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)
He says what we have isn’t about convenience, but I’m still not convinced.
Saturday night rolls around, and as I take to the stage at Cedar Bar for my weekend gig, I see a figure in the audience my body automatically knows is Ryder.
It’s all the convincing I need.
He came to see me play.
Unlike when Cash was in the audience, I’m not nervous.
Okay, I’m a little nervous, but I’ve performed in front of Ryder countless times now. I want to show him I’m taking his advice. I’m listening to him. I’ve tweaked my sets and chosen songs that show off more of my range.
I’ve taken my song choices to a new level where I don’t ask if it’s too mainstream or has the perfect amount of obscure to popular ratio.
I don’t give a shit what other people think. I’m only taking my own personal opinion into account.
If I’m honest, it’s changed the entire way I listen to music.
I may never be a boy band fan, but I’ve reached a new level of appreciation for them. Thanks to Ryder.
Still ain’t gonna fucking sing one of their songs, though.
My eyes meet the shadowy figure in the audience. He’s in a denim jacket with a gray hood to try to conceal his identity, and as selfish as it is, I hope he isn’t recognized.
He’s here for me, and I kinda want to keep it that way.
It’s hard not to rush through the set so I can go to him, which is ridiculous because we saw each other yesterday.
He had a new act in the studio today—something he usually doesn’t do on weekends. I would’ve worked, but Maggie was able to take Kaylee.
The beginning of the end of my time as Kaylee’s nanny.
I thought Ryder was going to be in the studio all day, but I guess they finished up early.
While I perform, my gaze keeps going back to him, even though I can basically only see the outline of him under the stage lights.
After a million hours onstage, I finally get to my last song, but as I put my mouth to the microphone, I hesitate.
I decide to change it up by singing our version of “Take Me to Church.”
Though I can’t see his expression throughout it, I imagine him staring at me in the hungry way he has been while we’ve been in the studio.
The heat in his eyes and the tight set of his jaw.
My dick is hard just picturing it. I’ve never been more grateful to have my guitar onstage with me.
When I get to the bridge and belt out the lyrics, I close my eyes and remember what it felt like to have Ryder’s hands on me. His mouth.
I want it again.
Since when does a four-minute song feel like an eternity?
When I get to the final chorus, I try to lock eyes on him again, but he’s gone.
I stumble over the last note and am quick to leave the stage before the applause even begins to die down.
Ryder must’ve left to beat the crowd or perhaps he was recognized. I try to head for the entrance to follow him, but Alex the bartender appears in front of me and stops me with his hand on my chest.
“You might wanna check your dressing room.”
I hate that I can’t contain my smile.
“How in the hell are you getting all these celebrities to come see you play?”
Cocky is something I can play well when I need to. I definitely don’t need to tell Alex neither Cash nor Ryder were here for musical reasons. “Did you not see me up there? I’m on fire.”
He doesn’t really believe me.
“For real. Ryder wants to get me a record deal.”
“Ryder. Sure, because everyone in LA is on a first-name basis with Ryder-fucking-Kennedy.”
“Anyone who has talent is.” I slap his shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Can you at least get one of them to come see my set some time?” he calls after me as I make my way to the back.
“If you’re really nice to me,” I call back.
“I give you free drinks!”
I want to argue all performers get free drinks, but I’m too far away now and what’s waiting for me in my dressing room is more important.
As soon as I’m through the door, I close it behind me. I don’t want anyone else knowing who’s in here.
Ryder sits on the old, dusty couch against the wall with a small smirk on his lips and his hood still over his head.
My tongue is thick in my mouth, and I can’t find words.
I lean against the door and watch as Ryder slowly gets to his feet.
He takes one step and then two, so incredibly slow and teasing. He doesn’t say a word.
Only when he’s toe to toe with me and reaches behind me to flick the lock does he speak.
“You don’t play fair.”