Page 30 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
I was even more fired up than before. My hands were shaking. My heart was pounding like I was about to confess my love to someone… or punch fate right in the face.
I slid another sheet into my Olivetti.
Aligned the page.
And typed:
HowNOTto Seduce a Rockstar
I smiled.
This time, I pulled the page out carefully—not to throw it away—and placed it face-down on the desk like it was treasure.
Then I grabbed a new sheet. Slotted it in.
And started typing.
My fingers hammered the keys with a furious, unstoppable grace. Words spilled onto the page like they’d been waiting forever to be released. My hands moved faster than my thoughts. But there was no confusion.
Only certainty. I knew what to write. And I knew how to write it. I didn’t have to make anything up. It had already happened. In fact, it was happeningright now.
I didn’t need to wait for inspiration, like I’d been told for years.
Here it was: inspiration, dressed in a black corset, trying to seduce a rockstar with goth-witch tactics and self-published manuals.
Here it was, real life.
“Happy now, Mr. Bronson?” I whispered, fingers still dancing across the keys. “Did you expect it tobe this grotesque and surreal? I doubt it.”
And yet, here it was.
Painfully real.
A story of madness and redemption, of delusion and clarity, of metamorphosis and waterproof mascara.
And love?
I didn’t know if there’d be room for that, too. But for now, there was resentment, strategy, transformation. And yes, a brand-new energy. A voice that, finally, was mine.
“Well, Mr. Bronson? What would your fancy literary friends say while swirling their thirty-euro French wine? What would they think of a story like this?”
I smirked to myself.
Because deep down, I knew.
This story was absurd. Unbelievable. Butdamnalive.
And maybe, for the first time… it had more heart than anything I’d ever forced myself to write before.
12
Woke up in the early afternoon, face glued to the pillow and my head full of warm bread crumbs.
Sunlight pushed through the window with the persistence of a door-to-door salesman, and I felt like I'd just stepped out of an emotional spin cycle.
I didn’t remember much about the night before—except that I could not handle alcohol. Never could. Never claimed otherwise. And those two gin and tonics at Spice, taken back-to-back with all the grace of a cheerleader under pressure, had launched me straight into orbit.
But one thing I did remember. Oh, I remembered it vividly.
