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    Beautiful Musician
    Beautiful Musician
    Beautiful Musician
    Ebook99 pages1 hour

    Beautiful Musician

    By Sheri WhiteFeather

    ()

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    About this ebook

    My name is Seven, and I’m an up-and-coming musician, a so-called bad boy. I’m also madly, painfully in love with Abby Winston. Every wild-hearted song I write is for her. Currently she lives in a psychiatric treatment center, and I slip secretly into her room. Abby is schizophrenic, and I’m a romantic figment of her troubled mind. She created me when she was a child, and now we’re both adults and on the verge of losing each other. I know I’m not real, but that doesn't change how I feel about her. Nor does it solve the dilemma of how we’re going to survive the ache of not being together for the rest of our lives.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSheri Whitefeather
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    Beautiful Musician
    Author

    Sheri WhiteFeather

    Sheri WhiteFeather is an award-winning, national bestselling author. Her novels are generously spiced with love and passion. She has also written under the name Cherie Feather. She enjoys traveling and going to art galleries, libraries and museums. Visit her website at www.sheriwhitefeather.com where you can learn more about her books and find links to her Facebook and Twitter pages. She loves connecting with readers.

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      Book preview

      Beautiful Musician - Sheri WhiteFeather

      Beautiful Musician

      By Sheri Whitefeather

      Copyright © 2013 Sheree Whitefeather

      Smashwords Edition

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Thank you.

      Chapter One

      I stood outside her window in the dark, my heart filled with angst. I considered her my everything, and I was certain that I was hers. But we hadn’t told each other how we felt. Neither of us knew quite how to say it. Loving each other was dangerous. Someday we would be separated, and we might never find our way back together again.

      I fanned my hand against the pane of glass. Was she asleep? Was she nestled in her bed, the covers drawn tight?

      Her name was Abby Winston, and she was nineteen years old. Currently, she lived in a treatment center called The Manor, and I paid secret visits to her.

      They claimed that she had been schizophrenic for most of her life, and that I was one of her hallucinations. According to the rest of the world, I didn’t exist. But to her, I was real. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew she was mentally ill and that I was a component of her disease. But I would never, ever tell her that. It was my job to keep her warm and safe, to let her believe in me.

      She’d created me when she was a child, several years after her parents died in a devastating car crash. She imagined me, and I appeared to her. I was a kid then, too, just a few years older than she was.

      These days I was a man: tall, dark, and leanly muscled. I was known as Smiling Seven. An odd name, but she’d given it to me, so I’d always treasured it just the same. Besides, mostly I was called Seven, and that suited me fine.

      On this Southern California evening, I was one with the night, pressing my hand gently against her window. I liked being part of the darkness, the moon scattering its silvery beams down on me.

      But I wasn’t going to stand out here until morning. I longed to see her, to be near her.

      My sweet Abby.

      I didn’t try to open the window. It wasn’t necessary. I could simply pop into her room, sort of like the Beam me up, Scotty thing, only I wasn’t from outer space.

      Then again, I wasn’t from this world, either. I hailed from a meta-universe called Room 105. According to Abby, everything and everyone in it had been created by people like her, who were prone to using their imaginations. It was where I lived when I wasn’t with Abby.

      105 was a bizarre place. To me, it was like Oz on crack or maybe the Mad Hatter ingesting molly. You never really knew what to expect. Of course, Room 105 wasn’t any more real than I was, but that didn’t make it any less my home.

      Anxious to see Abby, I beamed into her room and stood in the golden-hued shadows. She’d left a nightlight on. She’d always been afraid of the dark. I moved closer. She was asleep, but the covers weren’t tightly drawn. At some point, she’d kicked them away.

      She looked like a troubled princess, locked in a twisted fairy tale. She wore her white-blonde hair short and choppy, and she was small and frail. Sometimes I had to remind her to take care of herself, to wash her pretty face, to shower, to wear clean clothes. Her crappy grooming habits were a symptom of her illness.

      Sometimes I was a bit of a mess myself. My medium-length brown hair looked as if it had been styled with an eggbeater, and I always had a dusting of beard stubble on my chin. I favored black clothes, leather accessories, and rugged boots. On top of that, I had a pierced tongue, my left ear was decorated with silver studs, and both of my arms were inked with full-sleeve tattoos, the artwork a hodgepodge of random shit.

      But what could I say? I was a musician, and my creation and the development of my persona was inspired by a young Nikki Sixx. He was the co-founder and bass player for Mötley Crüe. He was also a brilliant songwriter, author, photographer, and radio host. Abby had chosen him because her mom had harbored a crush on Sixx back in the day. I didn’t look like him, but I had his bad-boy vibe, I supposed, with a schizophrenic dose of romantic hero tossed in.

      Abby thought I was as hot as fucking sin and ridiculously handsome. She’d always had a bit of a thing for me, even when we were kids, but she’d been better able to hide it then.

      I glanced down at the foot of her bed and noticed that Dingo, the dancing dog, was curled in a ball, keeping her company. He was another of her hallucinations. There were four of us altogether and she called us her people, regardless of whether or not all of us were human.

      I was friends with her other people, but sometimes they got on my nerves, especially when I wanted Abby to myself. Dingo was cool, though. He didn’t talk or do anything annoying or abnormal. Abby said that he danced, but it was typical doggie stuff, jumping around in circles and whatnot.

      He lifted his furry head and perked his ears at me. I put a finger to my lips, warning him to be quiet. Sometimes he could be rambunctious as hell. He was a Jack Russell terrier, and they were a feisty little breed.

      The dog settled back down, and I sat in a chair in the corner and watched Abby. We’d never kissed or touched in a sexual way, but I wanted her.

      Damn, I wanted her.

      I’d been with lots of women in 105. I wasn’t famous, not like the rocker who inspired my creation, but my career was beginning to bud, and I got my fair share of long-limbed, sultry-eyed groupies. But recently, I’d stopped partaking of their favors. I couldn’t bear to fuck someone who wasn’t Abby.

      I didn’t do drugs. I didn’t see the need. I was already a weird-ass guy, invented by a beautifully strange girl. No drug could ever expand my mind the way Abby could. But don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a teetotaler. On occasion, I got bleary-eyed drunk and painfully maudlin. Other times, you could catch me on the happy side of the bottle, charmingly, laughingly wasted.

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