Beachwood [H. STYLES]

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

After thinking about what Cameron said a week ago, I find myself in front of a building in Burbank. I thought about what she said. How I needed to keep these precious gems, my songs that I love so dearly and that I can't just give them to anyone – not anymore. If I'm going to be writing songs and letting them be heard, it'll be my voice they are hearing.

I walk past the doors and walk to the front counter that I assume is the receptionist.

"Morning, miss! How may I help you?" she smiles.

"Hi, I'm Lorelai Sommers. I have a meeting with Blake Richards." I respond, trying to hide my nervousness under my smile. "Just a second miss" she picks up her phone, notifying who I assume would be Mr Richards that it's time for his appointment.

It took about four days for me to gain the courage to get an appointment producer. I reckon that this would be a fundamental building block to beginning something I meant to do three years ago. I need to find someone who likes what I'm writing and genuinely believes in me, regardless if I'm some nobody.

"Up the elevator, third floor and to your right. Blake Richards is waiting for you" the receptionist, whose I picked up is named Ashley mentions to me, pointing the elevator out. I thank her as a response and walk towards it.

My heart is beating so quick that I feel like it's going to explode. I can't imagine what this meeting will turn out like. It could result in either good or bad and I don't think I'm ready to accept my fate. I turn right as Ashley told me so to be greeted by a tall, smart-looking man dressed like he just robbed the whole of Rodeo Drive.

"Hello, you must be Lorelai Sommers" he extends his hand for me to shake. As I shake it, his eyes start to eye me up and down yet no reactions comes out of it.

"That's me." I smile, following his lead into his office. Hung up on the walls is his discography of who I assume is his clients. I look around and the names are those that belong in a hall of fame. Fuck. Shit. What the fuck am I doing here? I'm making a big, big, big mistake.

He motions for me to take a seat and I do so, sitting opposite him.

"I understand that you're a songwriter?" he asks, taking a sip from his drink. I look at his glass and I see that it's hard liquor. Who the hell drinks at ten in the morning? Before he thinks I'm mute, I respond.

"Yes. I ... I write songs. I've written a few for a couple of artists but I've signed contracts that say that legally, um, they're not mine." I shyly state, taking a quick gulp of the glass of water provided for me on the table. I'm so nervous that my palms were starting to react as well.

"So, you write songs for money?" he asks, in a monotone voice. I feel myself beginning to panic but I take a big breath.

"Yes. I mean, uh, no. That's not why I began writing songs at least. I'm from Seattle and I moved to LA about three years ago now. I came here to fulfil a dream but, I didn't even know what that dream was. All I knew then was that I wanted my songs to be heard, regardless of how. So, I started selling them. I just thought it was some kind of stepping stone I guess. It made me good money but that's not why I started writing songs, no." I begin to say quickly out of panic, but I adjusted my cool to somewhat show that I'm calm – even though I wasn't.

He doesn't reply, instead, he nods and continues staring at me. I'm so lost that I don't know whether he should speak, or I should, so I took another sip of water to clear the awkwardness.

"I see. I've read through some songs of yours Lorelai and heard some of your demo tracks ... they're not bad" he begins to say, and I felt the hotness come up to my cheeks. I smile at his comment, feeling like a million dollars. Before I could reply, he continues.