for including me in your professional one. I’m sure there’s a romance author out there, just waiting to write our story. It would be a best seller.”
Leaning forward, she places her lips to mine. “It’ll never happen.”
“Why?”
“Because, our real life love story is better than the book.”
Then she kisses me again, proving she’s right.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Anna
These dogs are going to be the death of me. Literally. If I don’t trip over their damn leashes and land in the street, run over by a cab, I’ll die of boredom. I tried putting in my ear buds and listening to music early on in this gig but then I couldn’t hear the assholes growling at passersby or each other. I swear, they say these little dachshunds are supposed to be sweet and cuddly. They, whoever “they” are, well, they’re liars.
It’s fine. This job is only temporary. And necessary if I want to make rent on time. Which I do. Especially since I’ve once again lost a roommate.
Since Celeste moved out, I’ve had three people come and go. I understand having a nook in the corner as a bedroom isn’t ideal, but you would think starving artists would be happy to only have one roommate instead of twelve. Somehow I keep finding the people who underestimate how expensive city living can be and once again I’m back to covering rent on my own. I miss Celeste.
I truly am happy for her and Hunter. They’re perfect for one another and I love seeing my friend happy. But her happiness means I am here, walking the streets of the Upper West Side with three little assholes named Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. Sadly, they are not sweet little chipmunks and none of them sing. I asked. I thought it was a funny joke. Their fur mommy wasn’t amused.
Think positive, Anna. Focus on the things you can control. These little shits are not anything you can control. Your music. The site and your contribution. All things in your control.
Repeating my mantra, I feel my anxiety and stress lessen as I turn the corner and cross the street. Ever since I began writing for the Literary Arts website Celeste and her friend Carrie own, my own music has been getting more interest. The downloads of my original songs
have increased exponentially. Oddly enough, the interest started with the exclusive announcement Carrie had of some romance author and her narrator (and millionaire) fiancé’s baby. She’s a cute baby but I don’t understand why people care so much. Not like they actually know these people.
Still, that increase also means as long as I keep up with my end of the bargain, they pay me enough to pay my electric bill every month. Beats the hell out of picking up another non-singing dog to walk.
Once the high maintenance trio are returned to their home and I’ve taken the train back to my tiny apartment, I bypass the living room and head straight for my room. Flopping down on my bed, I try to relax. A nap would be a good idea since I have a gig tonight. It’s not the highest paying job, but it’s playing my music before an audience and there’s always a possibility that an audience member will be someone in the industry.
My feet hurt and I wish I had the extra money for a pedicure. These are luxuries I can’t indulge in. Fingers crossed I can find a new roommate soon and get back to my old life of the occasional pedicure and actual Twinkies instead of the imitation brand. Damn. I wonder if I can guilt Hunter into buying me a box. Is my birthday coming up soon?
As I contemplate whether I need to add “No eating my Twinkies” clause to my roommate agreement, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Tugging it out, I open the notification.
Unknown: I really like your music and would like to discuss using one of your songs in a movie.
I roll my eyes. Like I believe this is an actual person. is this the new telemarketer game? I’m not a sucker.
“Joke’s on you buddy,” I grumble as I toss the device onto my bed next to me. It immediately vibrates again.
Unknown: I’m not a creep or fake. Really. My name is Jonah Eriksen and I’m a director. Hunter gave me a link to your stuff. It’s really good and I’d like to discuss a collaboration.
Okay, now he, or she, no need to be sexist, has my attention.
Me: How do I know you’re legit?
The