Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Lars peeks over my shoulder toward Kaye. “Take the day off. We’ve got this.”
Kaye looks frustrated as she places her hands on her hips. “If you think I’m leaving you alone with a reporter after the stunts you pulled yesterday, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Take a hike, Kaye,” Cain chips in. “We’ve got this.”
“When all this blows up in your face, don’t come crying to me,” Kaye huffs as she storms out the door.
“Alone at last,” Cain says, puffing on his joint before passing it to me.
I shake my head, turning down his offer.
“Suit yourself, but I figured it might shake off that tight-ass act you’ve got going for yourself. Aren’t you supposed to be a rock reporter? What’s up with those old lady sweaters? It’s like you’re trying to channel your upper-class pedigree or something. It’s kind of funny since we all know how much you like to slum it.”
6
Cain
Mess her up.
All I can think about is ruffling Billie’s feathers. I want her sweating and nervous. It irritates me that she seems so put together, as if everything that happened between us didn’t affect her.
She tugs her granny gear around her body, a way of shielding herself, I suppose. But I like what she’s wearing underneath. It’s the old Billie—a mix of grunge and conservative housewife.
“I like your shirt,” I say as I make rings of O’s. “It’s a hell of a lot sexier than that beige. I always liked you in black, Tinkerbell. You should peel off the extra layer of bullshit.”
She looks good in her old lady sweater, a little too good for my liking. She’s wearing it to hide the curves of her body, curves that had me on my knees ten years ago. If I’m honest, she’d still have me begging now.
Billie Richmond is still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Not pretty in the conventional sense, but I think she’s drop-dead gorgeous. She’s smart, funny, and has a big fucking heart. A fucking ten, and I let her walk away. Something I’ve regretted every day for the last ten years.
I want to kick myself for being an asshole to her, but she also took whatever bullshit Lars threw at her. She laid down and played dead.
So did you.
The small voice in the back of my mind taunts me. Yes, well, at least I stayed. Sure, I could’ve fought him on the decision, but I’d just lost someone I loved to the Grim Reaper, and the thought of losing another petrified me.
It ate me up for years that I allowed her to walk away that night. I understand I’m not innocent in all this, but none of us is guilty. What happened to Trevor wasn’t our fault. Could we have stopped it? Maybe.
Trev had a fucking trunk load of issues, some I didn’t know about until it was too late. I never believed we were the reason he died, but the guilt of not being there for him eats at me daily. Then again, he never gave me the option to help him.
I push back my reverie and gaze at Billie.
She doesn’t say a word, but she’s frazzled. She never had much of a poker face. I track her with my eyes as she walks to the copious amounts of liquor and shuffles through the bottles before picking one. I raise an eyebrow as she fills a glass with vodka and adds a dash of juice, not sure why she bothered. It’s such a small amount of orange liquid that it doesn’t even change the color of the clear alcohol.
She heads toward one of the wingback chairs, placing the drink on the coffee table before she sits. “Okay, I thought we’d start with your musical influences today.”
Is she really going to sit here and treat us like a damn job? Musical influences? That’s not a fucking question you ask someone who used to fuck you into oblivion after not seeing them for almost a decade. That’s a question for a stranger.
My mask irritates my face and, like a vine, appears to be spreading to my scalp. Something that hasn’t happened in the eight fucking years I’ve worn it. “Is that all you want to ask, Billie?”
“Musical influences are important to the reader. So many have compared your music to influential bands. People would be interested to learn if any of them are bands you respect and enjoy.”
She’s talking to me like I’m a stranger. Another job where she needs to cross her t’s and dot her i’s.
I slowly rise from the chair and step toward her. Billie gazes up from her notes, her full bottom lip gripped between her teeth. I bend, getting right in her face. “Cut the bullshit, Tinkerbell.”
Billie leans back. “Pardon?”
“We aren’t some random rock band. Not to you,” I snap.
She tilts her head, staring at me like I’m nothing and no one. “Would you like to continue this interview at another time?”