Reyas POV
My life...I have no idea what I'm doing with it anymore. I've been living with Brandon now for two months. It's already August. The last time I saw Andy was June 19. Our contact continues to dwindle as each day passes. In the beginning, when I first left, we texted each other all day, and we talked n the phone for at least three hours every night. Then Andy got on Warped Tour...we texted maybe 30 texts between us in the past week. The last message from him was three days ago. I've lost contact with about everyone, except Siren. God I love that girl. It's so hard not living in Illinois, but I'd rather be sulking here than miserable there.

The weekend I spent at Brandon- well our- house we painted the drab white walls. I now have three walls light purple and one dark grey wall. I draw and paint shit in the walls all the time. Brandon doesn't care. The longest of the purple walls now it adorned with crosses, paintings of creepy trees, flowers, whatever the hell I feel like. If I don't like it I just paint over it. I've put all of my posters back up...well except a few. My BVB posters are still in the box in my closet. I've unpacked everything and have been settled in my room. I finally got the check from my insurance from the wreck with the semi. God that was such a bad night.
Instead of buying a car, I bought a motorcycle. It's Florida, so I can get away riding it all year since they don't get snow like Illinois. I don't ride in the late afternoon though because of the rain.

(Reyas motorcycle)http://www.womenridersnow.com/pages/story_detail.aspx?id=3789

I like the freedom of the open ride on my bike. Brandon is normally never home, since he was promoted to head examiner at the forensic investigation lab in Sarsota. He and his long term girlfriend Macy broke up. So even when he is home, he's not exactly personable. I'm usually home alone, just like before.

I get up from my bed. It's 11:20 AM. I put on some flip flops, threw my hair into a messy ponytail, and grabbed my sunglasses. I walk out of the small ranch house and down the drive to our mail box. Siren had texted me saying she was sending me a surprise. I opened the metal box and scanned through the Mail as I walked back. Junk, junk, junk, spam, bill, bill, ad, bill, junk, Reya, junk, Brandon...Wait...Reya? I flip through the envelopes. Pulling up a very formal envelope with my name on it. No return address. I set down the rest of the mail on the counter and pull out my pocket knife. I cut the top and pull out the enclosed letter.

To whom it may concern,

Reyalie Chance, I am proud to release this Quarters quota and profit in regards to the recent album release of Prescription Poisons EP Crash and Fly. Enclosed is the profit entitled to your percentage as performer and songwriting producer.

-John Caloway

It was my cut of the profit from our album from the label that denied us. Holy shit. I blinked and looked back at the check. $8524.70. I dropped it and sprinted to my room. I pulled in my ripped faded blue jeans, my white and black tank top, and my black leather jacket. I ran back to the counter and stuffed the check into my purse. I threw on my black ankle boots and put my put my purse in the hidden compartement under my motorcylès seat. I pulled out the key and started my bike. I reached under body of the bike with my foot and flipped up the kick stand. I revved the throttle a few times and put on my sunglasses as I braided my hair lightning fast. (I still have very long hair and I do still have the red streaks) I out on my avaitors and kicked off. I drove down the residential street and turned onto the main road leading into Sarasota. So many lost tourists. I swerve as a car cuts me off and flip them off while yelling to watch where they are going. I hate when people cut me off our try getting in my lane without looking. I finally get pissed off with the traffic and gun around the cars that are backed up. I drive the ten minutes to First Bay Bank. I park up front, annoyed as I see guys starting at me. Do they not think I can ride a bike just because I'm a chick? Well fuck them.
I pull out my purse and stand the bike up and walk into the bank.

A motherly type mid aged woman with greying hair sit behind the counter. "Hello. What can I do for you Ms. Chance?"
"Here to cash a big check," I reply with a smile. I slide it to her. Her eyes get wide.
"Did you win the lottery?"
"Noo, I'm only 18. Just finally getting some recognition from a music label in St. Louis."
"Do you want this deposited or cashed?"
"Just deposit it. What's my current balance?"
"Let me see here," she says as she typed into the computer next to her. "This puts you at...$15,000. $15,464.79 to be exact."
"Wow, thanks. Tell ya what, I'm gonna take out two hundred for some bills and stuff to help out Brandon. He cants stock a kitchen to save his life." I say with a laughs.
She chuckles in response and pulls out two fifties and the rest in twenties. "Here you are, have a nice day."
"You too," I say as I stuff the money in my purse and walk back to the bike. The two guys are standing right by it.
"Excuse me, please step away from my bike." I say as I walk up.
"It's a nice bike, but it needs a stronger hand to control it." One says.
"I can ride it damn fine, thank you. Now step back." I growl.

The men turn around. Good Lord...Travis...I

Notes

Hope you guys remember who he is. If not be prepared.