Page 159 of Paint the Town, Dove
I was fucking RICH!
Who would’ve thought? The kid from the fucking shitter bounced back like this.
Pierce told me it came with the territory – everything did. Drinking, booze, sex and rock n’ fucking roll. Said that all the greats had backstories like mine. Parents fucked off, kid gets into some hard shit to forget and then they make a platinum album.
I HIT GOLD, BABY.
All of last year was a goddamn blur. Scarlett and I moved into a Penthouse in Manhattan, all expenses paid by the label, obviously. Cause we could do that now – charge whatever we wanted to whoever we wanted.
We travelled the world for the last twelve months, touring twenty countries, drinking wine in Prague, chatting to all these weird ass elites (one of them told me she liked drinking her partner’s piss which like WHO GIVES A FUCK I’M A GODDAMN ROCK STAR) at horse races.
Horses racing. Who. Would’ve. Thought.
I rode this fucking high. Rode this fucking wave. I was on top of the world, the only artist at twenty-three to chart on the RS Mag’s A-listers for best album of the year.
I had more coming. More songs. More music. More life.
This… this is what we escaped for, Me and Scar.
I took her to the recording studio after our ten day dice trip in Switzerland (the dice gods were kind to us that roll), and waited for Pierce.
But it wasn’t Pierce who walked in.
It was a… girl.
A really beautiful, tanned, model lookingwoman.
Pierce followed but I didn’t pay attention.
Only when he said she’d be my new collaborator, that we’d be working on a duet together… yeah, that’s when I tuned in.
“We’re going to be partners, Mr. Spectre. At least for the next two months.” She shook my hand, eyes like diamonds glinting with seduction.
Fuck. Me.
Welcome to the concrete jungle.
I kissed the top of her hand, flashing one of my best smiles. “You are?”
Her smile was oh-so fucking sweet. “Yasmine Ryvetts.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Scarlett
“This is NOT a re-do”
We need longer holidays.
This is what I told Tav the second we stepped foot in the recording studio three weeks after our break.
“Y’all have been to most countries, what are you saying more holidays?” He bumped fists with Ryden. “Good in the head, kid?”
Ryden’s wicked eyes flicked to mine. “Greatin the head, boss.”
***
Final Night in Banff
