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)
I pull my cap down, trying to shield my eyes and face as much as I can. “I should—”
Lyric grips my bicep to stop me, and the move feels natural and completely different than when fans do it to try to get my attention.
We lock eyes.
“She’ll recognize you as soon as she sees your face. Let me.” He approaches the waitress. “Sorry about that. We heard the kids screaming and thought they might be in trouble. Here, let me clean that up.”
She waves him off and says it’s fine as she smiles up at him. “I’ll bring you a replacement.”
“Thank you.” Lyric’s face when he smiles is … there are no words for it.
Shake it off, Ryder. Stop staring at the pretty guy.
The waitress is as enamored with his smile as I am because she blushes as he walks away.
Lyric joins me at my table. “So, I’m sorry. Again. For saying you suck.”
I laugh. “Hey, it’s not a lie.”
His eyes widen a little, and then I realize what I said. It’s true either way, but that’s not exactly public knowledge.
“We didn’t get a lot of artistic control with Eleven,” I elaborate. “I probably hate those songs as much as you do.”
“Didn’t you and Harley write a lot of the songs?”
I lean back in my seat. “Not a fan, huh? Most people don’t know who writes what.”
“I, uh, well, I graduated from Montebello. Music studies. That’s how I knew you wrote the songs.”
“Ah. Well, even though we wrote those songs, we wrote what we were told to. Mindless shit is what the label wanted, so we gave it to them because we didn’t get much choice. You’ll learn that as soon as you’re signed with someone.”
“How do you know I’m trying to get signed?”
“You went to Almost Famous. That gives away a lot about you.”
Montebello is a private college that has one of the most competitive performing arts programs in the country. It’s nicknamed Almost Famous because getting in is almost a guarantee you’ll make it in LA. A lot of stars went there, and I could tell this guy was an artist just by looking at him. Makes total sense.
“How so?” he asks.
“Well, Lyric for one. Has to be a stage name.”
He grimaces. “Honest to God, it’s my birth name.”
“Really?”
“No shit. My brother is named Chord, and I have a sister called Melody.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Don’t hold back now. None of my childhood friends ever did. But, hey, it does work in my favor. It’s totally fit for a musician.”
“True. Very marketable. I’m guessing your whole family is musical, then?”
Lyric glances away. “Not so much. Mom hates it. Chord went into entertainment law, so similar vein but not performing.”
“How can your mom hate music? Is she a zombie? She’s a zombie, isn’t she?”
Lyric laughs. “Sometimes I wonder, but no. Mom wanted a more practical career path for me, which is why I did a double degree at Montebello. Music and early education. And that’s also how I ended up being my nephew’s nanny for no pay while I go to audition after audition and get turned down by, oh, everyone.”
“Ah. Hence the boy band hate. Because we had it so easy.”
“I never said that. I said—”
“It’s okay. Trust me, we’re all used to the hate by ‘real musicians.’”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just disheartening being rejected so many times—”
“That’s the business.”
“I know. And you have to have thick skin, which I think I do. It’s not like I cry over bad auditions or anything, but my latest rejection was this morning, so I was cranky. While I still don’t think Eleven had super inventive and touching lyrics, that doesn’t give me the right to whine about it to my seven-year-old nephew, and I’m sorry for that.”
“Apology accepted.” I eye him as a look of relief crosses his features.
The waitress comes over with my coffee, and Lyric slides it over to me.
“Try not to throw this one.”
I huff a small laugh. “Okay, I’ll try.”
I take a sip, but it’s scalding hot, and I spray it all over the table. “Ouch,” I hiss. “Hot.”
Lyric laughs. “Not off to a good start.” He grabs a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wipes down his shirt.
“Sorry.”
“Does this make us even yet? I insult you, you throw coffee at my head and then spit on me.”
I can’t help laughing with him. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting it to be that hot.”
“That’s what all the boys say about me.”
My laughter doesn’t die even though it probably should.
A comment like that would normally have me searching the room to make sure no one overheard. Whether it’s because we’re seated away from others or there’s something about the pretentious nice guy that calms me, I want to keep talking to him instead of doing what I should be doing which is going home.