Page 41 of Ravaged By Lust

“So you’re never going to apologize for what you did?” she asks me.

“No.”

“I might’ve forgiven you,” Chloe says. “Once. When it happened.”

“Well, that time has clearly passed,” I say. “But I’ve never stopped loving you, Chloe. I’ve never stopped thinking about you. Every single fucking day.”

She pauses for a moment. I just know my words have an impact on her. I can see it in her beautiful green eyes.

“You’re toxic,” she eventually replies.

And then she turns to go. She nods at her friend to follow. I haven’t realized, but he’s been staring at me this whole time.

“Wait,” he says. “Aren’t you…”

“Bishop Hayes,” Chloe finishes for him. “Yep. It’s him. The famous rockstar, and the biggest asshole on planet Earth.”

And then she truly goes. Leaving me once again standing there watching her back.

13

CHLOE

I break down. I give in. I go against all advice given to me by seemingly everyone I know.

I decide to check the view count and read the comments on my viral video.

Of course, I instantly realize it’s a mistake.

Wow.

Sure, the numbers are good – well, more than good. They’re off-the-wall crazy. Nearly ten million views in a couple of days. But the first comment I see is one aimed solely at my appearance.

I resemble a goblin, apparently.

The next comment is simply about how shit my voice is.

And that’s when I throw my phone against the wall. It lands with a wimpy thud on the carpet. I’m even shit at angrily throwing stuff.

Well, I’m not making that mistake to check the comments ever again.

To vent out all that weird negative energy, I do the one thing that brings me inner peace.

I pick up my guitar and start playing.

It’s not only the comments I need exorcising, but I also need to get a whole load of practice in before this big meeting with Mickey Miller tomorrow. Getting drunk and letting my hair down at the bar last night was not a good idea in hindsight. Now I’m even more nervous and trying to manage a thumping headache of a hangover. I really should’ve just spent yesterday evening going over my songs again and again.

I’m sitting in Gary’s living room. He’s left this morning for work, happy as a puppy. That man did not have a hangover, it seems.

What if the big shot producer makes me sing in front of him? What if he, like the anonymous online critic, thinks I have a shit voice? No wonder I’ve kept my music just to myself all these years when my head is filled with doubts like these. The pressure for tomorrow is freaking intense.

I go over one of my songs once. Twice. Three times. Improving it. Familiarizing myself with it once again. The more I play, the more confident I feel. The less the doubts in my head yell at me. That’s me, persistent Chloe.

I can do this. I’ve done this for most of my life. Why do I disregard my talent all the freaking time?

When I finish playing it for the fifth time, there’s a knock at the door. This isn’t my apartment, so I don’t know whether I should open it, but then I hear a voice.

“Chloe, I know you’re in there. I can hear you playing.”