It’s goddamn peaceful out here in the country.
I’m writing a song in the sound-proof recording studio I’ve had installed in my new barn – totally awesome and state-of-the art, by the way. I’ve got the intro down, and it fucking rocks. And the chorus is starting to come together. But I can’t quite get the lyrics to mesh. I’ve never had trouble with lyrics before – usually they gush out in a torrent of ideas. So I’m annoyed as fuck. I mean, I have a small clue as to why this is happening and it’s exactly the reason I bought a house way out here in the middle of goddamn nowhere. I need peace. I need quiet. I need to get away from my manager and my band. The photographers and journalists and culture-vulture dickheads who all want a slice of yours truly. Who can blame them, right?
But I’m feeling the burn-out. Two years of solid touring has kicked my ass. So I told Vaughn I’m taking a break from touring for a couple months. I’ll do gigs in Nashville and they can come to me. The problem is, the paparazzi swarm my building. There’s only so much dodging and hiding away in a penthouse apartment a person can do without losing their fucking mind.
I decided I needed a goddamn getaway.
Which brings me here. To some idyllic backwater where nobody knows me. I bought the house under an alias, with my lawyer’s assistance. If I need to I’ll get a security gate installed, a fence, dogs, whatever it takes. I’ve got shitloads of land – and I mean shitloads. This place goes on for miles. I could fence around the house and still get the views. My house is on a hill, overlooking a pond and the hills.
I can see the road from my kitchen Some cute little blond drove by this morning in a beat-up old pick-up truck and I wondered for a second if they’d already discovered me. But no. She put something in my mailbox and kept on going. Thank fuck. Although I almost felt a pang of regret this time, weirdly. Her hair caught the sun, a long strand of it trailing out the window as she drove away.
I’m even burned out on the chicks, if you can believe that. There are just so many of them. Always begging for it. Waiting to obey my every command. It’s that easy. It’s so easy, in fact, it starts to lose some of its appeal.
What I need is some undistracted writing time, to be alone with my thoughts, to let the music out. Before it can get shut down by some needy bitch who bangs at my door in a desperate attempt to get my attention. I know that sounds harsh, but some of these women are crazy. They go insane, they want a piece of me so bad.
I need a beer.
I haven’t put a fridge into my studio yet: something I’ll get to eventually. I only moved in a couple days ago, and I’ve had shows every night. This morning I ended up waking up in my tour bus before dawn and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I took my Shelby and drove out here alone. I can tell you, knowing I had the whole day ahead of me to do nothing but write was a nice change. The prospect and the sunrise made me feel happier than I have for a while. Sure, I’m living the dream but the dream sometimes takes its toll, of excess and exhaustion. Tonight’s the first night in weeks that I won’t have a gig, and I plan on making the most of my solitude. Shit, maybe I’ll even sleep for a while. Let the creative juices reenergize.
I go outside and head towards the house.
The day is absurdly beautiful. The blue of the sky and the green of the trees is practically surreal, the colors are so bright. I’m almost blinded after the relative dimness of my studio, so it takes my eyes a minute to adjust.
Here I am, walking along, minding my own goddamn business. But then I see something. Down by the pond my house overlooks.
A girl.
At first I think it’s my eyes playing tricks on me.
Because emerging from the water is not just any girl. She’s a goddamn goddess.
With no clothes on.
Holy hell, I mean it. I actually blink a couple times just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I don’t take drugs but Dr. Daniels can stay with you for a while if you overdo the prescription. Not that I drank that much last night. At least I don’t think I did.
But … this.
Jesus H. Christ.
She’s blond. Her long hair hangs to her hips and catches all these crazy hues of light, like she’s iridescent or something. Her skin is glimmering. God help me. Her body.
Holy fucking hell, she’s ridiculously hot. Her beauty is sparked with a shining radiance that’s blowing my goddamn mind.
She climbs onto a big flat rock and I watch her. Her hands lightly rove across her naked body.
All I can do was watch her in some kind of goddamn trance. I’m suddenly twenty feet closer without even realizing I’d been walking towards her.
Holy Mother.
I’ve never been so hard in my life. My cock is pressed painfully against the zipper of my jeans. Jesus. She’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.
Ever.
I imagine what she would feel like. All that delectable sweetness.
My cock is about to explode. I can practically feel how soft she’d be, how tight and wet she is for me as I enter her, as I push deep inside all that pink, snug, slippery beauty. I can practically taste her sweetness as I’d kiss her full mouth and lick the dewy sweat from her skin. As I take those perfect breasts in my hands and suck on her taut, rosy nipples.
Sweet Jesus, show me some mercy.
I watch her lithe little body and all I can think is: I want her. I want to hold her and feel her. I want to make her happy. My lust is so fierce it shocks me.
But then her eyes open and she sits up. She looks peaceful. Happy. Holy hell. She is simply the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. In all my twenty-four years I have never seen anything or anyone so entirely … addictive.
Who the fuck is she?
I have to find out.
She gets up and wades into the pond, splashing herself. She cups a handful of water splashes it across her candy-pink nipples. Goddamn it.
I think about calling out to her but it might scare her off. Of course it would. She might think I’m a pervert or a stalker or something. I take a step back.
She looks up, like my movement has alerted her.
Shit.
She sees me.
A look of panic crosses her face and I want to tell her not to be afraid of me but she’s already pulling her dress over her head.
Just like that, she disappears.
I run over to the fence, like a goddamn idiot. She’s gone, you fool. Then something occurs to me: could it be? The girl in the ancient pick-up truck, this morning, at the mailbox. White-blond, cute as fuck.
It’s her.
So I walk out to the mailbox. The walk gives me time to regroup but I still feel weirdly frantic, like I need to see her again. I take out the rolled-up piece of paper. Something about the handwritten flyer sort of bowls me over, I have no idea why. The whimsical handwriting, the gentle flair.
Sadie Faraday, consider yourself hired …