"Bradley-WeLoveLydiaLove" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bradley Denton)

India and Pakistan. The mountains, frequent storms, and constant skirmishes
between the opposing armies made the area inaccessible, and all aboard the
airplane were presumed dead.

Lydia remained in India for two months before corning back to Texas, and then
CCA rubbed their collective hands. They figured that with Christopher now a
corpse on a mountainside, they'd soon have more Lydia Love songs to sell to the
world.

But six more months passed, and the studio in Lydia's basement remained silent.
Death and grief couldn't substitute for betrayal and anger. CCA, and the world,
had lost her.

Then one night a scruffy day laborer and aspiring singer-songwriter named Willie
Todd was playing acoustic guitar for tips in a South Austin bar, and a man
wearing a leather necktie approached him.

"Son," the necktied man said, "my name is Danny Daniels, and I sign new artists
for CCA. How would you like to record your songs for us?"

To a guy who grew up in a Fort Worth trailer park with six brothers and sisters,
no father, and no money, Daniels looked and sounded like Jesus Christ Himself.
I'd been trying to break into the money strata of the Austin music scene for
five years, and I was still lugging junkyard scrap by day and playing for tips
at night. But with just a few words from Danny Daniels, all of that was over. He
took me into a studio and paid for my demo, then flew me to Los Angeles to meet
some producers.

It was only then that I found out what I'd have to do before CCA would give
Willie Todd his shot. And although it sounded weird, I was willing. I still am.
As Daniels explained, this thing should have no down side. After the breakup, I
get my old face and voice back, Lydia's muse gets busy again, and CCA releases
great albums from both of us.

So here I am in the Kerrville H.E.B., buying tortillas and rice for Lydia Love,
the biggest Texas rock 'n' roll star since Buddy Holly. . .and for her most
recent boyfriend, a dead man named Christopher.

You are Christopher.

But I'm not dead. Dead men don't buy groceries.

Dead men don't sleep with Lydia Love.

It's my seventh week with Lydia, and something I didn't expect is happening. As
I've settled back into life with her, I've begun to see her as something other
than the singer, the sex symbol, the video goddess: I have begun to see her as a
dull pain in the ass.

Her rage before my first grocery run hasn't repeated itself, and I wish that it