Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Aromatique was a hipster coffee shop within walking distance of Tegan’s apartment and Vibes in West Hollywood. The tiny shop married a French bohemian ambience with European class. Soft blue-and-gray walls contrasted nicely with the black-and-white tile flooring while tasteful photographs of well-known landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre hung beside rock gods like Jimi Hendrix and Queen. The sophisticated yet bohemian atmosphere appealed to the chic-meets-cool clientele who enjoyed sipping lattes while listening to live music.
Every afternoon aspiring musicians were invited to play to a small but enthusiastic audience. Guitarists, violinists, keyboard players…any instrument that fit was welcome. The space near the window served as a mini stage. It was a little cozy, but it worked okay. I played a few times myself before I mustered the courage to ask the owner for a job. My confidence was gutter-level low after my breakup with Xena and the demise of Gypsy Coma, so I was pitifully grateful Michel hired me on the spot. I needed every dime I earned serving lattes, and I was willing to wake up early after a long night bartending at Vibes. But I was more excited about the additional perk of performing for customers on a regular basis. I didn’t want to lose my edge.
I’d learned a few humbling things about myself from those initial solo gigs. First of all, playing electric guitar behind a diva indie rock goddess with a dramatic side was completely different than going solo with an acoustic guitar. Secondly, I was a better singer than guitarist. I had a ton of energy, and I could be theatrical when I got swept away by the music, but I’d never wanted to be a front man. I’d grown more as a performer in the past few months than I had in the two years I’d been with Gypsy Coma. My songwriting was better too. And late morning after my shift was the perfect time to unwind in a quiet corner to write.
I hefted my backpack over my shoulder, then tugged at my apron string and glanced around the mostly empty shop. A young couple sat at a table for two under an artsy black-and-white photograph of Freddy Mercury, and three middle-aged women chatted quietly as they perused the Parisian treats in the corner display. My timing was good. The early morning rush was over, and the pre-lunch crowd hadn’t descended yet. I sidled behind the counter and swatted Johnny’s ass as I headed for the commercial-grade coffeemaker.
“What time are you off?” I asked casually.
“Two o’clock. Who’s that for?” Johnny asked, gestured toward my latte.
“Me. I need more caffeine.”
He held up the steamed milk and fluttered his eyelashes. “Would you like a leaf on your latte?”
I snickered. “Tempting, but I’ll pass on jizz in my mug today, man.”
Johnny chuckled. “You’re nasty. How about a heart? I made one for the hot guy in the gray Hugo Boss suit this morning. ’Member him?”
“Barely.”
“I was testing the waters to see if I got a glimmer of interest.”
“And?”
“I think he likes me. Or he liked my jizz art anyway,” he assured me. “I can’t decide if I should try to learn how to make something cute like a panda or a fat cat, or if I should go straight to dick. Thoughts?”
“Why hold back?” I cradled the mug in both hands and leaned against the marble counter.
“Good advice,” he agreed with a laugh before gesturing toward the far end of the coffee shop by the window. “Better grab your table before the yoga moms arrive and ask you to move your stuff.”
I made a peace sign and headed for the corner table for two near the window. I set my backpack on the free chair and pulled out my notebook. I tuned out the background noise with practiced ease while I sipped my latte and jotted song lyrics down. It was an odd habit that morphed into a lifeline of sorts.
When everything around me fell to pieces, writing kept me sane. I’d filled dozens of notebooks over the past decade. Some days, when the words wouldn’t come, I wrote a line or two about the color of the sky or the smell of baked bread. Silly things to remind me that even on days when nothing was going my way, there were still puppies and cupcakes and good things in the world. Other days, words poured out of me faster than I could get them on paper.
Yesterday, I wrote about fear and frustration.
You told me we’d be fine
You told me that we’d make it through the fire
Okay, that kinda sucked. Thankfully, I felt more hopeful today. I pulled my guitar from my case and mulled over what I’d written until I could hear the music. I bent the notes to fit a melody that could work for a rock ballad or even a country song. I stared into space and let it play out in my head like I was listening to a tune on the radio. Halfway through the song, my mind wandered and the song became part of a daydream. I was on the road with my band, touring the US to support our hit album. We were on a tricked-out bus, and then onstage in a huge arena…in Texas. I didn’t stop to wonder why; I just let the story unfold. Screaming fans, lights, cowboy hats and fancy boots. I raised my shiny black Gibson in the air before settling on a stool to do a solo rendition of our recent hit. I strummed the first few chords, scanned the audience, and the only face I recognized was Gray’s.