Read Online Playing Along by Rory Samantha Green - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rory Samantha Green
Tags: Chick lit, London, Romantic Comedy, new adult, Contemporary Fiction, Love Story, Women's Fiction, Los Angeles, british fiction, meant to be, quirky romance, looking for love, music and lyrics, music scene, indie music, his and hers, teenage dreams, eco job, sensitive soul
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The rest is anyone’s guess. How did Fanny Arundel get in his bed? He hopes they didn’t have sex. Firstly, because what a bloody waste if he doesn’t even remember it, and secondly, because she’s a certified crackpot. Even with that body, which is currently very hard to ignore, George knows she’s trouble. Plus the snoring is nothing less than awful.
He goes over to the window, thirty-five floors up, and stares across the plugged-in landscape. It looks like a world of electric Legos just waiting to be dismantled and put back together in another configuration. A full pale moon is hanging over the horizon, preparing to switch places with the hot desert sun. What to do? George rubs his tender head considering his options. He could try and find Simon’s room or Gabe’s. He could just take his suitcase and sneak away and pretend he was never here with her. If he doesn’t remember a bloody thing, surely she won’t? She does have a reputation for being a cokehead.
For a second he stays with his nose pressed to the window, bewitched by the half light between night and morning. He’s always loved this time of day. “A Suitable Dawn” was the first song he’d written for this third album and it had been one of their biggest hits to date. He had written it while walking through the flower gardens in Kyoto on a sleepless, jet-lagged night. He’d wandered around until morning, and then the lyrics had come to him complete, like delicate petals landing in a perfect symmetry. He wrote it for the woman he had yet to meet. The woman he still hasn’t met.
“Good morning, lover boy…”
George pushes his forehead harder against the glass. “Morning, Fanny.”
His reverie is over.
LEXI
November 13 th , 2009
Venice Blvd, Los Angeles
Lexi never did fall back to sleep after returning to bed, and finally got up at six and downloaded the most recent Thesis album. She’s only listening to one song on the car journey to Venice though, “A Suitable Dawn.” Over and over again.
GEORGE
13 th November, 2009
The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada
“You and I, George, I knew we’d be hot.” Fanny meows and beckons George back towards the bed.
“Did you?” says George, grabbing his jeans and t-shirt and dressing hurriedly.
“Yes. You’re such a tease. All this time, you’ve been holding out. Holding back all that passion. Christ, my mouth feels like sandpaper—have we got any wine?”
George takes a bottle of water from the fridge and puts it on the bedside table.
“It’s a little early for wine, don’t you think?”
“Oh George, you sound like my mother. But not last night. Last night you didn’t sound like my mother at all. Especially when you told me…” her voice trails off.
“What? What did I tell you?” he’s starting to think she might be bluffing.
“I’ll remind you later when we have a re-match. What’s the hurry anyway, come back to bed.”
George looks around for her clothes, if in fact she has any. He spots a polka-dotted miniskirt and a pink t-shirt on the floor, next to a pair of red shoes. He picks up the bundle and slides the shoes in her direction.
“Look, Fanny, last night was… was last night. And you… you are a really talented… talented singer. And me… I’m hopeless at… well hopeless in the mornings really, just a grouch. Not a morning person. Not at all. And today we’ve got this video shoot and—”
Fanny stands up and stretches her arms high above her head, her breasts barely restrained by the bra. When she turns around, George gets a prime view of her famous tattoo,
high blood pressure,
brazen in bright red cursive script an inch above her bottom. She whistles as she exhales.
“Say no more, George Bryce. I get it. We speak the same language. I’m an artist too, and I know how important it is to get into that Zen space before a performance. I totally respect that. I sometimes channel Sebastian when I’m in that zone. He was my mentor, you know. He gave me my
He goes over to the window, thirty-five floors up, and stares across the plugged-in landscape. It looks like a world of electric Legos just waiting to be dismantled and put back together in another configuration. A full pale moon is hanging over the horizon, preparing to switch places with the hot desert sun. What to do? George rubs his tender head considering his options. He could try and find Simon’s room or Gabe’s. He could just take his suitcase and sneak away and pretend he was never here with her. If he doesn’t remember a bloody thing, surely she won’t? She does have a reputation for being a cokehead.
For a second he stays with his nose pressed to the window, bewitched by the half light between night and morning. He’s always loved this time of day. “A Suitable Dawn” was the first song he’d written for this third album and it had been one of their biggest hits to date. He had written it while walking through the flower gardens in Kyoto on a sleepless, jet-lagged night. He’d wandered around until morning, and then the lyrics had come to him complete, like delicate petals landing in a perfect symmetry. He wrote it for the woman he had yet to meet. The woman he still hasn’t met.
“Good morning, lover boy…”
George pushes his forehead harder against the glass. “Morning, Fanny.”
His reverie is over.
LEXI
November 13 th , 2009
Venice Blvd, Los Angeles
Lexi never did fall back to sleep after returning to bed, and finally got up at six and downloaded the most recent Thesis album. She’s only listening to one song on the car journey to Venice though, “A Suitable Dawn.” Over and over again.
GEORGE
13 th November, 2009
The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada
“You and I, George, I knew we’d be hot.” Fanny meows and beckons George back towards the bed.
“Did you?” says George, grabbing his jeans and t-shirt and dressing hurriedly.
“Yes. You’re such a tease. All this time, you’ve been holding out. Holding back all that passion. Christ, my mouth feels like sandpaper—have we got any wine?”
George takes a bottle of water from the fridge and puts it on the bedside table.
“It’s a little early for wine, don’t you think?”
“Oh George, you sound like my mother. But not last night. Last night you didn’t sound like my mother at all. Especially when you told me…” her voice trails off.
“What? What did I tell you?” he’s starting to think she might be bluffing.
“I’ll remind you later when we have a re-match. What’s the hurry anyway, come back to bed.”
George looks around for her clothes, if in fact she has any. He spots a polka-dotted miniskirt and a pink t-shirt on the floor, next to a pair of red shoes. He picks up the bundle and slides the shoes in her direction.
“Look, Fanny, last night was… was last night. And you… you are a really talented… talented singer. And me… I’m hopeless at… well hopeless in the mornings really, just a grouch. Not a morning person. Not at all. And today we’ve got this video shoot and—”
Fanny stands up and stretches her arms high above her head, her breasts barely restrained by the bra. When she turns around, George gets a prime view of her famous tattoo,
high blood pressure,
brazen in bright red cursive script an inch above her bottom. She whistles as she exhales.
“Say no more, George Bryce. I get it. We speak the same language. I’m an artist too, and I know how important it is to get into that Zen space before a performance. I totally respect that. I sometimes channel Sebastian when I’m in that zone. He was my mentor, you know. He gave me my
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