Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
“You just want to start with a slow ballad because it features your cello,” Mira spits out venomously. “It’s selfish, Tessa.”
“Did you seriously just call me selfish?” Tessa spits back. “You’re the one who selfishly insists on taking the spotlight, dancing and standing in front of me all the time.”
“I’m the singer!” Mira says as I drop my head and sigh.
“We’re a quartet!” Tessa says with her voice rising. “Each one an equal participant.”
“Guys,” I say, trying to calm this crazy train down. “We’re going to be on in seven minutes. Can we not?”
I look to Sloane for help, but she’s not even paying attention. She has a big smile on her face as she reads a text. She’s not even listening. Man, I wish I had a hot fiancé to distract me from all this…
“You always think you’re better than us,” Tessa says, dragging up any ammunition she can chuck at Mira. “You think you run the group.”
“I do run the group!” Mira snaps. “Did you bother to write out a set list or book the motel or look up the address to this place? No, you do shit all and then you bitch about everything.”
“Maybe I would if you weren’t such a control freak!”
“Hey!” I shout so loud their eyes snap over to me. “That’s enough! We’re on the job here. Act professional.”
How did I become the only adult in the room? Why am I always the referee? How is any of this my job?
I grab all of the set lists and start editing them with my pen. “We’ll play good 4 u first and that way we’ll open with a bang and Tessa has a moment to shine.”
Neither of them say anything as I hand the altered cue cards back. “Now, can we please hold the fighting until we’re in the van driving back to the inn at least?”
They both give each other dirty looks, but they drop it for now.
I’m so sick of this. I want out.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, sticking my finger at one than the other. “No fighting while I’m gone.”
They’ll probably start up again, but I’m out of patience. I’m too frustrated to care.
I sigh when I see the lineup at the porta-potties. I hate these things and I’ve been in and out of them all summer long.
I doubt the harp player in the Philharmonic Orchestra has to go to the bathroom in a gross, unsanitary portable toilet while she’s at work.
I need stability. I can’t do this on-the-road bullshit anymore. I’m not in a punk rock band and I have no desire to join one.
But where else can I do this? There aren’t exactly any job openings for a harp player in Pleasant Hill, where I’m from. It’s a small and uninspiring town, which neither has a hill nor is pleasant. It’s not like they have any job openings for a harp player in the tiny diner or the local Walmart.
I don’t want to move to a big city either. I’d rather live in a warm, friendly place like this.
I smile as I wait in line and look around at all for the happy townspeople enjoying the festival. The kids are adorable and look so excited all done up with sparkly face paint and munching on cotton candy. This town is the cutest we’ve been too on our tour with all of the fun shops and cool restaurants and the most majestic, spectacular mountains surrounding it.
I never thought about settling down in Montana, but I could see myself living here. I don’t think I would ever get sick of gazing up at these beautiful mountains.
My eye lingers on a young couple with the most adorable toddler sitting on the grass. The kid is savagely attacking an ice cream cone while the mom films and the dad unsuccessfully tries to wipe him down with a napkin.
I smile as I watch them, wondering if that could be my life. Can I have a version of that?
A husband… A child…
I get a little choked up as the thought lingers.
Probably not. I’m twenty-seven and I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’m a long way from having all that.
“Oh shit,” I mutter when I see Cooter coming over. I try to hide behind the man in front of me, but it’s too late. The creep spotted me.
“Sweetheart,” he says, flashing me that crooked gold tooth.
Ew. He’s even grosser than I remembered. His flirty grin could curdle milk. His greasy hair is shoved under a dirty trucker hat and I can count at least a dozen stains on his ripped shirt. His sleeves are rolled up his skinny arms, showing off the weird, unintelligible tattoos that some amateur tattooist probably did on their first attempt with a tattoo gun.
“Member me?” he asks, grinning as those slimy, bloodshot eyes slide up and down my body.