I peered up from the guitar to see my cousin’s eyebrows dipped and her forehead wrinkled. I didn’t want to ask her what her expression meant.
“Speed it up a little.”
I played faster, getting into it. That was when I heard it. The familiarity.
“Take me home, to the place,” Rayven sang with a deadpan expression.
“Oh my God,” I screeched and stopped the movement of my fingers. “I can’t believe I just did that.” Groaning, I looked across the table at Rayven, who gave me a pitiful look.
I drew out a frustrated breath. “Probably for the best anyway. We know I need to stick to writing and not trying to sneak into the production side of things.”
Frowning, I stared at Bessie. I’d only been learning to play the guitar within the last couple of years. I wasn’t a producer of music. I was a writer.
Rayven gave me a curious look, but the phone I thought was irrevocably damaged rang yet again. I was both unable to write and incapable of escaping the paparazzi and gossip reporters.
They all were too eager to get images of me after the video of me burning Nate’s shit came out two months earlier.
“For all this trouble, I wish I’d burned his entire house down,” I mumbled before placing my guitar on the floor and folding my arms across my chest.
“No, you don’t,” Rayven said. “You’d be up to your eyeballs in legal bullshit and even more tied to Nate than you already are now.”
I huffed but didn’t say anything. She was right. The video of me flying off the handle and lighting some of Nate’s belongings on fire in his bathtub was terrible enough. Luckily, that was all that burned, as the house never actually caught fire. For some reason, Nate chose not to press charges against me for the destruction of his property.
But I was still tied to the son of a bitch.
“I’m never going to be able to get out of this contract if I can’t write any damn songs,” I whined, feeling helpless and hopeless.
“The music will come,” Rayven said, but didn’t sound too convincing.
“When? It’s been months since I’ve gotten any inspiration. Even then …” I trailed off because I didn’t need to finish my sentence. The songs I did right before my break up with Nate were terrible.
“I mean, months ago, I could at least write something. They might not have been good, but they were something. I can’t even put together a chorus now.”
“Relax,” Rayven said. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“How can I not be?” I demanded, and held my arms out wide. “If I can’t write music, then who am I?”
Again, my phone rang, and I almost completely lost it.
“On top of that, I can’t get away from those people.” I pointed toward the living room, indicating my phone. “They hound me like those birds that fly over dying animals waiting to get their chunk of flesh.”
“Vultures,” Rayven supplied.
“Yes, vultures. I can’t escape them in this damn city. Or in New York, which is too close to my parents, anyway.”
Even in a city of five million people, it still felt too small to relocate there. Yes, I’d grown up there, and technically it was home, but my mother and father were the last people I needed to be around.
“You can pick anywhere to go. The world is your oyster,” Rayven said. I heard the masked cynicism in her voice.
“I don’t know.” With a heavy breath, I slumped back in my chair.
“Here. I bought a couple of scones from the shop. Eat,” she encouraged.
I broke off a corner of the sugar scone that Rayven placed on a saucer in front of me. With some reluctance, I chewed on the sweet, crumbly treat. I barely tasted it as I swallowed.
The heaviness in my heart had overtaken my entire body, even my tastebuds.
“What’s that?” I asked toward the pile Rayven had placed on the table.
