Lasting Lyric by T.J. West Read Free Book Online

today. First breakfast and now opening/shutting my door? So very un-Slim. I like this side of him. I mean, I like Slim whether he’s un-Slim or not, but un-Slim makes me gooey inside. Ahem. Back on track, Lyric.
    An older version of Slim walks out the front door of the house. He’s tall, on the heavier side - not too heavy though - with broad shoulders, dark blonde hair - turning gray, slightly buzzed along the side of his ears and back of his head, short on top; he has a shortened goatee with a shadow of scruff around it, like he hadn’t shaved today, wearing black rimmed glasses, a gray buttoned up shirt tucked inside a pair of blue jeans, and on his feet are thick laced black boots. Wow, he’s very handsome. He comes down the walkway, greeting us with a big smile. What a great smile, he seems so happy to see his son. What comes out of his mouth is unexpected. He’s got a faded Irish accent that is totally adorable and awesome. “There’s me Slim and his lovely, lovely Lyric.” He comes straight for me, giving me a big bear hug. How sweet, he called me Slim’s lovely Lyric. If only that were true.
    “We’re just friends, Dad,” Slim reminds him. Or he’s reminding himself…or me?
    “Bah,” he flicks his hand at Slim. “Lay a good one on me cheek, young lady.”
    I giggle and happily lay a small peck on the scruff of his cheek. “Nice to meet you Mr. McQuaid.”
    “Call me Slimmy. None of that mister stuff,” he gruffly comments with a smile.
    I really like this man, he is super sweet. Plus I can’t get enough of how he talks. Love the accent. “You got it, Slimmy.”
    He guides me by the waist, into his house, with Slim following behind us. I glance around the tiny living room as I take a seat on Slimmy’s old faded, blue denim couch. Straight ahead is a massive flat screen TV, mounted on the wall with a wide and narrow, dark brown entertainment set underneath, covered with framed pictures; some of Slim when he was a little boy in a baseball uniform, one from high school with a football uniform, another with him, his mom, his brother (Slim told me he passed away) and Slim’s dad. It was a very nice picture. They looked happy. All around me are more pictures on the walls of Slim and his brother. No traces of his mom anywhere, except maybe the old furniture; a bookshelf to the left of me with stacks of old books, and a recliner in front of the living room window, with a small nightstand and lamp. To the right of the room there is an opening that leads into the kitchen and bedrooms, but not much else. The place is lived in and is cozy. I’m sure Slimmy is content with his living arrangements, but it sure does need a woman’s touch or a makeover. A bachelor pad or man cave come to mind when I look at this place. The untouched, drab white walls of the room and old brown carpet need a serious redo.
    Yet who am I to judge anyone? I lived in a home you only saw in magazines. Nothing looked lived in and comfortable. We had a house cleaning lady come twice a week who deep cleaned and straightened up the place. It was the perfect setting. Perfect for my parents’.
    Since then my parents’ have moved from one mansion to another. They can never settle down.
    Shoot. I got off track again. Right. Back to Slimmy.
    “What can me get ya, Lyric? Soda, beer, coffee?”
    I place my purse on a glass coffee table in front of me, then lean back and cross my legs. “I’m all good, Slimmy, thanks.”
    “Son?”
    “Good here too, Dad.” Slim sits away from me on the recliner across the room. Why do I get the feeling he’s building a bridge between us? Ugh, I’m just jumping to conclusions. We’re just friends, so I shouldn’t be jumping to anything. I’ve got to get that nonsense out of my head.
    Slimmy sits to my left. “So, pretty lady, tell me about yourself. What brought you into me son’s life?”
    “Well…I searched around for a music company to work for and came upon Bitch Tours. June and I talked, we