Total pages in book: 11
Estimated words: 10569 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 53(@200wpm)___ 42(@250wpm)___ 35(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 10569 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 53(@200wpm)___ 42(@250wpm)___ 35(@300wpm)
Then there was all the stuff with Hayes and Samantha… who I’ve now seen together twice having quiet, private conversations.
So yeah, I’m feeling that tell-tale prick behind my eyes and sting at the bridge of my nose for different reasons.
Yes, Hayes is my own personal bodyguard, but he’s so much more to me. He’s the first one I play any new songs to. And he’s actually great for knocking around ideas for lyrics. He gives me all of the pickles from his sandwiches and knows I’m terrified of spiders. He’s my favorite person outside of the girls in my band.
Growing up, playing barefoot outside, I never would have thought there’d come a day I’d need one. Tonight, there’d been a guy about to storm the stage, but Hayes grabbed him before he could cause damage. The weird thing is, I know that creep couldn’t have been after me but one of the other girls. My all-girl band is made up of some of my closest friends. I happen to know for a fact that they’re the ones all the people want. Sure, they tolerate me because I’m the lead singer. But they don’t want me. Not that way, at least.
Not that I want creepers to want me. Gah, my mind is all jumbled.
When I was a little girl, I used to believe that I’d grow up and meet my person. You know, the one Hollywood and romance novels assure us is out there. That special person who’s supposed to fit you just right, be your soft place when you need somewhere to fall. Yeah, so I ate that myth up, and I’ve written countless songs about it.
But here’s the story that Hollywood never tells. The one where you meet your someone and they don’t see you the same way. That’s my story. Not quite as romantic and tidy as the ones with the happily-ever-afters.
So yeah, I met my perfect match five years ago when he showed up for his first day of work. My own private bodyguard. I hadn’t thought I needed one, but the powers that be had deemed it–deemed him–necessary.
Unrequited love, party of one. That’s me.
Once we’re back in our hotel suite, I go through the motions of taking a shower and scrubbing off all the layers of makeup and hairspray. By the time I’m done, my skin is pink from the combined hot water and me loofahing too vigorously. I dress in my usual night clothes—jammy shorts and a matching top. No need to worry about what I’m wearing; I’m pretty sure Hayes sees me as a walking target. Cause you know, I’m merely his target–the object he’s protecting.
If Samantha is representative of the type of women he’s attracted to, then I never stood a chance. She’s tall and lithe with straight blonde hair and legs for days. Pretty much the exact opposite of what I look like.
So who cares if I’m wearing a sleep short set that shows off the abundance of my curves? Because he’s sure not paying attention. I swear I have a million pairs of these because they’re so comfy to sleep in. Impossibly soft cotton like it was worn in before. A tank top and matching shorts, usually with some silly cartoon drawing of cats on it. Someday, I’ll live a life outside of the public eye. I’ll get to stay home and have a house full of cats.
On stage, wearing my pin-up style dresses with their tight bodices and flared skirts, I look like the classic hourglass shape. Marilyn Monroe if she’d legitimately been plus-sized, instead of her actual size. Out of my stage uniform, I’m squishier. Big boobs, wide hips, big butt, thunder thighs, cellulite aplenty. You name it, I’ve got it.
I stand in front of the mirror, bushing out my hair and then pulling it into a thick braid that goes down my back. I slather on my lotion and moisturizer, then head out to the main room.
Hayes and I have our routines. We get back to the hotel, and we both shower. Separately, obviously. Though I admittedly would not mind if he jumped in my shower to scrub my back or screw me senseless. Whichever he preferred.
His showers are always much shorter than mine. By the time I join him, he’s wearing fresh jeans, a tight black shirt, has hair damp, and there’s food from room service. I can’t help but stare at the way that shirt molds to his muscular shoulders. It’s stuck to his back like he forgot to dry himself before getting dressed.
He glances up and sees me coming, but I swear he’s looking over one of my shoulders. Sometimes, I think he looks at anything but me.
Unless he’s on duty, then his eyes track my every movement.
“I got all your favorites,” he says, pulling the domed plate covers off. “I hate these fucking things,” he grumbles. “Why do we want our food steamed after it’s been cooked? Surely there’s a better way to transport food so it doesn’t get cold.”