Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
The belittling snickers booming from her phone speaker and the thousands of comments underneath the video can't be missed. They mock Nicole without concern for the consequences because they can hide behind a screen.
Nicole can’t do the same.
No one in the public eye can.
“Don’t pay attention to anything they say.” I switch off her cell and place it on the bedside table before pulling down the stiff bedding. “The paparazzi aren’t critics. They’re not even your fans, and since they’re clueless about what it takes to produce an album, they can’t rate its salability.”
“But the commenters are the people we need to buy my album.”
Nicole quickly removes the tear that falls from her eye, but not fast enough.
I still see it.
“If the pressure is too much—”
“I can handle the pressure.” One truth always encourages another. “I’m just not sure I am the right person for this job. I’m shy—”
“Bullshit.” My word is spat out of my mouth like a bullet. “You’re just hoping your shy act will be more appealing to the masses than a woman who knows what she wants and won’t quit fighting until she gets it.”
“It isn’t an act.” Hiccup. “I’m not acting.”
“Bullshit,” I repeat. “You weren’t shy when you fell to your knees to suck my dick.” Her inhalation exposes she’s more turned on by my lewd comment than disgusted. “You weren’t shy when riling me about a supposed prostitute addiction.” That awards me a genuine smile for the first time in five days. “And you weren’t shy when you sang with nothing but the tap of a pen against a sheet of paper as backup.” I pluck up a pen from her bedside table and tap out the composition we arranged the night we met. “You’re not shy, Nicole. You’re scared of falling because you think no one will be there to catch you.” Her glassy eyes bounce between mine when I admit, “That might have been true a week ago, but it isn’t anymore.”
“You…” She either takes a moment to think or swallow back vomit. I’m not exactly sure. “You stole my songbook. You took the first words I’d penned in a long time and made out they were yours.” The instant the words leave her mouth, she knows they’re a lie. She’s merely struggling to understand how that is possible. “What did I miss?”
“I don’t know.” That’s the most honest I’ve been in almost a week… perhaps even a decade. “But I will find out. I promise you that.”
Nicole accepts my pledge with more faith than I deserve. She dips her chin in thanks before climbing into the middle of the bed on her hands and knees.
When I tug up the blanket at the foot of the bed to cover her bare legs, her veins too primed with whiskey to understand the AC is chilly, I discover where she hides her most valued possession.
Her songbook topples out during the blanket’s rolls and flops open at newly penned lyrics.
I want to kiss the sadness
arrogance from your face,
make you my biggest mistake,..
but I’m not sure how much
more I can take,
since you always look at me
as if we might break
you’re attending my wake…
The wetness of the crossed-out words announces this verse was recently written, much less its positioning in the songbook. It is toward the back, the last of the used pages.
Stunned by how plump the book has become over the past five days, I flick through the new creations.
Nicole’s songbook was flat as a tack only days ago. Now it is brimming with lyrics, musical compositions, and cover design ideas stuffed into the spiral edge.
Each song is constructed with a similar premise—forbidden love. It is a risqué subject that will sell like hotcakes when composed with the right music.
“This is what you should be working on, Nicole.” I raise my eyes to her, the pride on my face unmissable. “This is what your audience wants to hear. It’s what they deserve.” I find the first song I spotted before spinning her songbook to face her. “There’s nothing needed to produce this. The hard work is already done. You just need to lay the tracks in a studio. And this…”
I flick back and forth between the pages, seeking the song she wrote the night we met. It is a long and tedious search that comes up empty-handed at the same time I notice slithered remains of torn pages in the spirals of the binder. It’s gone, and so is the note I wrote.
“You ripped them out?”
Why would she do that? The note is understandable. I kept things rather basic. But the song was about fresh and exciting love and the butterflies you experience when you know you’ve stumbled onto something great. It was a love ballad through and through, but her best work to date. She’s potentially thrown away millions of dollars and even more fans.