Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
I lift it and slide my fingers down the strings. A single chord reverberates through the office. It’s been a long damn time since I felt hungry to write. Usually, it’s like forcing out the same old trite words. But now, they surge out of me with the force of a tidal wave.
I scribble them down, my mind filled with images of Lola. I strum a few strings and the lyrics flow straight onto the page:
Your voice drips honey down my spine,
One taste of you and I’ve lost my mind.
I need your lips on this empty heart,
Burning me up till I’m torn apart.
I work on it until late in the night. Until I know it’s perfect.
Only perfection is worthy of this angel.
I finally put my guitar down after midnight. My fingertips are burning from my guitar strings. I thought the days of sore fingertips were gone. I thought they were tough and calloused. That I would never work them this hard again.
The burning feels good. It’s a nostalgic kind of pain.
I look at the crumpled paper in front of me—lyrics scribbled and crossed out, a mess of black ink.
I hum the song under my breath one more time.
It’s good.
I close my eyes and picture Lola standing in front of me, singing these words in her sweet melodic voice. My knees go weak just thinking about it.
Slide your hands across my skin,
Pull me under, let the sin begin.
A taste so sweet, a body so fine,
Gonna make you moan till you’re mine, all mine.
I can picture her shy blushing cheeks as she reads the raw, lust-filled lyrics for the first time. They’re so erotic. So real.
This is baby-making music. This is what I want to hear her singing. What I want her to say to me.
I need to hear these words coming out of her mouth—innocent meets filthy, angelic meets devilish. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.
I glance at the unopened bottle of Bourbon in the corner. Usually, I’d toast the end of a song with half a bottle. Instead, I walk over and chuck it all—the whiskey, the beer, the cigarettes—straight into the trash. Done. I don’t need that shit anymore. I have her.
I no longer need to ease the pain of existence. Not when existence with her in the world is so damn sweet.
In three days, at Graham Marshall’s big launch party on his ranch, I’ll finally see her again. My brain is already spinning fantasies of cornering her somewhere private, pressing her up against the wall. Maybe I’ll whisper these lyrics in her ear and watch her cheeks turn pink. The idea makes my blood run hot.
It makes my cock rock hard.
Instead of the bottle, I wrap my hands around my hard dick and start stroking. Thinking of her. Thinking of Thursday…
It can’t come fast enough.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lola
Ialways get so nervous at these celebrity parties. Imposter syndrome is running hot as I walk up the long driveway to the giant doors of this insane mansion.
Graham Marshall is rock and roll royalty. He was the lead singer of Cyanide Twist for two decades and is now going solo after the unfortunate passing of the other core member of the band, guitarist and singer, Niles Walker. It’s been five years since Graham released an album and apparently, it’s amazing from what I’ve heard. This giant star-filled party is here to celebrate its launch.
Everyone loves Graham. He’s been so good to so many people. He’s always so inspiring and loves to get all these creative and talented people together.
My first contact with him was when a video of me singing an acoustic version of Of You, For You at the Huntington Fair went mini-viral. He sent me a nice handwritten letter urging me to continue with my music career and to never give up since I had ‘real talent.’ I nearly died. That letter is still framed on my bedroom wall.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” my guitarist Sasha says as she looks around all wide-eyed with a big smile on her face.
“Holy shit,” my bass guitarist Clyde says, looking at the various Ferraris and Lamborghinis parked on the huge cobblestone roundabout in front of the mansion. “That’s Drippy Don.”
I look over and see the hip hop star sitting on the hood of a yellow Bugatti while talking on the phone. This is surreal.
Rachel hooks her arm around mine and grins as we walk. “Think Cash is going to be here?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug innocently, but my nerves are bouncing around like buzzing electrons. I’ve been thinking about him nonstop all week.
“I saw the way he was looking at you,” she says with a grin. “He’s going to be here.”
God, I hope so.
My heart is pounding as I look down at my outfit. I had no idea what to wear and after trying on every outfit in my closet at least once, I settled on a sparkly black mini skirt, a designer gray tank top that shows just a hint of cleavage, and some black cowboy boots. I’m also wearing my favorite gold necklace that my parents gave me when I graduated high school. It’s simple and probably the least expensive piece of jewelry on this whole entire property, but I adore it.