Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Her smile falls. She opens her mouth to say something. Argue, probably—Aurora’s always been feisty, and I doubt that’s changed—when the balcony doors open and Jeff Ryner stumbles out.
Jeff Ryner is what happens when every cliché in the fecking book meets a man with zero personality, deep pockets, and an impressive heritage. It’s like he was Frankensteined in the basements of some low-budget Hollywood studio. The washed-up, coked-up, slimy, record Suit.
He inherited Blue Hill, a small record label, from his father some years ago and has felt inclined to ruin it. His recent conquests include signing Ashton Richards, a solo artist who is about as talented as a half-empty bottle of lube. Richards looks like an unfortunate cross between a male model, a hobo, and a One Direction dropout. He can carry a note like I can carry a fecking pyramid on my back. Saddled with the vocal range of a battered whale, he relies on auto-tune and his baby blue eyes.
Which brings me to Jeff Ryner’s second conquest—yours truly. I’m supposed to write songs for Richards’ next album, for the modest sum of one million euros. I say modest, because there’s no price for my dignity. Yet, here I am, stripping myself of poise for the greater good. Another thing she is responsible for.
Thanks for that, Aurora.
“Jenkins! I see you’ve met the man of the hour.” Ryner slow-claps as he zigzags his way to us, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He looks like Humpty Dumpty in a Technicolor suit, his sweaty upper lip glistening like garbage juice. “This is Malachy Doherty. Mal, this is Rory, our junior photographer. Mal, Rory shot the cover for Fiona in Wonderland’s new album.” He waves in her direction.
That cover was brilliant. The pop princess wore a gas mask and a full-blown wedding dress, standing in an open field.
I wonder briefly if it was Aurora’s concept before deciding I don’t care. So, the traitorous lass turned out to be decent at what she does. Call the fecking press.
“Rory, Mal is one of the biggest poets of our time. He’s sold some of the best songs on the billboard, including ‘Finding you, Losing Me’, ‘On Drury Street’, ‘Underneath the Stars’, and ‘Princess from New Jersey’.”
If she connects the painfully obvious dots together, she doesn’t let it show, and for that, I’m grateful. Dumb or heartless? My bet is on the latter, based on what I know about her.
“Pleasure,” she clips sarcastically, her eyes boring into my skull, trying to make a dent.
She adapts well to the shifting atmosphere. I can tell no part of her is glad to see me again. That’s all right. I don’t want her to be a willing participant in the game. I just want her to partake in it. It will make everything so much messier, and messy is fun.
“I called you here because I have a good opportunity for you, Rory. Jake, our senior photographer, is with Cold Blaze on their last leg. Once he’s done, he’s going to stick around in New York for a while—his girlfriend’s having a baby. So we need a photographer for this next project.”
“I’m your person.” Aurora turns to him, nodding.
I pinch my lips, refusing to let my satisfied smirk loose. Ryner saunters over to stand between us, then turns around and leans on the edge of the balcony, looking back and forth at us.
“It’s a big one, Jenkins.”
She nods, her attention on him now.
She is still deadly beautiful. That’s the thing that bothers me most. But it shouldn’t. That just means it won’t be a terrible inconvenience to shag her, which I fully plan on, before discarding her back to her motherland, this time with no affection and zero promises.
“Deets, Ryner. Give them to me.” Aurora starts playing with the hoop in her nose.
You silly, predictable girl.
“Two months in a village just outside Dublin. Tokyo, is it?” He throws me a puzzled look.
“Tolka.” I shove my balled fists into my pockets.
“I was close.” He laughs.
Sure. You only got the city, country, and continent wrong, arsehole.
“Doherty will be writing the songs, and Richards will be recording them in his home studio—the acoustic version, anyway. Kinda like an artistic workshop, old-school style. Then Richards will come back to New York in March and record it from scratch.”
What Ryner means is the singer will come back and have professionals distort his voice to sound like something that doesn’t break glass, concrete, and people’s spirits. I watch Aurora’s face transform from annoyed to terrified in a span of seconds. Her lips are still pursed.
“That means two months in Ireland, Jenkins, all costs taken care of. You’re welcome.” He winks.
“Wait.” Aurora holds up a hand. “Why do I need to stay in Ireland? I can just take pictures for a week or so and then get out of their hair.”