practically spits my full name, making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. You told me they didn’t know about what you were doing."

They don’t! I insist.

Then what are the cops doing at my doors?!

I struggle to look behind me, silently begging my friends to help. They all look petrified besides Horace—who looks like he’s getting ready to punch Malcolm in the face.

Put your hands up and don’t move. I hear a man’s voice from behind me, but all I see is Malcolm’s angry face in front of me—though he’s looking past me now. His tattoos look all distorted since his skin is bunched up into the wrinkliest scowl I’ve ever seen.

Put the girl down, the man continues. I know it has to be a police officer. I can see the light of his flashlight shining on Malcolm’s face. Since Malcolm hasn’t moved, I assume the cop has a gun.

Malcolm slowly turns his gaze back to me. Then he lets go of his hold on my tank top,