Can’t sleep. Wanted you to sing me to sleep.
This guy makes me want to jump out of a window face-first with no parachute. But somehow, I still love him like he’s my brother.
Me
Get out of my texts.
Axel
Come on, bro. All the girls love your raspy singing voice. I’m just trying to love what they do.
Me
Fuck off, fuckboy.
Axel
At least I get some, prude.
Me
I have a little girl who depends on me to live, jackass.
Turning off my phone because I’ve had enough of Axel’s stupid humor, I pick up my pencil but drop it again. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply before resting my head on my desk.
* * *
I have to admit, the new studio is wicked. All the high-tech guitars and equipment are things I could definitely get used to. But today has been a long day at the studio. Nonstop vocal exercises have my throat begging for relief. If we don’t hit a high note perfectly, we practice until we do.
As much as I love singing, I need a break. Being around the same people for hours is making me crazy.
Slipping out of the room quickly when no one’s looking, I walk into the elevator and press the main level button. Playing with my phone while I wait, I tap my foot to the beat of the song we’ve been practicing all day. Hearing the ding that indicates the doors are opening, I walk through them.
My fingers fiddle with the black beanie on my head as I walk over to the kitchen. Grabbing a white mug, I start making myself a coffee. I soak in this temporary silence as much as I can. But it ends too soon when the elevator doors open, and I stiffen.
I beg that it isn’t one ofthem.
I take a chance and turn slightly, getting a glimpse of long, wavy brown hair.
Huh, must be the girlfriend I see all the time in the tabloids.
“Hello.”
Fuck, please let her be talking on the phone.
Turning around fully, I find her leaning against the island in front of me. Looking directly at me.
Nodding once in acknowledgment because I’m not a total dick, I grab a couple of sugar packets and pour them into the boiling hot coffee.
“Note to self: he doesn’t talk,” she mutters to herself.
I almost snort. “I talk. I just choose when to do it.”
She corrects herself, “Note to self: he talks, but most of the time, he chooses not to.”
My dry chuckle practically bounces off the walls. “I wonder how you came to that conclusion. You must be a mind reader.”
“You’re just so easy to read,” she jokes and makes her way to the fridge. Grabbing a chocolate chip bag, she waves over her shoulder. “Have fun singing and everything.”
