Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
It’s been two weeks since we started this nightmare.
Two weeks of working until one, sometimes two in the morning because the sun setting seems to be when Ammo gets his second wind.
My throat hurts, I’m sore, and I hate Marshall Ammo Adams.
Actually, hate is too tame of a word. If I’ve learned anything these last weeks, it’s that he is not only a controlling bully, he’s a narcissistic dick.
Nothing is ever good enough, and we are working our asses off trying to achieve a level of perfection that doesn’t exist. Over and over, I’ve sang the same songs, which I can only deduce that he dislikes as he keeps having me repeat them.
Which, not gonna lie, is making me slightly insecure. I mean, I poured my heart and soul into those songs. And thanks to him, I’m feeling like they are trite and immature because he gives absolutely no positive feedback.
None.
Not to mention the endless sluts he trots in and out of here. But I am a professional, and no one can say I haven’t tried. This latest slap in the face…yeah, I might be done.
“Where is he?” I snap, looking over at the control booth.
“No clue,” Malcolm says, as he stays focused on the panel, clearly not wanting to look me in the eyes because he knows.
“Where’s Melanie?” Not even trying to pretend I’m not livid.
He’s Satan.
Fucking Lucifer, and apparently, he’s decided that I need to slowly burn in Hell with him. Also, he’s now fucking my best friend. Okay, that might be premature seeing as Melanie just showed up today.
No text, or warning, just her sashaying into the studio with a bottle of Jägermeister and coffees for everyone.
Of course, the bitch looks beautiful. Like a dark-haired bombshell, oozing sex appeal. Wearing black leather pants that were too long for me, so I gave them to her, and a tight white tee that’s completely see-through. Like every man in the control room was staring at her nipples kind of see-through. Meanwhile, I’m over here wearing sweats and exhaling coffee breath.
The first couple days I tried to fix myself up, but quickly it became clear that Ammo has no rhyme or reason to his work schedule. I decided to swap out glamour for comfort, and let’s be honest, who’s really here I need to impress?
Asshole.
“I’ll be back,” I snap, tossing the headphones on the couch. This has nothing to do with Ammo. Melanie is the closest person I have as a true friend. She needs to know that all the shit she read in that tell-all book was true and then some.
Swinging open the door, I march past two sound engineers.
“Court, I think we need to swap out the—”
“Do whatever you need. Where’s Ammo?” I cut them off, as I look around the lavish room to the right of the recording studio.
Giant green ferns are scattered along the corners, a large, fluffy black rug and expensive furniture give it an opulent feel. There’re no windows, but the recessed lighting graces the soffits around the edges of the room, showcasing the numerous signed platinum and gold records from all the bands that have graced this studio.
“Ammo?” I call out, my heart pounding, and that crazy feeling like I can’t breathe is happening again. I keep assuring myself this is all normal. I’m just having anxiety; I mean, why wouldn’t I? My career is on the line, hanging on a wing and a prayer depending on this man’s mood.
“I think I saw him heading toward the kitchen,” Frank says uncomfortably, at least I think that’s his name. I try to keep up with all the players, but I’ll admit that I’m distracted.
God, I’ve been spending so much time in this place I’ve pretty much forgotten about Mike Zane. How sad, but that’s the only positive thing I can say about this debacle so far. I’m so frazzled that I don’t even have time to worry about a potentially dangerous stalker.
“Come on, give me a taste…” Ammo’s growly voice seems to bounce off the walls, burying itself in my heart as I turn the corner heading toward the kitchen area.
Is that giggling or gagging?
Oh, this is over. I’m done. He cannot fuck my best friend. That cannot become my theme song. You know what, maybe this is for the best. Malcolm and Ammo can sue me for all I care right now.
And, I don’t care.
I really don’t. So why are you still walking?
Stop walking, Courtney. Yet I don’t, and if I live to be a hundred, I’m sure I’ll wonder why I did this?
It has to be that it’s my Melanie.
I’m protecting her from being another notch on this dick’s bedpost. It’s the only logical reason I’m turning the corner.
“Don’t be greedy.” His voice…it’s like a deep caress, and my heart almost burns it’s pounding so fast as I go to scream, then freeze, as Melanie groans.