Page 55 of Over You
“Lottie’s in her room?” I snaked a hand to the waist of her jeans.
She swatted my touch away. “What is it withyouand kitchens?”
“I don’t discriminate against rooms. It just happens that, for whatever reason, you spend a lot of time in kitchens.” My lips made a path to her shoulder, my fingers fiddled with the button of her fly.
Just when my fingers dipped beneath the hem of her panties, “Fuck You” by Ceelo Green blared from my pocket.
Georgia broke away from my hold, grabbing a dishtowel and popping me with it. “I’m going upstairs to go change.” She made her way out of the kitchen, and my gaze followed her ass.
I bit at my lip, debating on sending Ricky’s call to voicemail and following her upstairs. Ricky was one of the last people I wanted to talk to, but I couldn’t keep avoiding his horrible ass. Groaning, I pressed my phone to my ear. “Yeah?”
“I got you out of that stupid court date for your Free Willy moment on Rodeo Drive.”
“Thanks. You’re a winner.” I hoped he caught the sarcasm in that.
“And I’m gonna need you guys in the studio by the end of the summer.”
“For what?” I snagged the lone piece of sausage from the skillet and crammed it in my mouth. “I told you, I’m not singing pop.”
“Stop being a diva. I’m not making you singpop.It’s updating your music.”
I didn’t feel like arguing with him. “When’s the album supposed to drop?”
“After the first of the year.”
I dreaded going back to the bullshit littered streets of LA, but it could be temporary. Just long enough to get the album done, then Georgia and I could come back here— There I was making plans like we were together indefinitely. “My contract’s up in November. I’m not recording anything for you.” Silence. I wiped grease from my hands. “Did you hear me?”
“I don’t know what’s crawled up your ass and died, but it smells. You’re recording the album. Leo and Nash already confirmed.” And then the call disconnected.
I stood in the kitchen in a daze. It felt like fame had forgotten me over the past few days, and I’d almost forgotten it. I could leave that entire industry showboat behind and never look back, but like I’d told myself a few days ago, the guys depended on me.
And as much as I bitched about fame, I lived for my music.
When I was fourteen, I found a janky Fender sticking out of a garbage can. I glued the neck back together, bought some strings, and I taught myself to play by watching YouTube videos. It was the first thing I ever felt good at. The first thing I felt was mine. Music was the first thing that didn’t reject me. It saved my sanity; it validated me. I found more of myself in music than I had anywhere else, and even at times when I couldn’t believe in myself, I believed in the music.
And that was my fatal mistake.
I took something that I was passionate about and made a career out of it. Sure, I was grateful. I understood I was a statistical improbability, but I also understood that all those kids playing fifty-dollar gigs at some rundown bar did it for no other reason than dreams and love. They sang what they wanted to. They wrote what they wanted to. And, at one time, I used to be able to do those things too. But when people and labels and fans started dictating my art, it lost its value—at least to me it did. It became a chore. Something I wasn’t sure I was so great at anymore.
Singing songs that I didn’t feel soul deep—that killed a little part of me. The industry had taken both things I was passionate about—Georgia and music—and shit all over them.
I could leave the music industry, minimalize and probably have enough money to carry Georgia and me through the rest of our lives. . .probably. But where was the security with that? Most bands lasted a few years. A decade if they were lucky. I could just suck it up and ride this magic carpet for everything it was worth.
Tours. And parties. A backstage full of drugs.Or maybe I shouldn’t. . .
20
Georgia Anne
Traveling the world, I had grown to realize that it wasn’t Santa Monica Beach that brought me peace. It was the lull of the crashing waves and the tantric dance the sunlight performed over the bobbing surface.
“You always liked the beach.” Spencer pulled my back against his chest, and I dug my toes into the gritty sand while seafoam lapped at our feet.
“A lot of cultures think water’s holy.”
“Is that so?”
I traced over the tattoos on his forearm. “Yeah. The Ganges in India—they say that’s the crossing point between heaven and hell.”
