Here’s chapter 1! Feedback would be thoroughly appreciated. Please don’t forget to vote and stuff like that!
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Burning aggravation sizzled at the back of my brain. Saoirse had always told me that I constantly let my anger get the best of me, but this time, I had a reason.
And that reason was the constant sound of boys laughing and mucking about with the expensive equipment in studio #3 next door. The walls were meant to be sound-proof, so I could only imagine how bad it would be if I were actually in the room itself.
My fingers slammed against the keys of the grand piano in front of me irritatedly, and after exactly 32 minutes of some blokes trying to cause a ruckus next door, I had finally had enough. I ignored the desperate pleas of the producer, Hal Sherman, calling after me in his annoyingly thick New Jersey accent. Every second word that came out of his mouth was either cawffee or hawt dawg and it was getting to the point where if I saw either of those godforsaken things, I felt anger bubble inside of me. Before I registered much else, I had slammed the door on his face and knocked impatiently on a large wooden door with the number 3 emblazoned on it proudly.
I was supposed to be working in studio #4. I was supposed to be finishing off writing the musical accompaniment for a new song I was working on.
But instead, I was slamming my fists on a door and tapping my feet against a carpeted floor, waiting for a face to spew my incessant fury at. My first guess was that the culprits were a group of kids that had fathers who worked on the top floor of SME, and thought that they were a God’s gift to the earth.
And my second was that the group―because with that level of racket, it was clearly more than one person―would be a band of mischievous boys who happened to be mildly successful, so therefore, thought that they could do anything that they pleased.
Surprisingly, I was right.
When a handsome, brooding-type boy opened the door, I could easily see past him and into the room. It was One Direction. Well, with a few members missing. 2, maybe. I couldn’t see all that well.
If you didn’t know who they were, you’re either lying to yourself or you’ve been living under a rock for a good portion of your life.
Plus, you can’t work in the music business and notknow who they are.
“Can you keep it down in there? Or is it too fookin’ hard to be a little considerate?” I demanded, balling my fists in an attempt to seem a little more menacing. My Irish accent came out strong when I was angry; which, quite frankly, was more often than not. Shock tainted itself on the brooding boy’s face, widening his chocolate brown eyes and letting his jaw drop slightly. His friends―the rest of One Direction, plus a few stragglers, who were presumably the producers―stopped dead in their tracks. I took a look behind him, daring to skit my eyes across the room to each of their faces. “You’re playin’ ping-pong on the piano?”I screeched.
I almost couldn’t believe it. Whilst I was working my ass off, trying to make sure I could pave my way through the music business, they were playing a game invented for lazy assholes that have nothing better to do with their lives than swaddle a plastic ball around a table.
“I-I, uh―”
Brooding boy was cut off by another with curly hair. I knew his name started with H―Henry? Haden? Hanley? His eyes were the exact shade of fresh avocado; a pit―or otherwise known as his pupil―landing smack-bang in the centre of each respective eye. One might actually think that his oval-shaped face, deep tan and mop of thick curls was desirable―but then he opened his mouth, and any previous attraction my hormones had given me evaporated within seconds. “Gosh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” he said, yanking one side of his mouth into an annoyingly handsome grin.
