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)
I opened my mouth, knowing the truth would come out, but afraid of hearing it.
“I always knew my life would have this big, colossal catastrophe. Even before it actually happened. It was like I was waiting for it, in a way. For something to define me. I spent my youth sitting in my room sewing clothes, content with being a weirdo, as you so diplomatically put it. My brother, Craig, was just the opposite. Hotshot football player with the cheerleader on his arm.”
“And did it?” Alex asked, his army boot caressing the inside of my ankle, riding up my calf. The worst part was that I let him do it. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have. And tomorrow, I would swat him away. But today, I was fragile enough for him to make me feel good, even if it was a bad decision. “Define you, I mean.”
“No. It didn’t. I have this chip on my shoulder I carry with me everywhere I go. Of the girl who’s been robbed of her parents. But I still smile, and laugh, and spend time with my nephew and friends. My tragedy is like an ugly scar that’s hidden from the world. Only I can see it.”
“Mine’s the opposite.” He smirked, fingering the strings of his guitar absentmindedly. “My tragedy is an open wound every fucker in the universe can poke and look into. My fiancée left me for my ex-best friend publicly, after it was revealed in the tabloids that she’d been fucking him while we were still together while I was on tour. I’m an addict, a knobhead, and a bitter arsehole who can’t even sit still when his enemy receives a Grammy. Everyone can—and does—see my scars. No exceptions. My soul is empty, because I whored it out. I signed fat contracts with huge labels to get big money. For the last six years, they’ve dictated my every move. And whatever they didn’t suck out of me, the crowd did. Because every night you go on that stage, Indie, you give your fans your everything. Every. Fucking. Thing. Then you wake up the next day and do it all over again.”
I was so surprised at his admission, the fact I uttered anything at all was nothing short of a miracle. “Is that why you act this way?” Not that it gave him an excuse, but the need to understand him better burned me from the inside.
Alex rolled his head against the wall. “Enough with the philosophical bullshit. So. This is not inspiring at all. Tell me about your sex life.”
I gave him a look, my walls stacking up again, brick by brick. “No.”
“That ’cause you don’t have any? Because that could be rectified.”
“It’s because it’s none of your business, and while we’re on the subject, I’d appreciate it if you stopped hitting on me.”
He put his guitar down, snatched a cigarette from his open pack by his feet, a notepad, and a blue Sharpie and started writing. Blue Sharpie. Just like in the article. Alex was a creature of habit. I wondered what it was about the color.
There was something incredibly sexy about seeing him, an unlit cigarette hanging between his straight teeth, making art in front of me. I had no idea what he was writing, and I doubted he’d let me know if I asked. But the idea that I might hear it on the radio someday made me shiver.
“If you want me to believe you about not wanting me to fuck you raw, you should probably stop looking at me like that. Like you’re already mine,” he said, his eyes still focused on his notepad. I looked away, my face growing ruddy and hot.
“You’re crass.”
“And you’re full of bullshit.” He looked up, catching my gaze. “You really like Waitrose? Really, really like him? I don’t believe that. Not for one second. Know what the difference is between you and me, Stardust? You watch me, but I see you. And what I see is your truth. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and it bleeds into the real world, which means you’re a remarkably terrible liar. You look at Waitrose fondly. Like you would at a stranger’s baby down the street. You look at me with dynamite in your eyes, waiting for me to light up the match and finally set you on fire.”
Everything stopped.
The air.
The world.
My heart.
He said all that with his lips still pursed around the cigarette. With dead eyes and a sultry, rough voice he’d tone down and sweeten when he recorded his music. A door opened and closed in the distance, and we both snapped our heads in its direction. It was Alfie, ushering two giggling girls in miniskirts toward the elevator. He smacked their butts as he rushed them between the doors, not even sparing us a glance. They skipped, their voices pitching high, while he barked like a mad dog, pretending to bite and nibble at their necks. He hadn’t noticed us.