Chapter Two
I walked in town on silver spurs that jingled to
a song that I had only sang to just a few
The morning was punishing as Elijah Mikaelson cursed the rays of sun filtering in from haphazardly closed curtains. His head was pounding and he was ruing the excess whiskey he had drunk last night.
Last night, the phrase ignited another memory of a girl, with lush brunette hair, warm chocolate eyes and a mouth that wrecked deliciously torturous havoc on a particular part of his anatomy. The innocence in those eyes might come for a price but it was a price Elijah was willing to pay.
She might be a prostitute and that veneer of virtue might be a facade but it was damn good one. He looked around to see where she had gone and his eyes landed on the cash he had given her last night. They were on his bed side table, all crisp bills of hundred folded neatly and sitting with the money was a folded note written on a page from his notebook.
Thanks but no thanks Mr. Mikaelson, I amn't a prostitute, just a fan…
There was no signature, just a single line that brought sweat popping on his brow. Who the hell was this girl? He had assumed she was a prostitute when he had seen her walking alone in the disreputable neighborhood of New Orleans. Was she some reporter? Bloody hell, if she was a reporter then he was going to be a media notoriety when she broke the story.
He remembered her face. Even in his drunken splendor he was aware that hers wasn't a face anyone forgot. All that striking beauty, guilelessly wrapped in a package of sex, it had been his undoing. He could hear the words in his head begging to be arranged in a melody. He was tired, he had a nasty hangover but still the compulsion to describe what he had felt last night was too much to resist. He got up and lifted his notebook from where she had left it. He was still naked and he reeked of sex, he knew the logical course of action would be to take a shower, couple of pills for that pounding in his head but when had Elijah Mikaelson been logical and rational?
He pulled on his sweatpants and sat with his guitar in his hands, his notebook lying nearby, opened on a blank page. The fingers moved on their own accord, the melody in his head taking shape, the words spilling out on the pages.
Bring your love baby I could bring my shame
Bring the drugs baby I could bring my pain
I got my heart right here
I got my scars right here
Bring the cups baby I could bring the drink
Bring your body baby I could bring you fame
And that's my motherfucking words too
Just let me motherfucking love you…
Elena Gilbert didn't know how she had gotten here. One moment she had been wandering in the streets, hungry and holding the taste of forbidden fruit, Elijah Mikaelson on her lips and in the next she was here, in the famous record producing studio, 'Hybrid' wolfing down omelets as Klaus sat opposite her with a smirk on his face.
'The moment I heard that voice I knew, you were what I was searching for sweetheart.' His British accent sent chills running down her spine.
He had heard her on his morning coffee break. Round the corner from his favorite coffee shop, he had seen a crowd of people and had heard the most overwhelming voice in his whole life. She had been singing along the band that used to sing regularly on that corner.
The wrinkled clothes, tired eyes and bowed stature did nothing to deter attention from her, the real her that sparked like a priceless gem.
She would be great, he would make her great. Far greater than Elijah Mikaelson ever had been…
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