Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
“As long as it’s not a prissy fuckin’ boy band, I’m good,” Marley says.
“The label is excited to have Lifeless Lies opening up for Gutless Void.”
The room spins, and I’m not sure if I want to barf or lie down. Lifeless Lies is an indie punk rock band. Their signature sound mirrors The Dead Kennedy’s and is infused with feminine rage and haunting melody. Their lyrics are a cry against the establishment and the injustice plaguing the world. Mike’s right; booking this band is a good move for the label and Gutless Void. Lifeless Lies will give the band the street cred they lost after their former bassist left to marry a pop princess.
“Nice,” Cain says. “Shiraz is fuckin’ phenomenal. Twenty-six years old and playing like John Bonham from Led Zeppelin. The girl’s fire. She was sneaking in to play in clubs from the age of fifteen. Everyone knew about it, but her talent was beyond anything anyone had heard, so they ignored her being underage.”
Cain finishes his sentence with an oof and grips his side. I giggle as I see Billie glaring at him. “You’re sleeping on the sofa tonight.”
Lars drapes his arm around their girl and smirks. “Sweet. More for me.”
“Come on, Tinkerbell,” Cain groans as he rubs his side. “It’s an appreciation of her talent, that’s all.” He grabs Billie by the waist and hauls her to his chest before sprinkling kisses on the side of her neck.
“You okay with this?” Iggy whispers, pulling me away from Cain, Billie, and Lars.
Why would Iggy ask me that? Usually, he teases me for being a corporate lap dog. “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
Iggy shakes his head and points to my neck. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve got a picture or that band’s lead singer inside the locket you wear around your neck.”
The window was ajar, but I didn’t go in. Not right away. I wasn’t sure if I was in the mood to fuck Larken. He said I didn’t have to, but nobody did anything for free. We both knew what was expected of me. He let me crash at his house to escape my broken home, and I opened my legs until he came.
I’d been sneaking into Larken’s window for two years. I’d had to tap and wake him the first few times, but now he left it open for me. It was a crap shoot of when I’d show up. It depended on how much my dad drank.
I pulled out the pack of smokes from my pocket. The package was bent at the edges, but the cigarettes inside remained intact. My shaking fingers fumbled with the filters.
Tonight had been worse than usual, his anger volcanic. His red-rimmed eyes had warned me that he was finally going to kill me. Or worse. My father hadn’t always been like that. He’d cared about me, fed me, hugged me, and put Band-Aids on my superficial cuts simply because I demanded it. Then my mother left, and suddenly, my sweet Daddy, who’d loved me, morphed into a drunk and used me as a punching bag.
My hand moved to my face, and I traced the tender flesh. It would look ugly the next day. The puffy white skin on my cheek would bloom into pink and purple before dulling to a brownish yellow. Another present from my father to prove his undying love.
She’d been here the last time I came to Larken’s, all beaten up—Piper, his twin sister.
I liked how Piper had touched me. Her touch hadn’t seemed predatory. No lingering questions of what I would do in exchange for her kindness. The alcohol she’d wiped along my lip had stung like I was back there taking the punch from a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man. Every time I’d winced, she’d used the pad of her thumb to soothe the wound and whispered, “It’s okay to cry.”
Crying was an emotional reaction I didn’t have the luxury of partaking in. Tears and misery were for women who had the privileges I’d never had. Perhaps I’d cried as a child when my mother still cared about me, but not since she’d left.
Girls like me weren’t allowed to weep because no one cared about our tears. Society didn’t paint us as dainty flowers with pretty petals requiring protection. No one would stand up for me and demand justice or hold my hand when I broke a nail. I could bleed out in the middle of the street, and not one person would look at me in concern. Girls like me were used and discarded. We weren’t pampered and fawned over. Girls like me were unseen.
The cigarette glowed red under the starry sky as I pulled deeply, letting the heavy smoke hit my lungs. I didn’t particularly enjoy smoking, but when that first hit of nicotine invaded my bloodstream, it gifted me with a sense of peace. Almost like things would be okay. It was idiotic to take comfort from a substance that could give me cancer, but I figured my father would kill me long before lung cancer ever could.