Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 111253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Don’t pout. This is huge.”
“I know. I know.”
“I mean, touring with a band? I’d probably pay to do that. And they’re wanting to pay you? Hell yeah.”
I couldn’t believe my luck or the magic Aiken worked. I’d been ready to turn him down as soon as he called on day two of wallowing, and he’d ticked all my boxes to make it happen. I didn’t even have to show my face or which band. I could just take pics and hint to writing music on tour with a big band. It was kind of perfect.
“Yeah.” I rolled my head to face Rae, smiling. “Enough for a van. And a couple months’ rent.”
“Fuck yeah,” she cheered.
She boosted me up just in time to pull up in front of the tall building. It didn’t hint to whoever waited inside, instead just a building with offices to rent for meetings.
“Thanks, boo.”
“Anytime. Now, forget Parker stupid-fuck-face Callahan and crush this interview.”
With an ass-slap and a catcall, I made my way inside.
I tugged my jacket off as soon as the elevator doors slid closed. I’d needed the extra protection against the blundering New York wind, but now my nerves kicked my body temperature into overdrive, and I’d be lucky if I didn’t sweat through my oversized sweater.
I stared at my muddled reflection in the glossy doors and tried to position my jacket and purse in the crook of my arms to look like I wasn’t on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Settling on a hip-cocked position, I looked down at my outfit. The beige sweater led down to the black wide-leg pants and ended in my black power-pumps, as Rae called them.
Because no woman can walk around in a pair of red-soled stilettos and not feel like the most powerful bitch in the world.
And when I strolled out of the elevator on the top floor, I had to admit, she wasn’t wrong. They clicked on the tile, announcing my entrance to the receptionist. She looked me up and down, probably finding my attire lacking compared to her charcoal suit. Not that I cared. I’d always enjoyed my style and how different it was from everyone else.
“I’m here for Miss Quinn,” I stated.
With a nod, she picked up the phone, letting them know before going right back to work. Seeing the dismissal, I turned away and paced the open area, trying to discern who I’d be meeting with, and wondered if they knew who they were meeting with. Anyone who looked into SPRNV Music would find a basic website with references and a contact form that went to Aiken.
Despite requesting anonymity, it bothered me to not know the details, but I guessed the most important details I knew: the job itself and the pay. It was the pay that had me pushing aside my usual MO of working with a band over Facetime or just selling the lyrics outright. That and Aiken’s constant reminder to explore new tactics if I wanted to grow—tactics like touring with the band while I helped write music.
A big band, if the pay was any indication.
A touring band—like Parker’s.
No. Parker and the guys always wrote epic songs on their own—at least after they left me. Parker mentioned he hit a writing slump, but I couldn’t imagine him hiring a songwriter.
Definitely not them. Rubbing my sweaty hands on my pant legs, I studied the generic wall art without taking any of it in. Maybe I should have been bothered by all the secrecy, but in reality, it reassured me that the artist valued privacy as much as I did.
Freakin’ crap. I didn’t know. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe all these reasons I talked myself into doing something I wouldn’t normally do were really just excuses.
“You can head back. Third door on your left,” Miss Cool-calm-and-collected said, yanking me out of my doubts.
Well, no turning back now.
Lifting my chin high, I focused on my heels clipping their way down the hall. Be a boss. Let them know you’re coming. Be a boss.
My affirmation died a quick death like a tidal wave to a tealight flame when I rounded the corner to find four familiar faces staring back.
“Supernova!” Oren shouted. He hopped over the back of the couch, almost face-planting in his excitement but managing to catch himself and closed the gap between us. Like not a day had gone by, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground in the tightest hug I’d had in years. Unable to help it, I laughed, his excitement a tangible thing. I braced myself on his shoulders, taking in the breadth of them. His lanky limbs from high school filled out and flexed under my grip. But when he slid me to the floor, he smiled just like he had before—cornflower blue eyes and the most perfect dimples.