Midnight Soul by Eden Butler

Author:Eden Butler [Butler, Eden]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eden Butler
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

That place seemed real. Logically I knew I slept. I knew there was a large, exhausted body around me, those wide hands holding my breast, Jamie’s thick lips against the back of my neck, but somehow, I wasn’t really there.

I floated in that place we all go to. Asleep. Awake where thought is real, but no experience existed beyond sensation and memory. I drifted deeper, and Jamie’s face came to me; the sharp edges of his chin, the teasing heart-shaped mouth. He was younger in this vision? Memory? I couldn’t tell which it was. I only knew that I was so thin, my shape not quite established, but still an adult. And Jamie, no longer allowed himself to be the boy I loved. He was Dash. He was vulgar and cruel sometimes and utterly irresistible to women who met him.

Women like Kylie. My boss.

Kylie who forced me to that concert, a large showcase with different bands, but she was mainly interested in watching Dash Justice parade around the stage, vocals sloppy, energy high. If the concert wasn’t bad enough, Kylie made me follow her backstage.

“Come on, stay for ten minutes. It’s a nice hotel. I’m going to drink and go back to my room. Maybe alone, maybe not. We’ll see who or what happens.”

Kylie was turning out to be a disappointment. I’d followed her career since high school; read her articles in SPIN and Rolling Stone. I’d even sent out query emails about internships. Those led to discussions about music and the future of the industry.

“Stick with me, kiddo,” she’d promised and after only a month under her tutelage, I was making progress, discovering things about myself, about my talent and music that I’d never thought I’d find.

“Let’s go,” Kylie said, tugging me beyond the barricade that separate fan and fandom. The girls behind us called out names, things that came from jealousy, envy, but Kylie lifted her chin and walked right by them.

Dash was not the headliner, but he was still important, demanding a crew of his own and perks for his band—booze, blunts and boobs. By the looks of the party we’d walked into, every one of his requests had been satisfied.

“Kylie!” I heard, watching as my mentor kissed the cheek of Rita Davis, Hawthorne’s manager. Stupidly, I glanced around her looking for Lager, thinking he had to be here if Rita was, but in the middle of their conversation, I picked up Rita’s tone, frustrated, tired and sounding a little pissed at her clients.

“I needed a break, love. Too much testosterone in that studio.” Kylie didn’t introduce me to everyone, but I did meet journalists, some there to cover the concert, others to try and wrangle an interview from Dash.

“Fat chance,” Kylie whispered when one of her college classmates from Yale mentioned sliding a recorder in her pocket and subtly ask Dash about the new album. “His people check every journalist. No way is she getting even a quote.” I’d nodded, a passive agreement with the

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