Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Wow. What a beginning. It’s like I’m reading the score to an epic film.
My heartbeat increases as I continue perusing the music. In the middle section, the instruments combine into a crescendo of raw energy and emotion, and then the drums unleash a barrage of rocking fills and driving rhythms, while the guitars wail and scream atonally.
But I almost drop the music to the floor when I reach the ending. Instead of finishing with a bang, the music slowly dies down until it fades into complete silence. As if the titular griffin has found its sanctuary—or maybe it’s been slain by some stronger beast and has limped off into a tragic yet noble death.
Just like my own Griffin, I don’t know what happens at the end. An invisible cord wraps around my heart.
God… Who wrote this? And why is it eerily reminiscent of the beast of burden inside me that I’ve tried to quell my entire life?
I turn back to the front page of the score. The composer’s name is Dennis Friedrich. No one I’ve ever heard of. But Dragonlock plays mostly original songs with the occasional cover. So even though I love looking at sheet music, I rarely buy any.
I certainly can’t spend any money today—I don’t have any—just because this piece of music stands out to me. I should put it down.
Forget about it.
But that would mean forgetting about Griffin, and though it pains me to remember, I can’t allow myself to ever let her go.
I freaked out today when Diana touched the tattoo on my thigh. I don’t think about it much. I just know it’s there. I need to have Griffin with me. But I can’t be able to see it, or I’ll dwell on all those years lost.
And then I think about the young hooker last night—the one who got me thrown in the slammer. I’m usually pretty tight with my money. But something in her eyes reminded me of my little sister, and I couldn’t help myself.
For a moment, my mind goes to the place I never wanted to go.
What if it was Griffin?
I shake the thought out of my head. No, that woman was way too young. Griffin would be twenty-seven by now. Older than Diana.
God…
That young girl… I’m not even sure she was eighteen.
Her skin was so tight and rosy and beautiful, and her blue eyes—nearly as blue as Griffin’s, even in the dim streetlights—should’ve been sparkling in her youth. Instead they were sunken and sad. Hard looking.
I wish I could’ve helped her.
But she no doubt took the money and gave it back to her pimp.
Then he probably sent her out to find more.
And any more she got that night wouldn’t have come as freely as mine did.
She’d have had to work for it.
I shake my head again to clear it of the unwanted images.
Griffin is gone. Most likely dead and buried.
All those years that I was away in the group homes, I thought maybe my parents would come and get me. Once Griffin disappeared, surely they’d realize they made a terrible mistake.
That I hadn’t been the one to harm Griffin in the first place.
Someone had an eye on her, and for some reason, whoever it was got interrupted that first night.
As much as I would love to see her again, I know she’s buried somewhere. Eternally five or six years old and at peace now.
Fuck it. I grab the sheet music and take it to the checkout counter.
“Is this all for you today?” a bright and cheery young woman says to me.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Then I take a deep breath. “Are you looking for any percussion instructors at the moment?”
She frowns. “I have to check with the owner, and he’s not in today. He takes Sundays off.”
“Okay. Thanks anyway.”
She grabs a pad of sticky notes from under the counter. “You want to leave your name and number? I’ll be happy to give it to him tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She hands me one of the sticky notes along with a pen. “Write your name and contact information on here. He’ll be in tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks.” I scribble my name and number down on the back of the card and hand it to her, looking at her name tag. “I appreciate it, Annalise. That’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” She blushes. “Would you like a bag for your music?”
“Nope. I’ll just carry it. I hope to hear from the owner tomorrow.”
She bats her eyes. “I hope you hear from him, too. It would be nice to have you around here”—she looks down at the card—“Dragon.” Her eyes widen.
I nod. “That’s my name.”
She leans forward. “I have to say you’re the first Dragon I’ve ever met.”
“And probably the last,” I say. “Thanks for everything, Annalise.”
Annalise gives me a wide smile. She’s a cute little thing, can’t be any more than nineteen or twenty, with a body of soft curves and a round and friendly face that’s bordering on pretty.