More Than Anything by R.E. Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

if I have the energy to meet Sebastian Stalt after I get comfortable at the apartment. I think about it – I’m seventeen, of course I have the energy to meet the most influential producer in town. But I don’t say that.
    “Sure.”
    “Tell the driver to wait for you. He knows where Sebastian’s studio is.”
    “Are you sure? I can take a taxi.”
    “Steve’s one of our staff drivers. He has nothing else to do today but take you wherever you need to go.”
    So now I’ve got my own chauffeur. I can’t wait to text Melody – she’ll flip out. Which I would do in a heartbeat if my loser phone wasn’t deader than Elvis.
    Traffic’s a snarl leaving the airport, and we’re barely crawling as we inch north.
    “Is it always like this?” I ask.
    “No. Rush hour gets really bad.”
    “Ruby said you can take me to Sebastian Stalt’s studio a little later?”
    “Of course. Shall we get you settled in Westwood and then go to the studio?”
    “That’d be great.”
    The apartment turns out to be a security building near the main street, and Steve parks in the passenger loading zone out front and hands me a set of keys. “I’d show you the way, but I should stay with the car. I’ll be here. Just come down whenever you’re ready. If I have to move, I’ll circle the block, so I’ll never be more than a few minutes away.”
    “I won’t be long.”
    “It’s number 302. Third floor. The brass-colored key opens the front door. The silver one is for the apartment.”
    Steve pops the trunk and retrieves my backpack. I heft it over my shoulder and move to the entry. The lobby’s got marble on the floor. Real marble.
    The elevator’s newish and nearly silent, and it startles me when it arrives at the third floor with a ping. I walk down the hall – also marble – and spot 302. The front door looks like it costs more than everything I own. The handle alone would easily pay for my flight from San Francisco.
    Inside, the place is spotless and looks more like a five-star hotel than an apartment. On the dining room table there’s an enormous basket with a bunch of chocolates and snacks, as well as a bouquet of flowers with a card welcoming me.
    There are three bedrooms. Three! I take the master, my mouth hanging open as I toss my bag onto the king-size bed and walk into the bathroom, which looks like those photos of the Ritz in the airplane magazine. A sense of dizziness hits as I stare at myself in the mirror, the Raiders hat and sunglasses flat-out dumb-looking, and I grab the counter for balance.
    Marble, of course.
    I so wish Derek was here to see this. But with that thought, another part of me feels bad, like I’m showing off. He’s staying in a boarding house – which, while no doubt a step up from Lucifer’s, doesn’t sound like the same level of place as this. Like it or not, my reality’s split off from his, and at least for the time being, mine’s all about marble and chauffeurs.
    Don’t get too used to it , my inner voice warns. It can all be over in a blink .
    At least I’ve got my inner dialogue to keep me from developing any self-esteem. Although in this case, I can’t help but agree with it. People just don’t go from the streets to…this. It doesn’t happen. At any moment I’ll wake up.
    But in the meantime, I’ve got Sebastian Stalt waiting to meet me and a limo downstairs. No pink champagne on ice, but then again, it’s not nighttime yet.
    I debate changing into something more presentable, but decide that Girl Power (my only other choice at the moment) doesn’t exactly say serious musician, so I might as well stay with the tried and true. Besides, he’s recording me, not the other way around, so I’ve already done something right. He’s probably seen everything, working with as many big acts as he has, so nothing I could do is going to impress him anyway.
    I plug my charger in and leave my phone on the counter. It’s not doing me any good dead, so there’s one less thing to worry