Page 29 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Tess—with her tragic elegance, her overblown metaphors, and her attempts at seduction that looked like a cross between avant-garde theater and emotional sabotage—was pure inspiration.
It felt like a lightning bolt had struck me straight in the forehead. But the good kind of lightning. The kind that sets your soul on fire instead of frying your brain.
And yet, I kept my cool. I slipped on my mask of cynical, world-weary Bea and hid my excitement. I didn’t want to interfere. I didn’t want to rush, steer, or touch anything.
No.
All I had to do was sit back, watch—and pray that her grotesque, glorious, absurd journey to seduce Zane Ryder kept spiraling further and further out of control.
To the limit. Or beyond.
Because the more off-course she went… the more I found my own.
When we finally got home, Tess kicked off her ankle boots with the exaggerated grace of a diva finishing a sold-out world tour.
“Now I need a proper night’s sleep,” she announced, stretching like a velvet-coated cat. “Tomorrow is going to be an exhausting day of study.”
“Study?” I asked, watching her from the kitchen doorway.
“You’ll see tomorrow,” she replied. Then disappeared into her bedroom as if she’d just closed the curtain on a theatrical performance.
Curtain down.
I literally ran to my room.
I had to pee like crazy, but I ignored it. Completely. I had something far more important to do. And, if we’re being honest, that physical urge would only help me: that creative tension that makes you write as if your bladder and your soul were racing to see which one bursts first.
I was a flood. Literally. And I had to spill ontothe page.
I sat down at my desk, brushed the cracker crumbs off the surface, shoved aside a couple of notebooks filled with half-baked ideas, and finally… unearthed my old Olivetti.
It was there, buried under a pile of crumpled sheets, dried-up pens, and half-dead dreams.
But not today.
Today, it rose again.
I slid in a fresh sheet, stretched tight, white as a second chance.
Placed my fingers on the keys.
Closed my eyes.
And typed the title:
How to Seduce a Rockstar
But then I ripped it up.
I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it over my shoulder with a sharp, decisive flick.
Not out of anger. Not out of frustration.
I did it because, one second after typing it, I already had a better idea.
A more fitting one.
A truer one.
