The Rider List: An Erotic Romance by Charles J.T

Author:Charles, J.T. [Charles, J.T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-09-23T07:00:00+00:00

. . . . .

Headache. Stiff joints. Sore muscles. Dry mouth.

That’s the mental checklist I run through when I wake the next morning from what was possibly the worst night’s sleep I’ve had in my life.

I’ve slept better on a moving bus with a bunch of loud drunk people singing songs and smoking weed and later a couple of them ending up in the bunk above mine, fucking. I’ve slept better in a van packed with instruments, the four of us jammed into the remaining space, loud music coming out of the speakers.

Sitting up, legs swinging off the bed, I sit on the edge for a moment and stretch. I feel like I’m recovering from some kind of horrible car accident that left me battered and bruised. But there’s no physical damage from what happened yesterday with Audrey. It’s all psychological, emotional.

My phone rings and I snatch it off the bedside table, thinking it’s Audrey.

It’s not. It’s Bruce. The last thing I want to deal with today is band issues, and the last voice I want to hear this early in the morning and feeling like shit, is that of our band’s manager. I let his call go to voicemail, but the chime never happens. He must have hung up. Fine with me.

A smoothie and a piece of cheese toast go along way toward waking me up. After a few minutes stretching, I feel the need to get on the beach and keep moving. It’ll loosen me up and burn off some of this anxiety.

Audrey should be at work. I’ll see her at some point today and this time I’m not going to let her go as easily without listing to me at least a little.

Showered after my run, I go out into the den and pick up my guitar. I play some random stuff for a while before moving on to one of the new songs I’d managed to start writing. It’s taking an angry tone, both in terms of the music and the lyrics.

It’s not me. It’s not the type of stuff I write. Ever.

My anger and frustration is seeping into the writing, and I don’t like it. The only good thing is the fact that I’m writing something—something real, coming from actual feeling and emotion. I think it’s a pretty good song, actually, but it’s so far removed from my usual work, it’s hard to grasp the idea that this is what I’m coming up with now.

A knock at the door breaks my rhythm. This is it. Audrey’s here, and I’m about to find out just how difficult it’s going to be to get her to listen to me.

But when I open the door, it’s not Audrey. It’s the other concierge, Jeanette. Or Jeanine. Or whatever her name is.

She stands there with a cheery smile on her face. Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun, but a strand waves around in the ocean breeze and in the two seconds we’ve been standing here, she’s already tried to hook it behind her ear twice.

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