Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Connor pulled out his cell and searched for the soundtrack. When he scrolled through the songs, he started nodding. “Okay. All right. There are some lit tunes on there. Nice choice.”
Smiling at his praise like the fool I was, I asked him the same question he asked me.
Without hesitation, he spoke. “Dr. Dre. 2001.”
I knew he’d be incensed at my response and that was why I began to laugh before I said a single word. “I don’t know who that is.”
Connor made a sound of annoyance. “You need to educate yourself, baby.” He searched on his phone and played a song he liked. It played softly. I was surprised to hear it was rap.
“You like rap?”
He revealed openly, “I love rap. Love it. Now hush. Listen.”
The song was called “Forgot about Dre.” The beat was pleasant. I didn’t listen to rap. I didn’t know what would classify as a good song so I just did as I was told and I listened. When I actually heard the lyrics, my expression went through a series of changes. First, curiosity, then moving onto surprise and, finally, ending in shock. The song hadn’t even finished when I suddenly gasped, “Connor, this is obscene!”
“I know.” He was highly amused at my astonishment. “It’s great, isn’t it?” My mouth gaped and he chuckled. “Ah, Emmy. You’re a pip.”
I never knew what Connor would say or do. Unpredictable as the weather in Minneapolis, he took my hand and put it to his mouth, gently nibbling on the pad of my thumb.
It tickled and without meaning to, I laughed softly.
Connor’s eyes smiled as he continued to chew on my skin. He seemed to like to make me laugh and my gut feeling told me I’d never know why. That made me sad.
In a deeply relaxed state, I closed my eyes and allowed Connor to continue whatever the heck he was doing. With a soft sigh, I smiled to myself and everything stilled. I permitted sleep to take me, knowing I was in good—but not great—hands.
When a rare free morning was upon us, I organized the four glasses of juice and set them on the counter, ordered breakfast then sat on the sofa at the open laptop. There were emails I needed to respond to. Majority of them were from Micah about publicity and promo events and radio interviews. However, the one from Rita Lopez, the label’s lawyer, stood out.
“Hey, Noah?”
From his room, he called out, “Yeah?”
How did I say this? Delicately, I guess. “If you had a secret love child, you’d want to know, right?”
I heard him come up behind me. He rested his hands on the back of the sofa then leaned down to read the email. He didn’t seem worried. In fact, he was smiling. “Another one? Shit. I gotta leave my dick in my pants.”
I pulled back to look at him, confused. “You’re not worried?”
His response was to shuffle around then fall back onto the sofa so his legs hung over the back of it. “If she’s expecting, it’s not mine.” He added a scoff. “I doubt she’s even pregnant.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“I can’t,” he said, then explained, “Emmy, this crap comes up at least once month. And, yes, we do screw around, but we aren’t stupid. We use protection or we don’t fuck.”
“Protection doesn’t always work, Noe.”
“I know and don’t take this the wrong way but women lie.”
It wasn’t a jab at me so I didn’t take it personally. “Groupies lie.” Typing, I uttered a blasé “Okay, well, I’m going to ignore you now, sweetie.”
“No problem.” Noah closed his eyes beside me and I smiled at him before opening the music player. I hit shuffle and “Take a Chance On Me” by ABBA started to play. I loved ABBA and I loved this song. I responded to Rita while singing quietly and from beside me, I heard Noah singing too.
My heart melted.
Here was this rock star, a rock star who women feigned pregnancy just for a chance to see him in court, and he was lying next to me, singing one of my favorite songs.
I sang a little louder.
Noah matched my volume then tapped his hands on his chest, drumming out the beat.
Hell walked into the kitchen, taking a glass of juice then searched the fridge. When I peered up at him, I noticed his lips moving along to the words.
The chorus began and, from behind us, Lee joined in on our little sing-along.
The song had almost finished and Connor walked out of his room, looking adorably sleep mussed. When he heard the four of us singing, his brow furrowed. “The hell?”
He looked so confused that I couldn’t help but laugh.
It must’ve registered as to what song we were singing because Connor glared at us. “You call yourselves rock stars?” He shuffled over to the bathroom and before he shut the door, we all heard him mutter a goaded, “The fuck outta here.”