Page 118 of Paint the Town, Dove
“Do what?” I repeated.
Pretty lady huffed, threw her hair back, and scowled. “Our duet.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Scarlett
“One big joke’s an understatement”
“Loop me in,” I upped the volume on my airpods, beating the punching bag with a left hook.
“I’m surprised Paisley even agreed to a duet with Ryden, all things considered.”
“Mal, it’s not Paisley’s choice. The label recruited her to save his image.”
“I know,” she puffed, “he’s such a mess right now, Scarlett. He um, he asked for you a bunch.”
Right hook, left.
Left hook, right.
Cross, jab, attack.
“You can call me after,” she suggested. “I know boxing isyourtime.”
I laughed, wiping beads of sweat dripping down my nose. “Paisley Devora, nominated for a few indie music awards, second-liner at Tomorrowland two years in a row, Coachella once. Up and coming star,” I supplied, “good for the press.”
“You think?”
“I know. He needs someone to save him.”He always did.
“You think that could be her? Tav had it in the works for quite some time now, since Ryden’s final tour party.”
Ah, now it all makes sense.I’d seen files on Paisley, never quite did my research on her until she became important. But she was familiar, and it hit me then that she was the girl who was withTav at that party, the one who had the good sense to eff off when we were chatting about yet another one of Ryden’sprimemoments. Or maybe it was me, running away when he performedthatsong.
No, not at fault, never at fault. I can’t be. I’m tired of taking all his blame for myself, shielding him from the regret.
His shackles are his own.
“Who knows, maybe the label will arrange for a public relationship to really –”
“I’ve got to go, Mal.” My lungs begged for air.
Each piercing thought punctured me like a bullet. It came to mind, of course it did. The second Tav and Mallory pitched their co-writing together, a part of me prayed it would be some glorified boy-band, hell, even coaxing Donny or Dean to sing something with him. Derek couldn’t sing to save a life.
But Paisley was brought in, with her chestnut golden hair, a sunbeam of a talent rising like a mountain peak, itching to grab a Grammy – Ryden was the perfect candidate.
Jaded rock star, hurt, brittle, orbiting with talent – needed a resurgence, some guidance in the form of somethingfresh. A new voice, a new sound.
A rebirth of music, one with his vocals, one with someone else’s.
Someone who could sing.
I glanced over to the bean bags pressed into the brick wall, chalk and dust filling the folds of grey and maroon.
I closed my eyes, grabbing hold of the chain to steady thepunching bag.
It was me here now, not Ryden.
