Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“…What are we doing?” Alyssa asks as she follows behind me down the city streets. I turn to look at her, and she’s brushing her brown hair behind her ear, which is how I notice that she’s sporting a temporary henna tattoo, its design seeming extremely familiar to me. In the same instant, I realize that it’s a recreation of one of Rhys’s tattoos, the scrambled eggs he has drawn on his arm matching hers down to the dark lines around the yolk.
“We’re working on melodies like Gregory told us to do,” I answer, my tone lined with suspicion. “Did Rhys approve of that? On your arm?”
“Rhys is the one who drew it.” Alyssa lightly chuckles. “I told him that I’m too much of a baby to get a real one, so he said this is basically the next best thing.”
“So, you and Rhys…” My words trail off as I ask the question. “You’re back together?”
“Or I just liked the tattoo.” Alyssa smiles before changing the subject. “Anyway, how are we supposed to be working on melodies when we’re not even in the studio?”
“It’s an old trick of mine,” I answer. “Rhys sometimes makes fun of me for it, and Van usually calls it pretentious. Which is rich criticism, coming from Van Wilson, a man who’d threaten to walk if there were ever a little typo on one of his lyric sheets.”
Alyssa chuckles again, before she asks, “So? What’s the old trick?”
“Listening to the city,” I reply. “It’s crazy how you can find melodies in the strangest places. I once got inspiration from the way it sounded when a guy couldn’t get his engine to start, around the same time as someone passing by me on roller skates—”
“‘Dear Heart, Dear Heart,’” Alyssa interrupts me with a grin. “Track number seven on the album. Right? Van and I had a hard time coming up with lyrics to match the sound, but I knew from the first moment I heard it that it was something special.”
“Yep. That’s the one.” I smile back at her. “I don’t know why Gregory thinks you need any more work on your musical ear. Hell, even Rhys probably couldn’t pick up on something like that.”
“He just wants me to be the best that I can be,” she replies. “Which is what I want too, so I’d say it’s working out pretty great.”
“…What made you want to get into music, anyway?” I ask.
Damn it.
Why did I ask her that? Why am I trying to pry into the personal life of a woman I plan on staying the fuck away from?
“It’s just how I’ve always expressed myself.” She shrugs. “Writing and singing. I was always the worst when it came to class presentations, things like that. And I was never really good at being a social butterfly, either. Honestly, I probably would’ve missed every high school party if Marina hadn’t been able to get me on the guest list.”
“That’s kind of my story, too.” I copy her slight shrug. “Although mine was more about using music to connect with people when I didn’t know how else to do it. And once Rhys and Van said they wanted to work together…well, there was just no going back. Besides, it was nice to be a part of something that felt bigger than just me.”
“The sum of all parts,” Alyssa muses. “So, does that mean you’re not harboring any dreams of going solo someday?”
“Oh, no. As soon as you get us to the big-time, I plan on breaking away from the pack, Phil Collins-style,” I joke. “Or maybe I’ll be the next George Cameron and make everyone forget everyone else’s name in the band when I finally put out my own stuff.”
“Asshole!” Alyssa laughs. “I always knew you’d be the turncoat. It’s always the quiet ones.”
“Hey, you know what they say, don’t hate the player.” I chuckle now, too, before I hear what sounds like a thousand pots and pans being dropped onto the street, all at once. I then turn to see what’s caused the clanging and banging, soon spotting a food truck a few feet away. A woman is behind its screen, throwing various kitchen utensils through the serving window.
“Fuck you! You cheating motherfucker!” the woman screams, before throwing yet another pot at a man who’s standing on the other side of the food truck. He’s ducking her every attempt to hit him with something, his frame stuck in an apologetic stance.
“I’m sorry, Clarita!” he shouts back at her. “But you don’t know the whole story! She came onto me first!”
“And if you don’t get the fuck out of here, she’ll be the last woman to ever come onto you, too!”
“Clarita—”
“I’m sick of your shit, Raymond!” The woman throws a pan of water toward the man, his shirt and pants soon completely soaked through. “I told you that the last time you fucked around on me, it was either going to be your dick or it was going to be me! And it looks like you already made your choice, you piece of shit!”