Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
My pulse had quickened, throat tightened. I was about to embark on one hell of an adventure, and it was either going to be the very best or the absolute worst decision of my life.
Nine
Helen
I hadn’t known a perfect Sunday could exist until I’d experienced one for myself. Usually, they consisted of laundry and the gradual build-up of dread in preparation for the following day at work. Today, though, I stepped back in time, ditched adulthood and its accompanying responsibilities, and spent the day mostly in bed.
I checked in on Chrissie as soon as I’d woken. She hadn’t answered either of the two calls I’d attempted, so I ended up texting, which she responded to, eventually. It took me by surprise to discover she’d spent the night with Liam. Chrissie wasn’t the casual sex type, unless it involved David, and she’d only known this guy from the band a matter of hours.
“He’s all right when you get to know him,” Hugo tried to assure me about the man who played the keys to his songs.
“So, what you’re telling me is that he’s a total dick but I’ll get used to it?”
Hugo grimaced. “Pretty much.”
Oh, Chrissie. I hoped she knew what she was doing. Falling for a musician whose job took him around the globe and through flocks of sycophantic females didn’t seem like a great idea to me.
After that, Hugo and I laughed until tears came. We had pillow fights teeming with so much competitiveness that one of them burst, showering the pair of us with feathers. We ate ice cream under the covers, watched movies purely to rip apart the storylines, and sang the songs of legends. I was the Kiki to Hugo’s Elton and I belted my parts into my fist-mic until my throat felt like it might split, and Hugo didn’t even tell me how terrible I was. He didn’t need to, in fairness. I had ears.
For just a day, we were teenagers again. Hugo’s massive bed reminded me of the old bandstand we’d once claimed as ours, back at the park around the corner from his childhood house. Nothing could get to us here. Problems didn’t exist. Fame, distance…they didn’t apply. Yesterday didn’t matter, tomorrow wasn’t promised. All we had was now, here in this room. Together, like it used to be, like it should always be.
“Guess what I’m thinking,” I said. It was early evening and I was lying flat on my back in Hugo’s bed, dressed in another snug tee, staring at the ceiling.
Hugo rolled onto his side, propped himself up on an elbow. He looked much hotter than I did, even in loungewear. His joggers fit his hips perfectly, as if they’d been sewn to his skin. He’d coupled them with a simple white vest that made his body look anything but simple. Lucky bastard. “Hmm…” He studied my face as he thought. “That you’re hungry? It’s been a while since lunch.”
“Nope.” Though, my stomach had been complaining a little for the last twenty minutes. “I’m wondering why grapefruits are called grapefruits when there’s already a fruit called a grape.”
“Well, depends on who you ask,” Hugo said, expression serious. I should’ve known he’d take the question as a literal challenge, though I wouldn’t have expected him to have an answer. “Some believe it comes from the fact clusters of grapefruits resemble large grapes when growing on the trees. However, some etymologists believe it’s a corrupted form of the word great-fruit, which comes from the scientific word for pomelo. Citrus maxima.”
My head rolled to face him, lips curling into an amused grin. “How do you even know that?”
Hugo shrugged a shoulder. “I read a lot of shit. I’ll see something, overhear a random conversation, something’ll pique my interest, then I can’t let it go until I’ve discovered everything I can about it. Better than cocaine, I figured.” He laughed, then, and the sound was beautiful.
“Is there much of that about?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Like, is there any truth in the whole sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll thing?”
“Oh, yeah. Whatever city I’m in, there’ll be at least a dozen contacts on my phone I could call to bring me whatever shit I wanted. It’s fucking rife.”
“And you’ve never been tempted?”
His gaze drifted to the mattress, eyes focused on his finger making patterns in the crumpled sheets. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been tempted.” He risked a glance in my direction, and I noticed how deep the ridge between his eyes had become while he awaited the judgement that would never come. Not from me. “When I won the show, signed my first contract…” The words faded away and he shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a bad memory. “I had no clue what I was doing, or what I was in for. They stripped away everything that made me who I felt I was as an artist. As a fucking person. I’d never felt particularly great about myself but, suddenly, even the things I had confidence in were being torn to shreds. My hair was too long, clothes were too weird, whatever the fuck that meant. They already had a mould, set and painted, they just needed someone to fill it. The winner. Me.”