Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Fuck, even now, ten minutes after takeoff, the image of Cassie in the hallway, eyes glued to my cock is sending blood rushing south.
She looks way too good on my couch. Especially in her giant headphones.
A woman who truly loves music. Who feels it in her bones. Is there anything sexier than that?
"Right. Sorry." Her cheeks flush. "I was surprised. And that it was just you, too. My ex-boyfriend was always using porn."
Do not take the bait. Do not tease her. No sass. No bullshit. Absolutely nothing remotely flirtatious. "Is that relevant somehow?"
"Kind of. Not the porn part. Or the masturbation part. But he is relevant."
Did you watch too? Do you like to watch? Nope. Not asking her about sex. That's out of the question. I'm friendly. I'm civil. I'm getting her out of the house as efficiently as possible. "Frederick?"
She nods.
Frederick. So he's her ex now. I guess I missed that life event. Whiskey does that.
When I first met Frederick, when Cassie brought him as her date to one of my dad's parties, I found him obnoxious as fuck. Which made him a perfect match for Cassie. They're both sure they're musical geniuses.
But Cassie at least knows her strengths and weaknesses. Frederick writes derivative riffs and mind-numbing melodies, but he still acts like he's god's gift to music.
Plus, he acted more like Cassie was his groupie than his girlfriend. Like she was with him because he was so brilliant, and she couldn't help but fall to her knees and beg for his cock.
Okay.
Maybe I added some of that in my head. Maybe the porno-insanity is affecting my current thoughts.
The guy has some redeeming qualities. They were a successful songwriting team. People love derivative, mediocre shit. And he's tall and good-looking, with those dorky short-sleeved button-up shirts and hipster glasses Cassie loves.
I'm sure I teased her about that, but I barely remember any of it.
"Damon?" Cassie asks. "Do you need a minute?" She asks the question in a matter-of-fact way, but I hear something deeper.
A joke at my expense. Or maybe genuine concern. I can't tell the difference anymore.
I do need a minute. Twenty, actually. I need to replay all this information without my clothes, take the edge off. In a perfect world, I'd have that. Well, in a perfect world, Daphne would be best friends with someone who is less endlessly frustrating. As it is—"What are you doing here, Cass?"
"Right." She blinks at the sound of her nickname, but I can't tell if it's a how can you call me that blink or a how nice that we're pretending we're friends blink. "I guess I'll skip the pleasantries."
As if either of us can be pleasant to the other for more than two minutes.
She stands and smooths her jeans. "I need your help."
That seems implausible. "With what?"
"A project."
I motion go on.
"You know how Frederick and I were a team?" she asks.
"Even after you broke up?"
"We had contracts to finish."
That sounds ill-fated. I guess it was. Not that I can talk when it comes to bad decisions.
"Well, not anymore. He found a new lyricist."
Sure, that makes sense. The guy wouldn't want to work with an ex forever. Not unless he thought he could win her back. Is that what happened? Did she leave him?
I need more information, but I can't ask Cassie—she'll get the wrong idea.
And I can't ask Daphne. She'll get an even more wrong idea. So I say something reasonable. Ish. "Where do I fit into that?"
"We had one more contract," she says. "An up-and-coming artist who's going to get a ton of press. The label wants to make him happen. To position him as the male Taylor Swift."
"Do people want a male Taylor Swift?"
"Of course." Her voice brightens. Her eyes too. She shifts into that other Cassie, the one who comes alive when she talks about music. "Where's your history? That was the vibe of all the pop-rock on the radio in the aughts."
It was, and that's her favorite genre, too. She'll do anything to nab an opportunity to emulate one of her muses. (Not that she'd ever admit she loves the lyrics written by toxic dudes who can't get over the fact their exes are having sex with someone else).
Does that make her an obnoxious hypocrite or an adorable contradiction?
An hour ago, I was certain she was the former. Now, I'm not sure.
"And you know I can write that in my sleep," she says.
Absolutely. She's talented, especially when it comes to that tongue-in-cheek stuff. Only an idiot would deny that.
"But I need someone to write the music."
Oh. She doesn't need me as an ex-friend or as a friend's brother. She needs my skill. That makes sense. That's easier than any of the other options. "You're here because I'm the best songwriter you know?" I don't mean to tease her, honestly. It's a force of habit.