Page 44 of Composed
“Are you sure you put the right postcode in?” I frown.
Riley gaze flits between the window and my phone.
“Yeah. This is the place, apparently.” She shrugs, then goes right back to rolling the squishy ball in her hand. “You’d think famous people could afford something nicer.”
I snicker.
She’s not wrong.
From the outside, the building looks nothing more than a run-down warehouse that’s been left abandoned for years. But the Shoreditch location alone probably has the price tag on a place like this sitting somewhere in the millions.
Not to mention, the royalties I have squirrelled away in my business account from their songs is enough to live cushty for decades—if not the rest of my life—without working another day, and I only co-wrote two of their five best-selling albums.
So, I don’t think affordability is an issue for them.
“Maybe they like the anonymity a place like this offers,” I muse.
A roll of thunder ripples through the sky, the rain falling heavier now.
I slap clammy hands on my thighs, and inhale a short breath. “Right. Time to go.”
I kill the engine, shove my door open, and step out.
I tug my hood up to shield my freshly dyed hair from the downpour and pop the boot. Grabbing my hummingbird, I strap it over one shoulder, before slamming the door and locking my car.
Riley knocks my hand with hers, nudging me forward when I hesitate.
The hot chocolate in my stomach curdles.
Any faux bravado I was able to muster up on the drive slips from me as soon as we reach the steel double doors. I scan the frame, spying a black box screwed to the brick. A button with a bell on it taunts me.
I stare it down, my finger refusing to cooperate.
“You press it,” I tell Riley.
She laughs. “No.”
“Why not? It’s just a button.”
“Exactly,” she says, her feet bouncing. “It’s just a button, Hendrix. Press it.”
“They hate me.”
She frowns. “You said they didn’t hate you.”
“I was lying. They clearly hate me.”
A heavy weight settles on my chess as the wind whips around me, slapping against my cheeks.
I clench my fingers.
Riley makes a soft noise. “Are you spiralling?”
“Am I?” I close my eyes.
Cold air fills my lungs, but it does nothing to ease the fire burning inside me. Over the years, I’ve rarely let myself think about the choices I made and the people I left behind.
It’s too painful to stare down your own mistakes and spend your days wondering what if.
