Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
That disappoints me more than it should. Not the feelings thing. That … kinda makes me happy. But that he doesn’t have a problem if I want to go out with Cash. Then I remind myself about the whole out of my league thing and come crashing back to planet earth. “O-okay. I guess I’ll text him, then.”
“You do that.” Ryder walks away, and my gut churns.
Cash Kingsley wants to go out with me. That sentence doesn’t even compute correctly in my brain. Yet, I can’t seem to get excited about going on a date with him.
Because, apparently, I’d rather be on a date with someone else.
And that someone else is my boss.
I stare at the empty message box with Cash’s number in the address bar. If I don’t contact him, Ryder will wonder why. If I do contact him, it’s done. Ryder gave me the impression Cash is expecting me to message him. That doesn’t mean we have to go out.
Whenever I think that, reality hits me that I’m hesitating over going out with the lead singer of a band I’ve admired ever since they were discovered a few years ago, and I realize I’m being stupid.
Yet, as I type out a message, doubts still circle in the back of my mind.
Hey. This is Lyric.
I hold my breath, but I don’t have to hold it long, which is surprising. I was kinda expecting him to be busy with … I don’t know, being a rock star?
Hey. I didn’t expect to hear from you.
Awkward.
I reply: Well this is awks. I was under the impression you wanted Ryder to give me your number.
I did. I just didn’t expect you to use it. We gonna go out or what?
Straight to the point. I guess I can appreciate that.
I can do most nights except weekends when I gig.
Ooh, where you gig at? I could meet you at a show.
Cash Kingsley at … my show?
Uh, really? You don’t have to torture your ears like that.
Not to mention I’d freak the fuck out about performing for Cash.
Cash responds immediately. I’m sold on it now. If you don’t tell me where it is, I have other ways of finding out. Then I’ll show up anyway.
I type out my reply and hold my breath as I hit Send.
I play at Cedar Bar on weekends at 9.
Nice! I used to play there back in the day before I found my band. I’ll see you tomorrow night.
Oh shit. Am I actually going on a date with him? Is he going to really hear me sing?
I swear I sweat for twenty-four hours straight.
I’m not exactly present with Kaylee all day, but luckily Ryder is busy in his office finishing off songs for the label and doesn’t notice.
Plus, she’s a pretty autonomous kid, which makes my job easy.
We go pick up Chase from school, and then they play together for a few hours.
By the time Chase and I leave so I can drop him at home before I go to the club, my head is a complete mess. Over someone I’m trying to convince myself I should be into.
I’m more focused on Cash seeing me perform than the actual date part.
The small club I gig at has never seemed so daunting.
I’d never experienced stage fright before until I’d started auditioning for label execs. The same crippling pressure I feel when enduring an audition washes over me as the smell of stale alcohol hits my nose.
This is my stage. My safe space. But that’s still not enough to settle the nerves.
Music is in my blood. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.
But the fear of getting it the wrong way, taking a wrong turn, making my father proud while simultaneously disappointing my mother … it bears down on me at the worst times.
I already need a fucking drink, and I just walked through the doors.
Calm the fuck down, Lyric. He’s probably not even going to show up.
I go backstage and freak out some more, clicking my fingers like it’s a nervous tic. Lucky I’m a solo act or I’m sure my bandmates would want to murder me by now. I’m even annoying myself.
Click, click, click. But I can’t stop.
One of the bartenders, Alex, pops his head in the back room. “You will never guess who’s here.”
“Please don’t say Cash Kingsley. Please don’t say Cash Kingsley,” I mutter.
“Holy shit, how’d you know?”
My gut churns, but it’s not in the gentle butterflies kind of way. “He’s here for me.” For some fucked-up reason.
In what world is the lead singer of Cash Me Outside here for me?
“And you didn’t tell us?”
“I didn’t know if he’d turn up!” I pace the small room.
“You need a drink?”
“Make it a triple.”
He whistles but disappears, coming back right away.
By the time I down the drink and make my way out onto the stage with my guitar, I’m pretty sure I’m close to losing the contents of my stomach.