Love & Lyrics (Editing)

1-The Sweet Taste of Revenge (Edited)

I am currently self-editing. This is the first story I've ever written, so if it's not as good as my other stories I apologize. Practice makes perfect right? Hopefully all the revisions (which I am posting slowly, but surely) will make this a better story!

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This story, "Love & Lyrics" (previously titled Payback's A Bitch) including all chapters, prologues/epilogues and associated content (i.e. fanfics, teasers and content within blogs, social networks, and eReaders) is copyrighted. All rights are reserved by the owner and creator of this work (Rika Hedglin) and any unauthorized copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution or selling of this work constitutes as an infringement of copyright. Any infringement of this copyright is punishable by law. Any links, images, brand names or otherwise copyrighted material is not my own, and is not covered by my copyright. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**Picture of Nate ------------------------------------------------------>

"If I have to pretend I love her for one more day, deal with her clingy 'How's the recording going' texts for one more day... I might just shoot myself. She thinks I'm never home because I'm too busy recording my next big hit, but we both know I could record a hit in my sleep. All she's good for is a place to store my stuff, her chocolate soufflé, and the occasional lay."

Tears of anguish and disgust filled my eyes as I heard the love of my life say those words. There was no question that he was talking about me and that knowledge literally stole my breath away. My knees felt weak and I sank to the floor, broken. In a sick, twisted sort of way, I was experiencing the same side effects as when I'd first fallen in love with him. Not to sound melodramatic, but it felt as though he were cutting my heart out. I remember wondering why he bothered cutting it out at all, when I had already given it to him freely.

I held the chocolate soufflé that I had ironically brought for him on a whim closer as his cutting remarks echoed in my mind. He probably thought I was at home pining for him, and the sad thing was, until about twenty minutes ago, he'd been right. I'd been at home, pining for the man I was hopelessly in love with, because as he'd so callously pointed out, I hardly ever saw him.

I had almost started to believe that I was like the millions of fan girls who convinced themselves he could love them. The only difference and the only reason I hadn't let myself believe it was that I had convinced myself our lifelong friendship somehow put me heads and shoulders above them. I had thought him being my high school sweetheart and boyfriend for the past six years had actually meant something. Apparently, he had a different opinion.

Breathy laughter interrupted my thoughts; jealousy and subsequently anger at myself for feeling that way, reared its ugly head as I heard her reply, "Wow, she's pathetic. That ugly duckling believes she can satisfy an incredibly hot and talented man like you?" This was shortly followed by, "Oh my goodness, what is she wearing? Does her 90 year old grandmother dress her? And look at her glasses! Is she stuck in the 90's?"

Without meaning to, I glanced down at my dull brown, shoulder length hair, my tie-dye shirt, knee length shorts and white Keds. My glasses slid down my nose, forcing me to readjust them. I knew I wasn't model material, but I also knew that I was hardly the ugly duckling. It pissed me off when I heard him chuckle at her snide commentary, and I peeked around the corner to put a face to the annoyingly breathy voice of Bitcherella.

Like any cliché bitch, she was drop dead gorgeous. She had shiny, long brown locks, perfectly plucked eyebrows above glassy blue eyes, luscious lips that were painted a whorish shade of red and a figure to die for. Admittedly I liked her lipstick, but I wanted there to be something, anything, about her to not be so damn perfect. She leaned into Nate like skanks are prone to do, giving him the perfect view of breasts too perky to be real while she looked at what I assumed to be a picture of me.

I couldn't take much more of their laughter at my expense, and so, with a deep breath I picked myself up off of the floor. I blinked back my tears, adjusted my glasses and pasted a fake smile on my face and proceeded to greet them with false cheer.

"Hey babe! I brought you some soufflé."

Never in my life had I wished for a camera as much as I had in that moment. His face was such a Kodak moment. It took the edge off of my pain by just a little, and by a little, I mean not really at all. But you know what they say about hindsight being 20/20, and in my case, it would give me an indescribable satisfaction in retrospect. At the time though, it just confirmed what needed to be done.

Her face was completely void of all emotion as she stared at him expectantly. I wouldn't doubt if she was thinking, "Here's your chance. Dump her," but she wisely kept her mouth shut. His face, however, was one of obvious discomfort. Honestly, he looked constipated, but with the skill of a professional, he put the hand holding my picture behind his back, and quickly flashed me the million watt smile that had, until five minutes ago, never failed to dazzle me.

"Hey baby! What are you doing here? Is that chocolate soufflé I see?"

My blood boiled as he pretended like he hadn't just laughed at me, mocked me for wanting to make him happy. I wanted so badly to reply, "No shit it's soufflé. That's what I just frickin said."

Instead I went with, "Yeah it is. I just finished baking it. Here have some" and proceeded to pie him, minus the pie and plus a soufflé. It was still, perhaps by divine intervention or some pretty awesome cosmic karma, pretty hot and his yelp of surprise and pain was a borderline scream.

The remnants in the container were begging to be used, so risking the pain of the heat, I reached in, scrounged up a handful and smeared it on the bimbo's white dress. She too let out a scream of sorts, but like her laugh and voice it was overly breathy.

Holy shit, I thought, even her scream is annoying. The 10 seconds or so that followed were filled with a very colorful array of words on both of their parts, but none were actually directed at me. It was more of the general cursing one does when something unexpectedly does not happen according to plan.

Before either could actually say anything to me, I looked at her with wide eyes and in my breathiest voice said, "Oh my goodness, what are you wearing? Did your three year old dress you today?"

My commentary seemed to warrant their undivided attention, because they were no longer trying to wipe soufflé off their faces and clothes. Their eyes instantaneously snapped to mine and their faces were a picture of pure, unadulterated shock. They clearly hadn't anticipated the idea that I might have overheard their hurtful words. Because I had nothing left to say and because actions spoke louder than words, I turned around with a vengeful smirk and walked away.

As I pushed open the double doors of the main entrance to return to my car, I let the tears flow freely. All the while I was thinking that my revenge had only just begun.

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