Y O U R S O U N D
Molly Myers is just your average groupie next door.
Literally.
The rock star whose posters cover her bedroom wall is banging her roommate right on the other side of it. Even for Molly, reigning queen of embarrassing moments, the situation is epically awkward. Every thump of the headboard is just one more reminder that the lead singers of famous bands don’t date bumbling shy girls too anxious to leave their own rooms.
JP Bouchard-Guindon wasn’t looking for Molly’s room when he accidentally burst through the door, but the wild-haired girl lying there in her underwear was certainly worth the detour.
As the keyboardist for Montreal’s latest indie rock sensation, JP has met his fair share of fangirls. He’s always ready to throw up some finger guns for a photo. What he’s not ready for is the way skittish, wide-eyed Molly Myers gets stuck inside his head.
A practical joker and a social recluse are the last people anyone expects a connection between. She’s silence aching for a voice, and he’s sound with a craving for quiet. Their differences will either pull them together, or fracture their worlds when they push them apart.
E X C E R P T
I really have to piss.
“Ace!” I shout, to where he’s walking ahead of me with his arm around Stéphanie. “I really have to piss!”
He looks back over his shoulder, tilting his head down so he can glare at me over the top of his Ray-Bans. I too am wearing Ray-Bans, only Ace’s came from the Ray-Ban store, and I got mine out of a bargain bin at a thrift shop. That’s also where I got the muscle shirt I’m wearing, which has a picture of some eight pack abs printed on the front.
When I walked into the park today, Ace said I was an embarrassment to the human race. I, on the other hand, like to think that the human race is lucky to have me, and this stylish and hilarious shirt is just one of the many reasons why.
Perspective, my friends. It’s all in the perspective.
“How is that relevant to my life right now?” Ace calls back to me.
I stop and think about that for a moment, then shout, “Stéphanie! I really have to piss!”
She stops walking, forcing Ace to stop too. When she turns around, she’s laughing and shaking her head. I have that effect on most women.
“Is that relevant to my life, JP?” she asks, beaming at me.
She beams at most things. She’s like a human flashlight, this girl. The last person any of us expected Ace to get it on with was a smiley blonde ballet teacher with a thing for meditation, but almost a year has passed now, and the moody son of a bitch is still prancing around after her like she’s the reason the sun shines.
“Ouais,” I answer her. “Est-ce que je peux utiliser votre toilette, Madame?”
Stéphanie is Québécois like me, but even though Ace can understand us perfectly—fuck, his French grammar is better than mine—she still answers my request to use her bathroom in English. We’re only a block away from her apartment building now.
“Of course. Just don’t break anything, okay?”
I put a hand to my chest. “Madame! Are you saying you don’t trust me?”
Ace throws me some more shade over his sunglasses. “You broke Youssef’s showerhead at his birthday party last week, when you decided to present him with the gift of a ‘sexy shower show’ at two in the morning.” He looks at Stéphanie and whispers, “Don’t let him in.”
