Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Dax runs his hands through his hair, totally freaking out. “Listen to me, Jizz.” His eyes are blazing. “This could be a really lucky break for me. Fuck. Oh my God.” He bites his lip. “Do you think you could send this Reed guy my demo? Or would that make Sir J.W. Faraday feel like you’re just using him to get to Reed?”
I laugh. “Um, there’s no way in hell Josh would ever think I’m using him to get to Reed.”
Dax’s face lights up. “So you’ll send him my demo?”
I sigh and shake my head solemnly. “Sorry, Dax. No. I don’t feel comfortable sending Reed your demo. I’m sorry.”
Dax is obviously crestfallen but trying to hide it. “It’s okay,” he says evenly. “Yeah, no problem. I totally understand. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“But only because that demo doesn’t show how totally awesome you are!” I add brightly. “Only because we’ve got this one amazing chance to make an awesome first impression with the guy who owns Red Card Riot’s record label and we’re totally gonna blow him outta the water!”
He looks like I’ve punched him and kissed him all at once. “Yeah, but that demo’s all I’ve got—at least for now. I’m working on it, but it’s gonna be a while.”
“How much do you still need?” I ask.
For as long as I can remember, Dax and his band (but mostly Dax) have been saving their pennies to record a full-length studio album of his songs with full instrumentation. But saving that kind of money—fifteen thousand bucks, he estimates, to record and produce the album exactly the way he wants it—is an awfully tall order for a group of twenty-something musicians living hand-to-mouth by playing bars and festivals.
“I had almost three thousand saved, but then my bike totally crapped out on me so I’m basically back to square one.”
“So you still need about fifteen grand or so?”
“Well, we could certainly record an album for less if we cut some corners on production value. Or I guess we could just do a few songs instead of a full album—or maybe another basic demo.” He puffs out his cheeks like a puffer fish, thinking. “But I really didn’t wanna do another demo—been there done that—I wanted to put together a full album that showcases who we are and what we can do.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Shit. Maybe I should just record a quick demo with my acoustic guitar on my iPad, just so you have something current to send to the guy before he forgets who you are—”
“Nope. We’re not gonna send Reed a demo, Dax.” I pull a thick envelope out of my purse and plop it onto the coffee table with a thud. “Because you’re recording a full album.”
“What’s that?”
“Open it.”
Dax opens the envelope and peeks inside. “Oh my... What the fuck is this? Did you rob a bank?”
I smirk. Oh, if only Dax knew how spot-on that comment is. I’d originally planned to use this wad of cash to pay off my credit cards and car, of course, but that was before I found out I’m gonna be a mill-i-on-aire.
“Where the fuck did you get this kind of cash?” Dax asks, his eyes wide.
“Playing craps,” I say matter-of-factly. “That’s almost twenty grand there, baby. Enough for whatever album you’ve been dreaming of making plus a bit extra for bells and whistles: strings, horns, a freaking choir—whatever. Or maybe PR for the album when you release it or a down payment on a new bike. Whatever. It’s yours. Go forth and prosper.”
“How the fuck did you win twenty grand playing craps?” Dax asks. “How is that even possible? You must have been betting, like, hundreds of bucks per roll—maybe even thousands.”
“Yeah, well, Josh spotted me some gambling money and then his brother walked away from the table and gave me all his chips. So, actually, I didn’t win any of this money fair and square. But Josh insisted I keep it, so whaddayagonnado?” I shrug. “And now it’s yours.”
“Wait a minute. The dude gave you twenty grand and you’re not sure if he’s serious about you? Are you mentally deficient?”
I wave him off. “No, trust me. You don’t know Josh. Just because he’s crazy-generous and he gave me an insane amount of money doesn’t necessarily mean he wants a serious relationship with me. He has a warped sense of reality when it comes to money. The guy wears two-thousand-dollar shoes (which, true story, I barfed on one night). He drives a frickin’ Lamborghini, Dax. The guy’s not normal.”
“Dude, I don’t care how rich he is or what shoes he wears or what car he drives. If a guy gives a woman, especially a woman he’s sleeping with, twenty grand, then he thinks she’s one of two things: a very high-priced hooker or the woman of his dreams.”