Behind the Lyrics by Melissa Riddell

Chapter 9

Angela Morales

I tromped into the small living room of my second-story apartment and locked the door behind me, letting out a long sigh.

Marky, my five-year-old orange tabby cat, wound his body around my legs and meowed.

“Okay, okay.” Bending to him, I stroked his sleek form. He purred and gave another forlorn cry. “I’ll get your stinky wet kitty food.”

At the mention of kitty food, he darted into the kitchen, stood over his bowl, and cried once more.

At least I can always count on my little buddy to keep me grounded. After the disastrous interview with Farrow, I needed this healthy dose of reality. Why had I been entertaining the idea he was attractive? Uh, because he is, even with that overinflated ego. Yeah, but then he’d practically accused me of being an ice queen, as if he’d expected me to burst into flames the moment he turned his attention to me.

“No thanks, creep. I’ve dealt with men like you before.” Pulling the tab, I peeled the lid from Marky’s coveted dinner, and his meows reached an ear-splitting crescendo. I dumped the disgusting food into his bowl, and he shoved his face into the meal, his purr loud enough to rumble through the tiny kitchen.

Tossing the empty can into the trash, I topped off his water and headed to the cozy bathroom. Turning the faucet, I poured lavender bubble-bath liquid into the steaming tub.

There’s nothing better than a hot bubble bath to ease away the stress of a shitty day.

After stripping, I slid into the silky water and let out a small moan of pleasure. Several minutes ticked by as I slowly relaxed, the tension easing from my muscles. Hot baths had always been my heaven, my refuge, my security for when I felt anxious or overwhelmed.

I reached for the cell phone sitting at the end. Need some music. Pulling up several playlists, I couldn’t decide on what I wanted to hear. So, I searched the recommended playlists. One of the suggested offerings was Angry Gods’ last album.

My neck muscles tightened. Is this my karma, to be reminded of that jackass? I’d heard the album before, and it was good—great, even—but I’d never connected to the music on a personal level. It was the last hurrah Viktor and his band had recorded before their bass player died in a freak accident. After that, the band never really got over the death, and they went their separate ways. It seemed to have affected Viktor the most, though, because his drug use and multitude of other arrests had spiked out of control.

What the hell. I might as well give it a go. The first song opened with a folksy melody using acoustic guitars and a simple, yet effective, drumbeat. Twenty seconds into the song, and Viktor’s unique vocals began their soft and seductive croon.

Remembering how his lips brushed against my ear, and imagining that voice breathing its warmth next to my skin, I let my toes curl in pleasure. I closed my eyelids and pictured his gentle stare caressing my body again. The sunshine played throughout his honeyed hair and gave him a godlike aura in the light.

For a few minutes, I lost myself in his song, forgetting how arrogant and annoying he’d been earlier today. The man could sing, I had to give him that, and I understood why so many women threw themselves at his feet. If it hadn’t been for his sour, arrogant attitude, I might’ve found myself falling for him.

But of course, I was too smart for that. I’d never go for someone as damaged as him—not again. No way. No how.