Bab 17: Chapter 17

“That’s

how a song should be,” Riley continued. “Doesn’t need a lot to get the feeling

through. Mix the important words with the music, and let it all speak to the

listener. Gimme it again.”

Curtis

wanted to refuse, but in the same heart beat, he didn’t. He muttered the first

line, then let the words roll out on his tongue.

There

is no gold, just old, and sold,

The

pavement cold.

On

my knees, selling me, telling me.

What

I deal, what you feel.

My

treasure, my pleasure, my need.

Say

please.

Say

please.

Riley

nodded, his concentration on the words rather Curtis’ face, for which Curtis

was grateful. This was bloody weird enough without being watched. Riley started

up a short riff and repeat, running Curtis’ words alongside, weaving them into

the beat and the occasional ripple of melody.

It

was an unusual and attractive sound–a pretty wrinkle of music then a line of

words, half-spoken. Riley began to sing as well. He remembered the words