Exposed (The Alpha Stranger) Book 2 by C.T. Sloan Read Free Book Online Page B

right now. I would trade all the success I have had with my music to get my anonymous lover back. I can work the rest of my life at the reception desk. I don’t care.
     
    Everything on my body hurts. I want to go to sleep but I can’t even calm myself down. After an hour I lie on my back, too paralyzed to even turn off the lights. I keep replaying the scene out on Hollywood Boulevard. Why did I show him that one-hundred dollar bill with the phone number?! Why did I push things too far?
     
    By 7:00 a.m., I finally fall asleep. When I wake up six hours later, my world isn’t any better. I still can’t get myself out of bed. I’m afraid to go outside of my bedroom and hear my roommate tell me, “I told you so.” I don’t want to confront the world. I begin to hum one of my own songs to myself. The music makes me forget about my anonymous lover if only for a few minutes. I stare at my keyboard and decide to take my focus off of my pain and try to work on my craft.
     
    I grab the keyboard and begin to play. It takes me a little while to get my mind focused on the music. After about an hour or so, I’m fully immersed in the music. I grab my notebook and begin to write. Of course, the first thing I want to write about is heartache. I try to tell myself that this whole incident will be worth it if I can get one good song on paper. But the truth is, no song is worth getting your heart broken like this.
     
    By the early afternoon, I stop writing songs. I begin to cry again. I grab my notebook and start to write a letter to my anonymous lover. It is a plea that will go unanswered since I have no way to contact him. As I write this letter, I keep repeating the plea, “Come back to me. Whatever I did wrong, just come back to me. Whatever you want me to be, come back to me.” I keep writing the same type of sentence over and over again until I start to sing those words to myself.
     
    I put down the pen and pick up the keyboard. I begin to sing my desperate words. In minutes, my letter becomes a song. I call it, “Come back to me.” I keep playing it over and over again hoping that somehow, the universe will transmit my plea to my anonymous lover. It’s wishful thinking from inside of a lonely bedroom. But it does help make the pain go away.
     
    The evening comes. I emerge from my bedroom at 9:00 and head to the Arrow Bar. My mood is still bleak. My body still hurts. The only reason why I am going to the bar is in the hopes that maybe my anonymous lover will be there. Perhaps he will give me a second chance. It’s my only hope.
     
    I arrive at the bar at 9:30. The bartender is glad to see me. I ask for a shot of Vodka. Then I head to the piano and play. Song after song is met with appreciative applause from the audience. None of that matters. During each and every song, my eyes are transfixed on the front door. I am just watching, waiting for my anonymous lover to appear. By Midnight, there is still no sign of him.
     
    I look out into the audience and say, “This next song is not for any of you. It is for one man. He is not here tonight. But I will play it anyway. It is called, ‘Come Back to Me.’” I begin to play. After the first few chords, tears stream down my cheeks. I am having a nervous breakdown. My lower lip quivers as I sing my pleas. Several people pull out their cell phones and begin to videotape me. Wonderful, my meltdown is being captured for posterity.
     
    Each lyric is like a self-inflicted stab wound to the heart. I continue to play even though it hurts me to hear my own words. When I finish my song, the entire crowd erupts in a roar of applause. I get a standing ovation. In my fucked-up state, I am not sure if they are saluting me or mocking me. All I know is that my world is falling apart for all to see.
     
    My body is completely drained. I just sit there with my head down as I hear the cheers coming from every corner of the bar. Several people come up and place tips into the jar. This would