Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I don’t know if he has an answer to my question.
I don’t wait to find out.
I turn and head down the hall before he sees my dam shatter apart completely. I don’t stop until I’m outside, fleeing through some side door no one’s watching. My back slams against the brick wall. I slide down, a shuddering, blubbering, broken-down mess next to a smelly dumpster, scaring away a poor cat. Probably for the best. The same doomsday clouds that took away my afternoon sunshine choose now to spill over my head like a prank, an utter downpour the second the rain comes, and it doesn’t let up.
Isn’t that how it always goes?
I hate hearing myself cry. No one deserves to see this. But I guess someone already did.
You don’t gotta be a damned thing other than what you are.
Does he even realize how difficult a request that is? To defy what every minute of my life has been pushing me to become?
You seem like a guy who knows when somethin’ ain’t right.
But that doesn’t make me a guy who knows any better how to fix what’s wrong.
I can clearly see passion inside you …
It’s right then that the rain lets up. Nearly gone. Like a shower twisted off, leaving the world dripping and sad. And in the eerily quiet air, I hear the crunchy roar of a crowd waking up inside the Horseshoe. Somehow, through the brick and the mortar and the impenetrable heaviness in my stomach, the muffled yet confident chords of a guitar cut through, followed next by a voice—rich and bright and as warm as a hug. It pierces my soul with a melody that is so instantly capturing, I can’t help but close my eyes, as if to receive its healing tones, as if it’s a hand reaching out to take mine, offering a kind of shelter no roof can provide.
Maybe I was wrong about the music.
I still have my ticket. I could stay for the whole show.
If I wasn’t so terrified about what else the music will make me feel.
It’s probably just my sad sack imagination, given my current state of mind and that I can’t possibly discern lyrics from all the way out here, but I swear I hear him sing, “I see the passion in you,” over and over. When the song ends and the audience roars, I’m surprised to find myself smiling. No, I don’t hear what comes next. I’m already off the filthy pavement and tramping my way back to the parking lot, done.
Chapter 2.
Chase
One foot kicked up on the makeup counter, other on the floor.
Flannel shirt tossed aside, tank drenched in sweat.
The audience still roars in my ears despite the piercing silence in this dressing room. All the lights are shut off except one, a lamp plugged in next to me. The mirror, covered up by setlists and tour pics, blocking my reflection. I don’t like looking at it. It’s a thing.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop seeing his face. His soft, unrelenting eyes, sensitive and wrecked … What I need isn’t another fucking guy singing about his feelings. What the fuck about mine?
I keep nipping at the end of my thumb, running it across my lips, growing more annoyed by the second at those words.
Why is music lately so fucking trite and shallow?
He didn’t even give mine a chance.
Some soulless producer-written shell of a song …
The heck? I write all my own stuff. Every single tune.
Alleged not-so-country-anymore sellout …
The door pops open. My sweaty-faced manager Ian appears, cheeks rosier than usual, glasses at the end of his nose, his sniper eyes landing on me like a set of crosshairs. “What was that?”
I lift my chin. “There a prize if I get your question right?”
“That wasn’t the opening number. Wasn’t even on the setlist. That was …” He looks like he’s fighting constipation to get out his next word, then gives up. “What was that?”
I manipulate the leg of a nearby chair with my free foot and nudge it his way. “Take a seat. I can smell your stress from here.”
Ian’s lips pinch together. That’s his tell for swallowing a fuck-ton of things he’d much rather say. He gathers whatever’s left of his patience and accepts my invite. “Might as well.” He shuts the door gently behind him, then says, “Do you still stash beer in one of these bins? No? It’s dark in here. Your hospitality needs work,” before finally taking a seat across from me.
“Tell me.” I keep nipping on my thumb between my words. “Do you think I’m just a guy who sings about his feelings?”
His eyebrows fly over his glasses. “Come again?”
“Have I become a pretentious bag of dicks with a guitar? Are people sick of me? Am I a sellout? Give me your honest take.”