Read Online Beauty from Surrender by Georgia Cates - Free Book Online
Authors: Georgia Cates
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take turns complimenting me. Charlie simply stares. Ryan snaps in front of Charlie's face, and he finally seems to come out of his daze. "Charlie. What did you think, man?"
I gesture toward the door. "I can step out and let you talk in private."
"I'm pretty sure that won't be necessary," he says as he grins.
That's when I know there's no decision to be made. I've won over the triad of Southern Ophelia.
***
Three. Long. Fucking. Months. That's how long it's been since I've seen Laurelyn. And I don't think I can take another minute. I die a little more each day she isn't in my life.
She's been damn near impossible to find. Fate has worked against us every step of the way. The hoops Jim has jumped through for the smallest bit of information have been ridiculous. One step forward, two steps back—instead of the other way around. A criminal on the run would've been easier to find.
But I've finally found her. Laurelyn Paige Prescott—better known to the public by her stage name as Paige McLachlan—that's the woman I'm here to see tonight.
I still smile when I think about her taking my name, but I can't help but ponder why she'd need to use a stage name. She never mentioned using one before and it makes me wonder if something happened with the sperm donor. Or worse—maybe with Blake Phillips.
I enter the auditorium lobby and the thick crowd makes it difficult to push through. The Martin I'm carrying adds to my difficult navigation as I bump shoulders through the horde, so I have to apologize with each step.
I find my assigned seat. Because I'm a creature of habit, I'm happy when I see it's in a dark corner. I sit and place the Martin by my feet. I'm nervous and adrenalized as evidenced by my rapidly beating heart. I'm about to see the woman I love walk out onto that stage.
I look at the time and see it's only a minute until eight. My heart is pounding erratically, throbbing in my ears over the loud crowd. Finally, musicians begin filing onto the stage to take their places. That's when I see her for the first time in three months. My Laurelyn. All the time and distance that separated us disappears upon finally seeing her face again.
She looks the same, yet different. Her hair is a little longer and darker. Her honey highlights are missing and she's slimmer. She's still beautiful as ever but doesn't fit the image etched in my mind these last few months.
She's wearing brown boots—the same ones she wore the first time I saw her—with stonewashed jeans and a strapless white top. Her bare shoulders make me desperate to touch her exposed skin. And kiss it. Her top is fitted below her breasts while the bottom flows loosely over her jeans. I picture them riding low on her hips so I have easy access to kiss her belly.
She takes a guitar, which I strongly suspect is the instrument her sperm donor gave to her mother, and lifts its strap over her head. She should be holding her Martin instead of the one hanging on her shoulder right now.
Her back is to the crowd and again I'm reminded of that night in Wagga Wagga when I watched her do the exact thing. She mesmerized me beyond measure then and that hasn't changed. She still bewitches me.
My American girl takes her place behind a mic and then I notice the guy next to her and how crazy all the chicks in the audience seem to be about him. I take notice of the other two band members. Jim didn't mention this—that she was part of an all-male band—and the little green monster residing within decides he wants to come out to kick arse and take names.
When each of them is in place, an instrument in hand, the guy beside Laurelyn adjusts his mic. "How's everyone in Dallas doing tonight?"
The crowd goes crazy with cheers and whistles as the drummer begins beating his largest drum to get the crowd on their feet. It sounds like everyone in the auditorium is clapping in unison with the pounding percussion. "Anyone in this place ready to party?" he shouts, and the noise
I gesture toward the door. "I can step out and let you talk in private."
"I'm pretty sure that won't be necessary," he says as he grins.
That's when I know there's no decision to be made. I've won over the triad of Southern Ophelia.
***
Three. Long. Fucking. Months. That's how long it's been since I've seen Laurelyn. And I don't think I can take another minute. I die a little more each day she isn't in my life.
She's been damn near impossible to find. Fate has worked against us every step of the way. The hoops Jim has jumped through for the smallest bit of information have been ridiculous. One step forward, two steps back—instead of the other way around. A criminal on the run would've been easier to find.
But I've finally found her. Laurelyn Paige Prescott—better known to the public by her stage name as Paige McLachlan—that's the woman I'm here to see tonight.
I still smile when I think about her taking my name, but I can't help but ponder why she'd need to use a stage name. She never mentioned using one before and it makes me wonder if something happened with the sperm donor. Or worse—maybe with Blake Phillips.
I enter the auditorium lobby and the thick crowd makes it difficult to push through. The Martin I'm carrying adds to my difficult navigation as I bump shoulders through the horde, so I have to apologize with each step.
I find my assigned seat. Because I'm a creature of habit, I'm happy when I see it's in a dark corner. I sit and place the Martin by my feet. I'm nervous and adrenalized as evidenced by my rapidly beating heart. I'm about to see the woman I love walk out onto that stage.
I look at the time and see it's only a minute until eight. My heart is pounding erratically, throbbing in my ears over the loud crowd. Finally, musicians begin filing onto the stage to take their places. That's when I see her for the first time in three months. My Laurelyn. All the time and distance that separated us disappears upon finally seeing her face again.
She looks the same, yet different. Her hair is a little longer and darker. Her honey highlights are missing and she's slimmer. She's still beautiful as ever but doesn't fit the image etched in my mind these last few months.
She's wearing brown boots—the same ones she wore the first time I saw her—with stonewashed jeans and a strapless white top. Her bare shoulders make me desperate to touch her exposed skin. And kiss it. Her top is fitted below her breasts while the bottom flows loosely over her jeans. I picture them riding low on her hips so I have easy access to kiss her belly.
She takes a guitar, which I strongly suspect is the instrument her sperm donor gave to her mother, and lifts its strap over her head. She should be holding her Martin instead of the one hanging on her shoulder right now.
Her back is to the crowd and again I'm reminded of that night in Wagga Wagga when I watched her do the exact thing. She mesmerized me beyond measure then and that hasn't changed. She still bewitches me.
My American girl takes her place behind a mic and then I notice the guy next to her and how crazy all the chicks in the audience seem to be about him. I take notice of the other two band members. Jim didn't mention this—that she was part of an all-male band—and the little green monster residing within decides he wants to come out to kick arse and take names.
When each of them is in place, an instrument in hand, the guy beside Laurelyn adjusts his mic. "How's everyone in Dallas doing tonight?"
The crowd goes crazy with cheers and whistles as the drummer begins beating his largest drum to get the crowd on their feet. It sounds like everyone in the auditorium is clapping in unison with the pounding percussion. "Anyone in this place ready to party?" he shouts, and the noise
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