Too Good To Be True

Ebook by Nel Winter: To good to be true Berlinable publishing

Pardon the way that I stare

There’s nothing else to compare
The sight of you leaves me weak
There are no words left to speak
But if you feel like I feel
Please let me know that it’s real
You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off you

Frankie Valli, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”

***

I fucking hate red carpet events, for crying out loud.

But “as a newcomer artist, you have to grab everything that gets thrown your way” – to quote my publicist, manager, and A&R guy.

It’s not even the event itself – an award show it was tonight – but the after show parties that bore the living shit out of me.

But, again, the “newcomer artist” argument…

And so here I am, shaking hands, watching the clock, and tapping my foot to some random tune blaring from the speakers while downing one celebratory drink after the other after my first German award show commercial break performance.

It was good and fun and shit, I was good, and I know my family will be proud of me when the show airs tomorrow evening, but right now, I’d really rather go home than hang around this fake bunch of idiots any longer.

I’m not even sorry for calling them that. But let’s face it: This isn’t the Grammys, and no serious artist hangs around for more than one beer, if at all. Except for me, of course, because my PR team wanted me to meet some important people – which I get, but still sucks, mostly because said people have gone home two hours ago as well. All that’s left now is getting wasted on free booze.

I sigh. I miss my best bud Colin. If he hadn’t fucked up his job as a bassist in my band by fucking my PR agent’s boyfriend, he’d be here now, or we’d be somewhere else together. Instead, I’m here alone, watching the crowd.

What I see? Everything central and peripheral to the German celebrity scene. It’s not even about music or film or charity – it’s everything thrown together. Fucking pointless. It’s everything I did not get into music for. I just wanted to play my guitar, and maybe get enough money for it to buy food… and more guitars. And pay rent.

What I got was that, indeed – and this. Now I have to watch some too-skinny daily soap actress bitch dance on a table, knowing very well she’s off her face and will be puking her hundred-Euro dinner down the toilet in an hour, along with her soul. Ka-ching.

I roll my eyes and turn away, only to see a semi-successful band of 16-year-old Justin Bieber copies drinking vodka straight out of the bottle. Jesus fucking Christ.

Let me tell you: When they don’t sell records, it’s a nightmare. When they sell lots of records, it’s a whole other nightmare.

To my right, I hear Daniel crapping on about some bullshit. Eavesdropping, I quickly find that whomever he’s talking to apparently don’t have two thoughts to rub together, because it really is utter crap.

Daniel is my A&R manager and a total moron. He’s good at talent scouting, smiling, and smooth talk, but that’s about it. His Instagram is full of pictures of himself standing in front of waterfalls in fucking Bali or Iceland or some shit, which he tags with #outdoorfashion and #menstyle, the self-absorbed idiot. And every time I need to text him, I end up browsing Whatsapp for two minutes straight because fucking Daniel decided to change his profile picture every five days. That should give you a rough idea about what kind of person he is.

Granted, Daniel scouted me, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful. I respect him, I really do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like him. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

I finish my fourth or fifth beer. The clock is nearing one a.m. and I’m so ready to go home. There’s nothing here for me anymore.

And then I see her.

Across the room, I see the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Or, let’s say, in a long time. Definitely today, though.

Tan skin, long legs, short dress, high heels. It’s not like she’s the only one to meet this description, like hell she is. But there’s something fascinating about her, and only her. Her complexion is a tad foreign, just exotic enough to be exciting. Her smile is wide and looks contagious. Damn, where has she been all this time?

Within seconds I know that I want her.

That escalated quickly, huh? Having an old soul and a 21-year-old’s libido is weird at best and a fucking nightmare at worst, believe me. In this case, it just made my mood do a 180-degree turn.

I make my way towards her and the small group she’s with. The closer I get, the more gorgeous she appears. She has long dark hair falling down her back, and very plump lips that I instantly imagine sucking into my own mouth.

I doubt she even knows how to spell “flaw”. She’s a whole ass art form. A masterpi…

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