molasses looking my way. I don’t dwell on the perfect oval shape of them either. My heart stops, choking the blood flow to my body. I gape into Rhye Clark’s dark abyss. An empty, soulless cavity.
An uncontrollable full-body shiver shakes me to my core, and my world changes. Instantly. Irrevocably.
“God, why can’t I just die?” I think to myself, ignoring some chick that’s getting her stare on. I’m not sure what I just told that Ryan dude other than my name. Everything is jumbled up in my head. Too much static. I stumble over to sit in one of the black, cushioned chairs, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
I had to listen to Josh trying to wake me up all morning. “Rhye, you are going to be late. Rhye, its eight o’clock. Rhye, it’s ten o’clock.” I came up with inventive ways for him to go fuck himself and told him in detail every time he came into my room. Stupid motherfucker.
This morning, after only sleeping a total of an hour because of insomnia, I woke up sick to my stomach, and my knees ached like a son of a bitch. Classic withdrawal symptoms of coming off the “H”. It’s their fault in the first place. Even after taking a long, hot shower, I can’t clear my thoughts. The only reason I didn’t stay in bed is because of homicide. I was two seconds from committing it had I not left. Josh would have been famous though.
Taking in a huge gulp of air, I know that my rolling stomach has to be empty after having the squirts this morning. Fuck, I blew that bathroom up. Let Josh deal with that shit. Literally.
“Rhye, I’m not sure if you have met Syn Landry?” Ryan asks.
I shake my head, not really caring if I do either. Begrudgingly, I raise my head and open my eyes to look at him. The dude, with that long facial hair of his, red, plaid, button-up shirt, and jean coveralls looks like he should be playing a banjo in a cabin, deep in the mountains somewhere. I get it; this is fucking Tennessee, but really?
“Rhye Clark, please meet Syn. She is a Grammy-nominated and very talented country music artist,” he states, looking from her to me.
Fuck me. Country music? Shit. Damn and hell. I groan, publicly voicing my level of excitement. I hate lame ass country artists. I grew up in Georgia with a bunch of good ol’ boys that listened to that white, trailer trash music.
I turn to see who he is talking to. My eyes travel over her. Damn, did my worst nightmare just come to pass? Me being paired up with a Disney reject? That’s what she looks like anyway. One of those mouse-eared kids that has grown too old for sing-alongs and probably flaunts her shit all over town. I’m sure her name is really Cynthia, but in true bad-girl fashion, she changed it to a wannabe slutty name like Cyn. Any other time, I would be down with accessible ass, but in all honesty, home girl is not my type, and I’m not into statutory rape.
She can’t be older than sixteen. Not to mention, she is too squeaky clean looking, and damn. Why the fuck is she smiling at me? I bet she doesn’t have a single thought running between those ears of hers. I’m paying for my sins right here on earth. Sin. Her name. I can’t stop the laugh that escapes. The irony is not lost on me.
At the look of annoyance on her face, I cover my mouth with my hand and pretend to cough. Good start, Rhye. Not that I care. It seems I make friends wherever I go lately. Whatever. I swear, if only someone would shoot me, or shoot me up, now.
Ryan finally continues, adding, “Currently, we are working on her new album. Your record label thinks that it may be beneficial for both of you to share this time together, given that several recent top country, pop, and rock hits have been duets of mixed genres. I happen to agree. So, we will be working with you separately, and then, we will have you try to write a song together, one that could possibly feature you both, depending on the sound.”
My head is going to implode. I cut my eyes to him, letting
An uncontrollable full-body shiver shakes me to my core, and my world changes. Instantly. Irrevocably.
“God, why can’t I just die?” I think to myself, ignoring some chick that’s getting her stare on. I’m not sure what I just told that Ryan dude other than my name. Everything is jumbled up in my head. Too much static. I stumble over to sit in one of the black, cushioned chairs, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
I had to listen to Josh trying to wake me up all morning. “Rhye, you are going to be late. Rhye, its eight o’clock. Rhye, it’s ten o’clock.” I came up with inventive ways for him to go fuck himself and told him in detail every time he came into my room. Stupid motherfucker.
This morning, after only sleeping a total of an hour because of insomnia, I woke up sick to my stomach, and my knees ached like a son of a bitch. Classic withdrawal symptoms of coming off the “H”. It’s their fault in the first place. Even after taking a long, hot shower, I can’t clear my thoughts. The only reason I didn’t stay in bed is because of homicide. I was two seconds from committing it had I not left. Josh would have been famous though.
Taking in a huge gulp of air, I know that my rolling stomach has to be empty after having the squirts this morning. Fuck, I blew that bathroom up. Let Josh deal with that shit. Literally.
“Rhye, I’m not sure if you have met Syn Landry?” Ryan asks.
I shake my head, not really caring if I do either. Begrudgingly, I raise my head and open my eyes to look at him. The dude, with that long facial hair of his, red, plaid, button-up shirt, and jean coveralls looks like he should be playing a banjo in a cabin, deep in the mountains somewhere. I get it; this is fucking Tennessee, but really?
“Rhye Clark, please meet Syn. She is a Grammy-nominated and very talented country music artist,” he states, looking from her to me.
Fuck me. Country music? Shit. Damn and hell. I groan, publicly voicing my level of excitement. I hate lame ass country artists. I grew up in Georgia with a bunch of good ol’ boys that listened to that white, trailer trash music.
I turn to see who he is talking to. My eyes travel over her. Damn, did my worst nightmare just come to pass? Me being paired up with a Disney reject? That’s what she looks like anyway. One of those mouse-eared kids that has grown too old for sing-alongs and probably flaunts her shit all over town. I’m sure her name is really Cynthia, but in true bad-girl fashion, she changed it to a wannabe slutty name like Cyn. Any other time, I would be down with accessible ass, but in all honesty, home girl is not my type, and I’m not into statutory rape.
She can’t be older than sixteen. Not to mention, she is too squeaky clean looking, and damn. Why the fuck is she smiling at me? I bet she doesn’t have a single thought running between those ears of hers. I’m paying for my sins right here on earth. Sin. Her name. I can’t stop the laugh that escapes. The irony is not lost on me.
At the look of annoyance on her face, I cover my mouth with my hand and pretend to cough. Good start, Rhye. Not that I care. It seems I make friends wherever I go lately. Whatever. I swear, if only someone would shoot me, or shoot me up, now.
Ryan finally continues, adding, “Currently, we are working on her new album. Your record label thinks that it may be beneficial for both of you to share this time together, given that several recent top country, pop, and rock hits have been duets of mixed genres. I happen to agree. So, we will be working with you separately, and then, we will have you try to write a song together, one that could possibly feature you both, depending on the sound.”
My head is going to implode. I cut my eyes to him, letting
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