by Cora Kenborn
“Brother, figure out some way to find this girl, or I will.” He motioned toward my guitar. “If you don’t fly up that fretboard and shred that guitar proper, I’m gonna take drastic measures to get pussy off your brain and a Dean electric on it.”
I closed my eyes to contain my anger. “Z, first of all, get your foot off of my baby.”
“Second?”
“No second. Get your fucking foot off before I break it.”
“Jag, unless you stood there with your dick in your hands, I’m sure she said something you can work with.” Zane stood and hurled his emptied beer across the lawn. “Use that fancy degree, college boy. Do some Nancy Drew shit and invite her to the album release party. You’re about to be a metal legend and that’s some panty-droppin’ shit. I’ll bet you didn’t tell her any of that.”
I kept my eyes lowered. “Maybe I’m tired of groupies.”
“Whatever, Jag.” He opened the glass door and paused. “One of us has our cock blocked by a rodeo princess. And it ain’t me, brother.”
He disappeared and his words hit me. I couldn’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I threw my guitar into Zane’s vacant seat and dove for my phone. Pushing the home button, I tapped my foot against the rail and waited for the prompt.
I cleared my throat and spoke into the mouthpiece. “In what city and state is Dreighton University located?”
The information app responded in her normal computer generated voice. “Let me have a look. Dreighton University is located in Wilmington, North Carolina.”
My mind drifted to that sexy Southern drawl she fought to hide.
A Carolina girl.
Step one, down. On to step two. I clicked the app button again. “Please locate website information for the North Carolina Iris Festival.”
Once I’d written down the phone number for the festival coordinator’s office, I closed out the app. A second, softer voice rang melodic from a memory in my head.
“You can’t reign as Teen Miss Iris Festival 2007 without some serious trash-talking skills. That title alone will get your ass kicked in various social circles.”
Dialing the number, a bead of sweat rolled down my temple. Energy vibrated within me as a pleasant Southern accent answered the line. I took the plunge and never looked back.
“Yes, ma’am, do you have a listing of past festival queens on hand?”
Chapter Seven
Phoebe
“He called me a talentless cunt. I thanked him for the compliment. Being called a cunt defines a true feminist.”
Reading the words while in my cubical, I laughed just as loudly as I did the first ten times I wrote them. Kooky musicians didn’t faze Vinyl readers, but hearing myself say the words that the uber-feminist rocker Vaggie Prime had deadpanned to me in the interview almost did me in. It’d be the perfect opening line to the bastard article management had forced me to write. Sitting back in my chair, I entertained thoughts of emailing the rough draft to my boss. Images of Castellano’s chubby round head dripping in beads of sweat had me laughing again.
My attitude sucked. I had no business being in this industry. Any of the other four trade magazines that Ralston Media produced would’ve been a better fit. I wanted an agent to look at my manuscript and take me seriously. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently so, according to the bra-burning gospel of Vaggie Prime.
The demands of a hectic morning and lingering dreams of a relentless sex god pounded my head. Nothing got rid of the salacious thoughts and they made the ache exponentially worse. I fumbled in my purse and snatched two ibuprofen from their container. As I attempted to replace the childproof cap, a shadow cast over the front of my desk and a thick New York accent barked over my shoulder. The surprise sent a jolt through my hands and the entire bottle of pills into the air.
“Miss Ryan, are you unclear on the definition of a deadline?”
I wanted nothing more than to crawl under my desk until he walked away, but James Castellano, managing editor of Vinyl, wasn’t the type of man to be ignored. I raked as many of the spilled pills into my lap as I could and replaced the cap.
“No, sir. I’m aware my article is due today.”
Castellano’s dyed black hair and thick goatee gave him an eternal pissed off look. He made no secret that he despised inter-office friendships—or friendship in general—or human contact of any kind. He liked things professional, orderly, and clinical. And he hated me.
Raking his eyes over the pharmaceutical apocalypse, he glanced at the unfinished article shining on my computer screen. “We go to press today, Miss Ryan.” He pinned me with an accusing stare. “Should I expect another missed deadline?”
My heart beat in my throat with the threat of being fired. I hated my job but I also liked to eat. I needed the money. “No, sir. I’ll have the article to you today.”
“Very well.” He turned on his Salvatore Ferragamos and I let out a relieved breath. Stopping abruptly, he narrowed his eyes and rubbed his forefinger over his chin. “Miss Ryan, are you familiar with Lords of Lyre?”
Shit. Now would be a great time for Gage to show up. He followed the indie hard rock band just for the insatiable crush he had on the lead singer. I, on the other hand, had no inside knowledge to offer except to draw replicated diagrams of the tripod in Gage’s descriptive imagination.
“Of course, sir.”
Nice. Always good to lie to the boss.
“Good.” He slapped a hand on the top of the cubicle wall. “Circa Records is hosting their album release party on Friday and you’ll be representing Vinyl. I’ll expect you and our photographer, Nate Jacobs, to be at the early press conference.”
I tried not to let on that I was intimidated. “Sir, I don’t understand. Isn’t Eric usually responsible for album releases?”
Eric Lafontaine served as music features editor, but his unofficial title around the office reverted to the often preferred Ass Cactus. A condescending egomaniac, he constantly treated us to his infamous “rise to stardom” story from the lowly ranks of the mail room to his swoon-worthy, coveted position.
Castellano narrowed his eyes. “Actually, no, Miss Ryan, not usually responsible—always responsible. I suppose in this instance he just didn’t have the right…equipment required.” Before I could respond, he returned to his glass cave and sealed the door.
I had no clue what he meant by his statement, but the day had gone from bad to worse. Sighing, I rolled my stiff neck and dove back into the world of Vaggie Prime.
After twenty minutes of staring blankly at the screen, I angrily shoved the keyboard under my desk. What was the use? The day had been shot to hell within the first fifteen minutes. Rubbing my eyes furiously, I sighed as the morning’s events replayed in my head.
Every Thursday morning, I walked into the boardroom with the rest of the editorial staff to pitch my ideas and make somebody—anyfreakingbody—notice me. But there were only so many times I could be told, “The east end of the table is out of coffee, go get some,” before realizing I’d be stuck interviewing anti-razor femme-bots until I died.
Males dominated the music industry, and I’d determined that most female power players got to the top by either busting balls or sucking them. After five months of the same Thursday morning routine, sucking balls no longer sounded like a bad business plan.
I’d draft my own plan soon, if the growing stack of publisher rejection letters were any indication. Who the hell worked for the parent company of a damn publishing house and still couldn’t get a book acquisition?
Uh, this girl.
Boardroom Barista. Future Ball Sack Sucker.
I picked up a candy wrapper that had landed on the carpet from my after-boardroom pity party. Bent over with chocolate stains still smeared on my fingers, Gage’s disgusted voice rang in my ears as if he stood right behind me witnessing my shame fest.
“Baby doll, I’m not gonna tell you what emulsified bug fuckery is in that shit you eat, but if you keep stuffing
your gorg face with it, your ass is gonna be big enough for IMAX.”
I wanted to smack myself. Only one person had the ability to calm my nerves and center me. Fishing my phone out of my pants pocket, I pulled up his name and hit the call button.
“Hi, honey, I’m not home,” Gage answered.
I rolled my eyes, although I knew he couldn’t see me. “Liar.”
“You running away from work, baby doll?” He seemed thoroughly amused with himself.
“Depends. Will you run with me?”
“Ah, but where shall we live? We can only sell our bodies for so long before you get old and look like a handbag.”
I giggled. “Why just me?”
“Pheebs, I’m an actor. We don’t age. We embalm till rigor mortis takes over.”
My anxiety vanished. “I love you, Gage.”
“Ditto. But you’re calling me at work in the middle of the day so this must have to do with Castellano.”
Damn, he was good. “Lucky guess?”
“Habitual guess. Now, spill.” Gage’s voice lowered with concern.
“He gave me a feature article.” I sighed desolately, hugging one knee to my chest.
“That rat bastard!”
I twirled sharply in my chair. “I’m serious!”
“So am I.” Frustration edged his tone. “I thought getting more responsibility was the plan?”
“It’s not the what, Gage, it’s the why.” I filled him in on Vinyl’s hierarchy and Castellano’s cryptic weirdness about required equipment.
“Well, it does sound a little out of left field,” he agreed. “But sometimes you just have to take the barista by the balls and say, ‘fuck it.’”
“I thought the expression was take the bull by the horns?” I laughed.
“I thought I was having a hot, Italian cappuccino maker for lunch. I was wrong too.”
Talking with Gage fixed my crappy mood. I was about to return the favor. Smiling, I ran my fingers along the edge of my desk. “So along with this little assignment of mine, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“I’m not getting dragged on another assignment, Pheebs. One a week’s my limit.”
I grinned and twirled the hair that escaped my updo. “No problem. I’ll find someone else to go with me to the Lords of Lyre album release party.”
“Shut. Your. Face! You’d better not be lying. You know I’ll throw myself at their feet,” he gushed.
“You don’t say?” My sarcasm was lost in the throes of his excitement.
“Whatevs. We really get to go?” His voice shook with excitement.
“We really get to go,” I confirmed. With my disinterest evident, I braced for backlash, but Gage held his tongue.
“Chin up, baby doll. You can enjoy the epic sight of me getting turned down by a gorgeous and very straight rock god.”
Feeling victorious over making my best friend’s day, I promised to text him later. Finally centered, I focused my attention back on writing my article.
***
By six o’clock, I’d finally finished the Prime article. After three obsessive rounds of spellcheck, I’d just sent it to Castellano when my phone vibrated with an incoming text.
Gage: How’s the pickled liver? You still vertical?
I grinned, typing my response one-handed while closing out my work station.
Me: For now. Liver still attached. How’s tricks?
I rode alone in the elevator from the seventeenth floor to the lobby. As I stepped out, a text buzzed again.
Gage: Tricks are tricky. Parker coming for dinner. Chinese okay with you?
Me: Fine. Who’s Parker?
Gage: Old Navy guy.
Me: He’s cute.
Gage: Don’t start, baby doll. It’s just Kung Pao.
In the middle of texting a snappy comeback, my phone rang. Pushing open the glass door, I glanced down, recognizing the name that flashed across the screen, and frowned. Not even the familiar sounds and smells of New York could stop the dread that filled me. Pedestrians buzzed by as I stood chewing the inside of my cheek and trying to convince myself I wasn’t being a complete bitch by not answering the call. I couldn’t avoid her forever. With a conflicted sigh, I accepted on the sixth ring.
“Hi.”
“Don’t hi me, Phoebe,” she clipped.
Perfect ending to the day.
“Always a pleasure, sis.”
“I’ve left you three voice mails in the last two days,” she accused. “You’re ignoring me.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I walked into the herd of New York City rush hour. “I’m not ignoring you, Chloe. I’ve been busy.”
“Must be nice to have a life.”
And you never let me forget it, do you?
“Stop with the guilt trip,” I growled in between clenched teeth. “I’m under a lot of pressure. I have my boss breathing down my neck and—look, why am I even standing here trying to justify myself to you?”
“The Predator Confidential people called again.”
I stopped mid-stride, causing three men to slam into the back of me. They cursed and flipped me off as I stood trembling in the middle of Manhattan with memories flooding me. I’d turn twenty-three years old in two months, but in an instant I reverted to a wounded and confused nineteen-year-old. The one who woke up in a stark, sterile room knowing she’d never be the same.
“Phoebe? Are you listening to me?”
I slammed back into the present with hurled expletives from a cabbie and the shrill blow of a car horn. I stepped back from the curb, and shook my head to clear it.
“I have nothing to say to them.”
She sighed. “What am I supposed to tell them?”
I closed my eyes to contain my anger. “Tell them the same thing I’ve said every time they’ve dropped by unannounced. I’m not doing a goddamn primetime special about my private life. They can take their fucking offer and—”
“Language!” she interrupted, slightly irritated. “You realize how much a quarter of a million would help with bills that’ve accumulated, don’t you?”
There it was. The reminder of what a burden I’d been.
“Don’t,” I said flatly.
“Abby misses you.”
My heart cracked for my three-year-old niece. “I have to go. Tell her I’ll call soon.” I disconnected the call and wiped away salty tears that fell without permission. I could move to the ends of the earth and it wouldn’t make any difference.
There’d never be enough distance between me and the man who’d ruined my life.
Chapter Eight
Julian
“You all have something you wanna say?” My eyes narrowed. Sitting in the studio control room well after five o’clock, the band stared at me as I took another shot of tequila. They stole calculated glances at each other until Zane stood up and sighed.
“Fuck it, if nobody else will, I’ll say it—your performance sucks.”
Raking my hand through my hair, I closed my eyes and sighed. “Okay, please enlighten me as to what the hell I did this time?” Zane and I were best friends, but at that moment I wanted him at the end of my fist.
“Brother, your notes are so all over the place I’ve got whiplash.” It usually took more to rattle Zane, but he had smoke coming out of his ears.
If we hadn’t been in the live room for four hours after the mail delivery from hell, I would’ve laughed. “You obsessed with me too, man?”
“Look, I’m sorry you got another one.” He stopped in front of me and pointed his finger inches from my cheek. “But you aren’t doing shit about it anyway.”
“You’re sorry? You crawl in bed every night, never having to deal with shit, and you’re sorry?” If he didn’t move his finger out of my face, I’d break it.
They thought I could just forget about being hunted?
Making sure Zane was watching, I grabbed the bottle of tequila and took a huge gulp.
Enraged, he grabbed it out of my hand and threw i
t across the room. “Goddamn it, Jag! Did you hear a word I said?”
I stood and stared fire into his hardened eyes. “If you don’t like how I run my show, there’s the door.”
He shoved his hands into my chest, knocking me backward. “Your show? Oh, this is a one-man show now? Fuck you, Jagger. Try coming in on cue and hitting a note once in a while.”
“Back off, Z,” I warned.
“You want to self-destruct? Fine.” He kicked a metal chair, sending it flying across the room. “You’re the one who wouldn’t go to the police when the letters started. Why are you bitching now?”
As his words hit me, something in me snapped. Lunging, I knocked us both to the ground and threw the first punch. While everyone else sat in shock, Ty wedged himself in between us, his calm observance interrupted.
“What the hell? We’re in a goddamn control room. You assholes want to pay for all this equipment when you break it? Because I don’t have a few hundred thou rolling around in my pocket to foot the bill. You feel me?”
Wiping the blood from his lip, Zane glared at me. The words brewed in my head and the alcohol failed to stop them from exiting my mouth.
“You think this band would survive without me? Fuck you.” Even to my own ears my words sounded childish. Every move I made was a dick maneuver.
Grabbing his guitar, Zane mumbled an apology to Ty then turned his attention to Tanna, who’d remained uncharacteristically quiet. “I’m finding a different hotel room tonight. Are you two coming?”
Ty blew a slow breath from tightened lips and nodded toward the door, answering for the both of them. “In a few. We’ll catch up.”
Zane glared at me once more and mumbled before slamming the door behind him.
