Page 37 of Sweeper
I grab my notebook with the lyrics I’ve just come up with and glance around for my pen, only to remember it’s stabbed into my messy bun. I pull it out and make the final note that just came to me as I shuffle out of my loo to put my guitar back on its stand.
It’s been two days since I snogged Zander in the hallway, and I haven’t had a moment to even think about it. Apparently, it doesn’t take sex to unlock my creativity—a steamy hallway kiss will also do nicely.
At first, I was messing with some lyrics that had nothing to do with work. Then out of nowhere, the melody for Tire Depot just popped right into my head, and I didn’t leave my loo until I had it perfect.
I’ve always practiced my music in the loo, and it drove my siblings absolutely mental when we were growing up. The four of us shared one bathroom on the second floor of my parents’ country home, and after school, I would take my collapsible music stand into the loo along with my French horn and practice my sheet music until teatime. I really was the most annoying youngest sister.
It got a bit more tolerable for everyone when I switched my focus to the guitar, but they still moaned to my parents every night about me occupying the loo for hours. My parents never told me to stop, though, so the habit has stuck with me.
Vocals were never my focus, but if I must do something vocal, like a jingle for a tire shop, I feel like the loo makes me sound better than I am. Phoebe says my husky tone is like a mix between Adele and Janis Joplin, which she obviously only says because she’s my best mate, and that’s what best mates do. They lie through their teeth to make you feel better about yourself. But I know I’m not an awful singer. I’m at least on pitch, and that’s half the battle. It’s just not something I like to do for attention if I can help it.
I sang at Hayden and Vi’s wedding and I didn’t mind that because the focus was entirely on the bride and groom. No one was looking at me for a performance. The music just provided an emotional backdrop. That’s the kind of singing I enjoy. Or this kind where I record it in the privacy of my flat where no one else can hear me.
Once I’ve got my lyrics perfect, I step into my small recording booth and fire up my equipment while slipping on my headphones. I pull up the original track of the instrumental version that I submitted to Commercial Notes ages ago and tap it into my ears, so I have accompaniment to sing along to.
Recording the sixty-second vocal bed only takes me twenty minutes because it’s all so fresh in my mind. Honestly, this is what I love about promotional tracks. They’re short, sweet, and to the point. We’re not looking to impress some big record label or get a room full of opinions. I’ve whipped up my Big Mac and fries of the music industry, and after a few minor edits, I’ve zipped this track off to Drake and will sit here with bated breath, just waiting to hear what they think.
I’m trying not to get my hopes up. Ten thousand pounds would be incredible money, but with my voice on the track, it might not be the feel they’re looking for. Hopefully, they’ll at least buy the instrumental version for a nominal fee so it’s not a total loss.
As I step out of my booth, I hear a loud snap from out in the hallway, and my eyes go wide as realization hits. Steeling myself, I tiptoe over to my flat door and peer out to confirm my suspicions.
A tiny, brown, beady-eyed creature has been trapped inside the neon pink humane mousetrap that I picked up at a pet store yesterday morning. I bought a no-kill trap because I couldn’t stomach the idea of handling the remains of a dead mouse, but now that I’m looking at this thing alive and very much irritated for being stuck inside a teeny tiny mouse hotel, I think this might be far worse than I anticipated.
With a light squeal, I duck back into my flat and pace the small space, trying to muster up enough courage to go out there and get rid of the thing. If certain people would be courteous enough to take out their rubbish, I wouldn’t even have to be dealing with this mess in the first place.
Narrowing my eyes, I walk over to the wall that separates mine and Zander’s flat. I press my ear up against it to see if my naughty neighbor might be home because this should be his problem.
Naturally, for the first time in the three weeks since he’s arrived, it’s dead silent over there, so he must not be home.
“Figures,” I huff to myself.
My stomach churns at the idea of that thing out there…getting angrier and angrier by the second. My guess is that neon pink isn’t exactly a soothing color.
I shake out my arms and jump up and down to pump myself up. “You’re the building manager, Daphney. You’re independent. You’re strong! You can handle this. Not to mention, this is part of your job and why your brother gives you a discount on rent. So, just go out there and take care of business!”
With a growl of determination, I march into my kitchen and grab a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves from under my sink. Still feeling a bit exposed in my leggings and T-shirt, I decide that the red poncho I had to buy from a street vendor one night when I got caught in the rain at the Columbia flower market might offer some decent protection from the vermin. Oh, and my wellies. Knee-high rubber boots and elbow-deep gloves will keep all my wobbly bits safe from any diseases that awful creature might be carrying. For good measure, I also add my giant sunglasses—you never know what those creatures might expel from their body.
I grab an empty Amazon box and tiptoe out of my flat, hoping the tiny thing is sleeping and I might be able to gently place it in the box, move it outside, and open the trapdoor all without waking it.
Good God, could I be any more of a girl?
I realize I grew up in the country, but we weren’t the farm animal types. We were the dirt bike and quad types. We were the types who went for long walks outside, not horseback riding and tending to livestock. Plus, I had a father and two strapping brothers who dealt with the unsightly horrors one might expect to find in nature. And sure, I might be handy with a plumbing wrench, and I fixed Miss Kitchems’s water heater with a healthy number of YouTube videos to assist me, but none of those skills qualify me to handle this mouse in a mature fashion.
So…girlie girl or not, I will get rid of this mouse.
I hold my breath and move slowly over to the trap, careful not to make eye contact because I’m quite sure I read that wild animals feel threatened by direct eye contact. When the little guy doesn’t move a muscle, I gently bend over to pick it up, and the tiny bugger goes demonic as it bounces off the plastic walls and flips the mouse hotel upside down. I screech like I’ve been shot in the arse and turn to flee out the building, and maybe even the bloody country, when I smack right into a large, firm body that was not standing there a second ago.
“Oof,” a male voice utters as my elbows slam into an abdomen.
I scream because well, I’m basically a live wire of nerves at this point, and I wasn’t expecting another human in my vicinity so the image of a giant, man-sized rat enters my brain for a fleeting, neurotic second.
“Calm down, Ducky. It’s just me!” Zander grabs my arms as his voice breaks into my internal freak-out, somehow calming me as I exhale a huge breath.
“Where did you come from?” I ask, looking up at him with wide eyes that he probably can’t see behind my glasses.
“My apartment,” he says with a laugh. “Where did you come from? Mars?” His eyes travel down my entire body, and his look of complete and total amusement isn’t even mildly concealed.
“Something funny?” I tut, stepping out of his embrace to prop my rubber-gloved hands on my poncho-covered hips.
