Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Wow. You’re so full of yourself.” Her short, tan feet dangled in the air. She was sitting on top of a washing machine with a “broken” sign plastered on it, staring directly at the one she’d just shoved my clothes into. Hands tucked under her thighs, her indigo eyes fixed on the black mass of fabric spinning lazily through the round glass. I pondered that tan. Her features were quiet and pleasant, like Emma Watson’s. Her tan, I decided, was the product of her L.A. lifestyle. I imagined her cycling around town in a short dress, her hair dancing in the wind. Ignoring my half-mast, I humored her.
“Yeah, well, that’s because people want to be full of me.” I plucked a cigarette from behind my ear and rolled it between my fingers. I needed a fag. But I also needed to get over my sudden infatuation with Miss Bellamy. I was only going to fuck her to get back at Lucas. I was fifty percent certain my interest in her stemmed from the fact she was the only female I had with me on the road. The other fifty was her telling me she wanted to shag Waitrose. Perhaps ‘shag’ wasn’t the right word. Stardust was more of the movies-and-ice-cream type of bird.
Stardust? Stardust. What the fuck!
I was wearing a Burberry cap that Chris, my chavvy mate from home, gave me after I won my first four Grammys—same night. No one recognized me, but that didn’t make me feel less exposed.
“Do you actually believe those things you say?” she asked, pulling at the band that held her blue hair in a bun. Her looks were growing on me every day. Her over-the-top Old Hollywood dresses were intriguing. Her big lips/small teeth situation was undeniably sexy. And I fucking loved that she sassed around like I wasn’t the one calling all the shots here.
“Wholeheartedly.” I parked my hip on the washing machine she was sitting on, scanning her face. “Are you going to ogle my cock tomorrow before the show?”
“If you need to pee, maybe.”
“Then I’ll need to pee,” I said, mentally correcting myself to piss.
She rolled her eyes but smiled. I shifted a little closer to her. The place was growing busier, which wasn’t good news for me.
“Speaking of my cock, what do they say about it in the news? Should I get it an agent? I feel like Jenna is busy with her hotshot clients. I might shop around for someone hungrier who can really make it big.” Every word held some sexual innuendo.
“My phone screen is cracked and I don’t have a laptop. Even if I did have Internet access, your penis would be one of the last things I’d Google. Literally, even after ‘what would a chair look like if your knees bent the other way’.”
Penis. She said “penis” again. How old is this girl?
I gave her an odd look, because she was an odd thing.
She clarified, “It’s suggested in the search bar on Google, believe it or not.”
Shaking my head, I moved on to a saner topic.
“Anything out there I need to know about?” I didn’t do social media. I had millions of followers on Instagram and Twitter, and Blake sometimes posted pictures of me from gigs or at the studio to keep my brand’s flame alive. Other than that, people knew I wasn’t about the celebrity lifestyle. Social media was my idea of licking my own balls.
Look at me.
Check me out.
Pay me attention.
Hear what I have to say about politics/global warming/insert other topic I have absolutely no knowledge about.
Nope. Not my jam. So, when Blake told me to stay off the Internet, I had no objection at all. Indie—guess she was no longer New Girl—rubbed her palms over her face before her teeth reunited with her lower lip, and that’s how I knew she was nervous.
“I don’t have access to the Internet, remember?” She jumped from the laundry machine just when the washer buzzed. She dragged my wet clothes to the dryer and pointed at buttons, explaining things I wasn’t even listening to, let alone trying to remember. My eyes were focused on her bum beneath the flowery swing dress that rode up her thighs when she bent over. Disappointingly enough, her knickers didn’t make a cameo.
“…make sure the whites are separated from the rest of your clothes. I also do the towels separately because they’re heavier, though I guess the hotel provides the towels, so…”
She was moving. A lot. And talking. Even more. It was evident she wasn’t flirting with me, and that alone made me want to fuck Lucas’ crush even more. After she shoved my clothes into the dryer and started the machine, she turned back to me and sighed.
“Guess we have an hour to burn.”
An hour. I could do a lot with an hour. For starters, I could sleep, which I hadn’t done a few nights in a row, composing songs instead. Or watch some mindless TV. Listen to music. Write some. Play some. Fuck some. Or I could do the honorable thing and take my new hanny for coffee to get to know her better. Nah. Taking her places was a last resort. I was going to try to get into her knickers effortlessly first.