String Bridge Read Online Free Page A

hand, “head of Cat Events.”
    “Hi, thanks. Nice to meet you. Did you come to see The Drovers?” I asked, wondering whether he was just trying to make friendly conversation.
    A vague Greek accent laced his warm, humble laugh. His voice purred—a soft, deep, slow, mouth-watering purr from a big, fast wild cat, with the pitter-patter of drizzle in the background.
    “Well, not really,” Alex replied. “I came to make sure the whole event ran smoothly.” Then I remembered the huge blue and black banner that read “Cat Events” behind me on the stage. You idiot!
    “Oh, shit. I’m sorry!”
    “Not a problem,” Alex chortled. “It’s refreshing to see a musician who’s not concerned with kissing up. It shows you’re sincere. I’m impressed.”
    “Oh. Well, in that case, thanks.” As the left side of my lip stuck on my teeth, a crooked smile emerged. I dislodged it with my tongue, strangely captivated by the reflection of headlights passing over his dark blue-gray eyes. He put his hand on my upper back and guided me toward the entrance of the venue, which was under cover, and closed his umbrella.
    “Listen,” he said in a more serious tone. “I was thinking we could get together and talk about your music. I really like your stuff. I think we could make something of you here.”
    “Oh, wow, really? That’d be great.” I turned my guitar case upright and rested it on my foot to move it around with ease. Is this really happening? Am I seriously going to make an honorable musician of myself in the least likely country? I pictured myself on a bigger stage. Fearless. Crowd roaring. Cameramen shooting the show from every angle. A huge line-up of professional musicians behind me, backing up my guitar and vocals with instrumental genius. I saw myself as Tori Amos with a guitar.
    “How about we meet tomorrow for a coffee? Say about three p.m.?” asked Alex, wiping a few raindrops from his cheek.
    “Okay. Where?” I was now as curious about Alex as the idea of pursuing my dream.
    “See you at Thissio Station, three tomorrow.” Alex held out his hand for me to shake again. But this time he pulled in closer and gave me a peck on the left cheek and then another on the right. He smelled like Chinese noodles. It gave me goosebumps. It gave me hope. I’d finally met a man who didn’t drown himself in his mama’s cooking.
    “Er, okay, wonderful, great,” I stammered. “See you then. And again, great to meet you.”
    I was about to step back out onto the street to find a taxi, but Alex offered me his gig runner to take me home. I accepted the offer, already feeling a little like a star.
     
     
    The next day, we drank coffee in Thissio until the shop closed. He offered to be my manager. I accepted and we began exchanging emails. He requested promotional shots; I sent him promotional shots. He requested a written biography; I sent him a written biography. He requested a demo CD; I said I’d bring it the next time we met. I asked him if he knew of any worthwhile gigs to go to on Saturday night. He said I should come to one that he’d organized, and that he would take me to a great little jazz bar afterward. So I went. But the night didn’t turn out as I’d expected.
    “So, what kind of music are you into?” I asked, letting this newfound confidence take reign as I perched myself on a bar stool and crossed my legs in my slinky knee-length black skirt. My long psychedelic beads collided, caressing my hardly-there and well-covered breasts. “You know, the stuff that moves you. The stuff you listen to at home,” I continued after a few seconds of silence, wondering if I had asked a stupid question. The soft warm Frangelico glided down my throat, my voice sliding through my red lips like water over tanned, oiled skin. Alex’s body heat traveled from his thighs to mine as he stood leaning his elbows against the bar, slowly sipping his Vat 69. He squinted, and pouted his lips in thought toward the rows and rows