CHAPTER 1
Rosalie
“So, what kind of things do you like to do for fun?” the very nice man sitting across the table from me asked.
His lines felt so rote and basic I could almost have said them in my sleep.
After all, I had been onsomany first dates.
His name was Vermillion and he was squeaky-clean, with an “aspiring politician” haircut, his polo shirt and khakis pressed within an inch of their life, his boat shoes gleaming in the lights of the restaurant.
The straight-laced Dockers guysalwayswanted to date me. They loved gothic alt girls. Probably because they thought I was extra freaky. And I kind of was. Just not for them.
“Thrifting for vintage clothes, sewing. I love making my own clothes. And reading.”
“And?” Vermillion prompted, practically drooling all over his steak as he looked at the black lace around my throat, his eyes devouring every little glimpse of my tongue piercing.
“And exploring old graveyards.”
“Oh my,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “I’d love to do that with you, Rosalie.”
I smiled politely. Vermilion was clearly a nice guy who would adore me, treasure me, and unhesitatingly enable every single hobby and vintage shopping trip with breathless thrill.
I should be into this, intohim.
That would be the mature choice. After all, I was 27 now. Maybe it was time to stop the immature shit, thehoping, and settle down with a nice guy.
“And what do you do for a living?” he asked.
“I’m a songwriter.”
“Songwriter?” he cried eagerly, sawing away at his steak. “For who? Anyone I’ve ever heard of?”
Oh, you’ve heard of him. Everyone’s always heard of him. Even finance bros.
“I can’t say,” I said. “I’m afraid who I song write for is confidential information.”
Vermillion looked positively green with envy. “Well, do you ever meet anyone famous? Who is thebiggestcelebrity you’ve ever met?”
When I didn’t answer immediately, he pulled out his phone eagerly. “I’ll look you up. You in any of those gossip mags? I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re so beautiful! You look like a younger Morticia Addams.”
Not the first time I’d heard that, and since it was inevitable, I decided to tell him.
“Kingsley Ames,” I said. “I’m going with him on his upcoming tour.”
Vermillion choked on his wine, slopping it all down the front of his shirt.
“Wait, are you serious?YouknowtheKingsley Ames? But he’s the mostphenomenalsongwriter! A true 21stcentury bard. Maybe he can help with some of your songs. Make them better, you know. The man’s a certified genius.”
“Yeah,” I said, smothering a laugh. “We’ve been friends since college.”
If left to his own devices Kings would rhymefuckinwithsouthern, I thought to myself.
“Ohmygod,” Vermillion said excitedly. “I’m a massive fan of his. He’s not like that bland corporate rock shit, you know? His songs really slap. I was a fan before everyone else was, you know.”
I had heard this many times before. Everyone wasalwaysconvinced they were Kingsley’s first fan,theyappreciated his true geniusbeforehe was big.
“What’s he really like? He basicallyinventeddirtbag rock, you know.”
