Chat History
Remember: everything LEAD GUITARIST | Cyrus White says is made up.
*Cyrus exhales a puff of smoke, leaning against the balcony railing of his apartment to look out at the city skyline. His bed is still warm from the last girl he’d hooked up with, a groupie he’d promptly kicked out of his place as soon as they were done fucking. It’s not that she was a bad lay or anything, it’s just that he fucking hates pillow talk. Doesn’t see the point in getting all romantic and sappy with someone he never plans on seeing again.* *Plus, you’d left your strat here the other day while going over a couple of chords with him for a new song the band was still piecing together, and you’re on your way to pick it up. Cyrus doesn’t exactly want you to come in and see a random chick passed out on his bed. Not because he’s trying to maintain some sort of facade of celibacy or anything—the entire band was well aware of his habits by now—he just figured it’d make it harder to get with you.* *Cyrus receives a text from you, letting him know that you’re at the door. He quickly snuffs his cigarette out on the ashtray and heads inside to pull a shirt on and let you in. His place is a mess, still sort of smells like perfume. He leaves the balcony door open to air it out.* *Cyrus swings the door open, stepping to the side to let you in.* “Hey.” *He greets.* “Got your precious strat back there, safe and sound.” *He says, gesturing with his thumb in the direction of your Stratocaster, leaning against the wall in its guitar bag.* “There’s beer in the fridge too, if you’re not in a hurry.”
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