Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“I was just…I was just making music in my bedroom,” I reply. “And then, Geesha Riley covered me and everything’s been blowing up from there.”
“Oh, I saw.” He quietly nods. “So, tell me, Alyssa Smith, what are you envisioning for your career?”
“…I’ve always wanted to be one of the great songwriters,” I start. “Just someone who’s able to hear music and write down super memorable lyrics. The kind that everyone can relate to.”
“I think you’ve got the memorable part covered.” He grins. “Do you have any particular interest in being a solo act? Or do you envision yourself as being part of a group?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You mean, do I see myself as part of, like, a girl group or something? Because no offense, Mr. Hanson, but that’s not really my style—”
“Not a girl group,” he interrupts. “A full band. With you as the lead vocalist. You could even call it Alyssa and whatever the band name is, if you want. Either way, you’re the main focus, but I’ve found that female songwriters with your sensibilities…they tend to flourish much better with a sort of support network around them.”
“A support network?”
“Let’s just say, people who are going to hold you accountable,” he explains. “People who are going to push you to always put forth your best. It’ll also differentiate you from the rest of the music landscape right now, with everyone wanting to be the solo star. It’ll be the perfect way to introduce you to the world, a woman in control, a woman who men are willing to perform in the background for.”
“That sounds good,” I reply slowly, as a wave of relief rolls right over me. There’s something immediately comforting about not having to be the only person singing on stage, the only person with a spotlight burning over their head.
“Well, hold on now.” Mr. Hanson chuckles. “Before you sign on the dotted line, I think it’d be a good idea for you to meet just the band I have in mind.”
I follow Mr. Hanson into a huge studio, which happens to be completely empty of any other musicians at the moment. Confused, I spare a look over at him, and see his brows knitting together and eyes narrowing as he glances around the vacant room.
“Goddammit, I told the boys to be here on time today,” he grumbles, his tone sounding entirely pissed off. “They’ve gotten way too used to pulling this kind of shit.”
“Maybe they just got the time mixed up?” I suggest, with a hint of a joke in my voice. “After all, I am coming from outside L.A. Maybe they thought we were going to be meeting up on East Coast time or something.”
Mr. Hanson turns to look back at me, before letting out a loud laugh. “You know, I’m starting to think that you and this band will be a match made in heaven. Here you are, already making excuses for them, which is going to be an excellent skill to have when touring with this group of—”
“This group of what, Gregory?” a man asks in a British accent. A stranger suddenly appears behind us in the studio, with a guitar hanging around his midsection, the strap golden and glowing underneath the studio’s lights.
Holy shit.
He’s absolutely gorgeous. The stranger’s eyes are just as dark as his hair, his sharp features perfect for a rock star, and he’s dressed in leather, tight denim that leaves little to be desired, and black boots that look both worn and expensive. Although, despite his dark appearance, I can tell that he has a playful side too, based on the tattoos lining his arms, the designs of which feature doodles of foxes, scrambled eggs, and vases. The tats are so silly that I can’t help but smile, even as I take in the rest of his arms, his bulging muscles drawing my attention right from his tattoos to the outline of muscles hidden underneath his black T-shirt.
“You weren’t going to insult us in front of this beautiful guest, were you?” the stranger asks, as he brings a hand up toward his chest in mock offense. “That’d be so unlike you, Gregory! Talking bollocks behind our backs.”
“Oh, fuck off, Rhys.” Mr. Hanson chuckles. “As if you don’t devote a large portion of your life to talking shit about the label who pays for all that crap you have permanently drawn all over you.”
“The label doesn’t pay for my sleeves,” Rhys corrects him. “I pay for my sleeves with every note I give this fucking abysmal place.”
Rhys then turns to look directly at me, a grin coming over his face. “I don’t think I caught your name yet, beautiful. I’m Rhys Marshall. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I’m Alyssa.” I offer him a small wave. “I was just…getting a tour of the studio with Mr. Hanson and he told me that he wanted me to meet everyone—”