Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
"Hole is better."
Satisfaction fills my veins. Affection. Pride too. My face flushes. My chest. "You're not just saying that?"
"I don't want to say it now. I don't want to give you the satisfaction."
"Especially when you're driving and I can't reward you for it?"
"Reward? Really? I expect rewards for having the right opinions?"
"That's not what I meant." And I can't go there anyway. This isn't about my taste in music. It's not even about brilliant women going ignored. Or being blamed for their husband's suicide. The suicide that followed multiple drug overdoses.
And there we are.
Back to the elephant in the room.
"I know. I'm just giving you a hard time, Cass." He shoots me that charming Damon Webb smile. "It's more that you're so turned on by other people noticing the same brilliance you do that you can't control yourself."
"I do not."
He raises a brow do you.
Oh god, I do. That's when I started really liking Frederick. After he agreed Kate Nash was criminally underrated. Don't get me wrong. He was always handsome. Very handsome. I had a crush right away. But once I knew he was smart and gorgeous—"I get turned on, sure, but I control myself."
Damon chuckles. "What qualifies as control?"
"I don't mount every person who loves Hole or Amy Winehouse."
"No, they're too popular. You'd have to fuck half the LA area."
I flip him off.
"But if it's one of your more obscure references. Or someone who introduces you to new music. An acoustic cover of a nineties rock song, maybe."
My blush spreads to my chest. He's right. Dammit.
He glances at me. Notices. Smiles called it.
It's sweet and fun and distracting. I want to lean into it. I want to say fuck all this complication, let's park the car and have sex right now.
But I can't do that. Not until we talk about this.
Only, I still can't find the words. "I guess you could call it my weakness. Laurel's is nice thighs. Mine is appreciation of great lyrics."
"What are you saying about my thighs?" he teases.
I don't take the bait this time. "That's why I fell for him, at first, because we aligned there. But he had other good traits, too. He was a great boyfriend for a while."
"I know," Damon says.
"It's funny when you're with someone. You see those warning signs. I noticed he shut down conversations when I didn't appreciate one of his influences. I noticed he always left my friends' parties early. I noticed he thought sex was done after he came. But I always had an explanation. A reason."
"It's not a criticism, Cass. We all have weaknesses."
"You do?" I mean it more generally. What's your weakness, Damon? Just tell me. Please. We're supposed to be honest with each other.
But he doesn't answer that. He moves away from anything real with a dumb joke. "Great tits."
My cheeks flush. "Mine are kinda small."
"Yours are fucking fantastic."
"So that's it? My tits?" I don't quite find the humor.
"Don't sell yourself short, Cass. You have a great ass too. And legs for days."
"I'm glad I meet your standards."
"You're beautiful." His voice drops to a serious tone. "And sexy. But that's not the reason why I like you."
"You like me?" I ask.
He nods. "Yeah. I always liked you."
"You did?"
"That's my weakness," he says. "Women who love music. Who lose themselves in it the way you do."
"What about Tinsel?" I ask.
He glances at me what the fuck? "What about her?"
"Is she your type, then?"
"No," he says. "She might love music the way you do, but I haven't seen it. I haven't seen that look you get when you slip on your headphones, like the world finally makes sense."
It does. That's why I love music. That's why I love this job. Because writing is the only way I know how to make sense of my life. And writing lyrics is the best way.
What would I write now?
I close my eyes and try to let the words come to me, but they don't. I can't write without a pen and paper. Or enough privacy for my thoughts to unfurl.
But it's more than that too.
It's not safe to dive into my thoughts as long as this is hanging over our heads.
"Her songs are good though," I say. "Have you listened to them?"
"Not as good as yours, but yeah."
"Did you hear the last one?" I ask. "It's about addiction."
He doesn't react to that. "It's a popular subject."
"Yeah. Right. All those songs that sound like love songs, but they're really about heroin."
He looks at me funny. "Sure."
"Do you have a favorite?" I ask.
"I don't have a list complied." He keeps his eyes on the road. "Why? Is that the way you want to go?"
"Why didn't you have a drink tonight?"
"I did," he says. "You saw it."
"An alcoholic drink."
He clamps his hands on to the wheel. "Would you prefer I drive drunk?"