by Cara Nelson
“Why is that, Brynn?”
“It didn’t look good.”
“But it felt good, didn’t it?” Of course it had felt good, and seeing that Gauge didn’t seem to put much into the picture made me feel better. Then he added, “It’s on Gawker, too.”
Now I was anxious again.
“Well, I’ve got to go. I have a Skype with my editor from The Rift in a hour. I’ve got to prepare.”
“Are you going to be watching the show tonight?”
“I am,” I said. “See you then.”
“Later, then,” Gauge said.
I walked away and went into my room, pulling out my tablet and pulling up Gawker. Apparently I was into torturing myself. Just over a month ago I would have looked at those pictures when I was doing my research and laughed at the women who immortalized themselves in revealing pictures like that. Yet there I was. Talk about karma kicking me in the ass. The real kicker was that I wasn’t really feeling as guilty as I thought I should. I’d had a great night.
I went to my email and saw that I had quite a few messages, but two of them were of immediate interest. One was from Jessie and the other was from Trinity. I opened them up and read Trinity’s first.
Wow girlfriend!
That is one hot picture. No need to ask if you’re having fun. I’ve seen the proof. Fill me in on the juice when you have a minute.
~T
Next I read Jessie’s.
Brynn,
I wanted to check in with you and make sure you were good. It’s hard to believe you wouldn’t be from the looks of the Gawker. You were definitely having a good time. Miss ya,
Jessie
I sent them a joint message. A few short sentences took me about ten minutes to write. I kept writing, editing, and revising.
Hey,
I sure know how to make my mark in the world, huh? It goes without saying that it was a great night and I enjoyed myself. Do I really do that tongue thing when I dance? All is good here and I’m definitely good. Hope we can talk soon.
Ciao for now,
Brynn
Chapter Eight:
The Head Extraction
An average quality, slightly-distorted Skype image appeared before me and I saw Laurel Freemont, my editor for The Rift, staring at me. Her black, square reading glasses were on, pulled down on her nose halfway, and accented the bright red lipstick. The girl picked a shade and stuck with it! Her short pixie cut framed her thin face in an ideal way.
“How’s the progress?” Laurel asked. She didn’t waste time or words.
“I have so many things, lots of fresh content. I’m excited.”
“When will I have a bit to look over?”
“I know you’d like to hear it today, but that’s not going to happen. It’s still a bit raw, not ready for an editorial review.”
She leaned forward and stared into the camera of her computer, and then beyond that, to my eyes. “You’re not having troubles, are you?”
“No, no troubles.”
“Good, because you’re good, but there’s a fair amount of pressure for this article. I just want you to realize I know that.”
“You’ll have a draft in two days, end of day my time, for review.” As the words escaped my lips, I wanted to suck them back in. There was nothing more stupid than a journalist giving themselves a deadline. It was almost always less favorable than the one their editor would give them.
“Great, glad you’re good. I’m not really into that ‘rah-rah you can do it’ schtick.”
“And I’m glad for that,” I said.
“So, how are the guys?” Laruen asked.
Whoa! That was a quick topic change. I wasn’t sure if she was asking me because she’d seen the pictures or she was just curious. “They’re good and definitely interesting. Lots of personality amongst those three.”
“Yeah. Who’s your favorite?”
“I’m not allowing myself to have one. Need to stay impartial for the article.”
“I’m calling bullshit,” Lauren said. She had a wicked grin spread across her face. “I saw that picture, and it doesn’t take a hell of a lot of investigating to know who your favorite is.”
I couldn’t say anything immediately, feeling like my tongue weighed a hundred pounds. Laurel let me off the hook. “Don’t sweat it. Journalists fuck around with musicians all the time, it’s part of the game.”
“Well, I didn’t do that,” I said.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Out of curiosity, don’t employers usually frown on that type of thing?” I asked casually.
“There’s nothing typical about our industry, and I know you know that. It’s why you’re there, and I’m here in this office ready to live vicariously through your words.”
“I think I’ll stick to journalism and not try to be an amateur groupie—not sure I’d be good at that schtick, as you put it.”
“Honey, don’t even try to pull off Jewish lingo. It took a very authentic grandmother to teach me that one.”
“Got it.” I was silent, not having much else to say. It was my fingers that needed to start doing the talking.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Looking forward to receiving the goods. Everyone’s eager.” Then her phone. She put her finger up to the camera, reached down and answered her phone, then looked at me and waved before signing out.
I estimated that I had two hours to get started before getting ready for the concert that night. If my time went ideally I’d be able to get an outline complete. Then, after the show, I’d come back, get a good night’s sleep and start burning the oil first thing in the AM.
There was one aspect of my assignment that I’d been avoiding since getting to know the guys of ProVokaTiv a bit better. That was the fact that I just didn’t respond to their music the way most everyone else did. In fact, when I tried to find data on poor reviews or negative critiques, I came up with only eight credible sources. When it came to finding positive feedback, I found more credible sources than I could even add up. I reached the conclusion that there must have been some sort of subliminal messaging in there that brainwashed the followers like a cult.
Staring at my tablet’s blank page, I wrote the start of my first sentence: I don’t know when ProVokaTiv became a synonym for ‘contagious.’ I put some strikes through my first sentence immediately afterward, staring at the tablet closer, more enamored with the reflection of the rising sun on it then the sentence I’d written.
“It’s going to be a long damn life if I’m already getting stuck for the right words,” I muttered. I looked to see it was 8 AM. Liquor stores opened at 8 AM in the Twin Cities. Risking some speculation and raised eyebrows from the hotel staff, I picked up the phone and dialed room service. “Blueberry muffin, fruit, oh, and a bottle of Pinot Noir…no just once glass…10:00? Oh, okay, just bring it all up then.”
I had two hours to kick it into gear. I could do it! I started to type out my thoughts, diving into everything that had been happening over the few weeks. I still had three weeks to go before my ‘research’ was complete, and this draft was the best way to fill in the blanks about what I still needed to get; my interview with Gauge being the main one. I’d been putting that off, feeling like it was easier to get to know him through other means. Who would have thought that dirty dancing was one of them? Go figure.
“Room service,” a thick Italian accent called out from the other side of the door.
I jumped, not realizing that 10:00 had arrived, and opened the door. A middle aged man was standing there behind a wheel tray with four items on it: a small silver platter with a lid, a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a single red wine glass.
“Come on in,” I said, smiling a bit sheepishly. I wasn’t sure why I felt awkward showing that I needed some morning vino. It was common in Europe, right? Plus, I’d never see these guys again, so why not do what I needed to do? I was the one with the self-imposed deadline, after all.
“Shall I uncork this no
w, signora?”
“That will be fine.”
He smiled at me and did as I asked, lingering by the front door with his silver cart until I signed the room service bill and added his tip in there.
“Thank you,” I said, holding the door open for him.
He walked out and I dove in, pouring a glass of ‘the nectar of journalists.’ Then I got back to work, feeding my fire with a muffin, a juicy peach, and a tasty glass of wine. The words began to flow from my fingers more freely. I got to that sweet spot in my mind, the place where I thought about the emotions and message and kicked the editor to the curb. That could be done afterwards, by me and then Laurel.
I was starting to feel good, and by 3 PM, I had a thousand fairly brilliant words written and was ready to flesh them out. I’d been willingly edited and critiqued on my writing my entire life, but I had to be honest; no piece of writing was more important to me than the one that I was working on. I also noticed that when my fingers were moving their quickest, I was most likely to misspell Hunter’s name, turning him into a Huntre, until my auto correct switched it around for me. Gauge and Simon were no problem. It went to show that Hunter found a way to get attention even when I was in the privacy of my hotel room and involved in an affair with MS Word.
The phone rang that was on the desk right by me. I didn’t even look over as I picked up the receiver and nestled it under my chin.
“You okay? I haven’t seen you all day.” It was Gauge.
“I’m good. Doing some writing, because I have to get a partial draft over tonight.”
“Can you take a break?”
“Sorry.”
“Alright, catch you later.”
We hung up, and I realized that something very unfamiliar had happened. I didn’t have the tingles from Gauge’s voice or the distracting lusty thoughts of him that bombarded my mind at all the wrong times. I was in the zone. In fact, I couldn’t even figure out why he’d call me just to check on me. He’d grown less ominous over the past few weeks, but it wasn’t like him.
Needing some invigoration, I’d just taken a shower and put on my pajama bottoms and a tank top. My hair was piled up high on my head, still wet, and I was getting ready to read through my draft one last time before I sent it off to Laurel.
There was a knock at my door. It was already 11 PM and I thought it might be a wrong door. Then there was another knock.
I walked over to peer through the hole and a piece of paper slid under the door. “Open up. I can hear you typing.”
I swung the door open. “Sorry, wasn’t typing.”
“Well, I had a good chance,” Gauge said. He wore a serious expression and was holding a small brown sack under his arm. I stared at it and waited for him to talk. “Thought you could use a break. I got a six pack of Peroni.”
“Well, why not. I should take a break from the piece for a bit so I can look at it with a fresh set of eyes. Hopefully you don’t mind my attire.”
“Why would I?” Gauge asked. I think he was serious, too. Intentionally complex, like the description for the bottle of wine I’d enjoyed throughout the day.
“I’ll read it if you want.”
“Not on your life,” I said.
We sat down on the couch. Gauge asked if he could turn on the sports quick to catch the soccer scores. “Torino just played Manchester United.”
“You like soccer?”
“I do.”
“I never knew that.”
He didn’t say anything to that. I’m not even sure why I thought I should have known that. After all, millions of people loved soccer.
We turned our attention to ESPN Italy. I barely understood any of it, relying on the scores on the ticker for me to keep pace with what was happening.
“Can you understand Italian?”
“Enough to get me by. I can’t speak it good.”
We sat there in relative silence, enjoying the cold, crisp beer, and staring at the television. Every time our bodies brushed up against each other, I remembered how his hands felt on my hips when we were dancing. It was odd to be so comfortable in relative silence, but I was ready to talk. I’d been quiet all day aside from the occasional rant to myself.
“Is it hard to get into the music industry when you’re so shy?”
“You think I’m shy, Brynn?”
“Well, yeah, you’re so quiet most of the time. It seems…”
He cut me off. “I can talk when I want to.”
“I’ve never been too shy. Insecure once in awhile, maybe, but I had to get over that in order to become a journalist. Insecure journalists don’t get too far, or so they say.”
“I don’t see that in you,” he said.
“I’m not really a fan of letting my imperfections show through.”
“There is nothing more rare, nor more beautiful, than a woman being unapologetically herself; comfortable in her perfect imperfection. To me, that is the true essence of beauty.”
My jaw came unhinged. “Did you make that up?”
“No, it’s Steve Maraboli.”
“The motivational speaker guy?” It wasn’t that Gauge was dumb, but I never would have guessed that he’d even know who a guy like that was, much less quote him.
“Yeah, don’t look so startled, Brynn. My mom is into that sort of thing, and thought one of his books would be good to read in my downtime.” He smirked.
“Keep you out of trouble, keep you grounded.”
“Something like that.”
“She’s probably had a heart attack if she’s seen the picture.”
“When you don’t want to know something, you don’t go looking for it. That’s her motto.”
“It’s a good motto.” Then I remembered that I had to get over the draft. I had a debate to go through. Cut off the nice little surprise with Gauge to read through it once again before sending it over or wing it? I winged it and walked over to my tablet and pressed send. Then I went right back to my spot next to Gauge on the couch, popped open another beer, and continued the conversation.
Our talk turned to fun memories from when we were kids after that, talking about what we liked and the adventures we had. I admitted that I was rather clumsy, which made me prefer reading books to running around. It was only out of necessity and a desire to not get Aunt Betty’s goat that I started running, something I hadn’t done at all since starting the summer tour gig.
“I was always active, out of the house as much as I could, and at the skate park.”
“I can see that.”
“Everyone always says that.”
“Everyone’s right in this case.”
Gauge went on to talk about his younger sister and I saw nothing but serious big brother love in his eyes. It was so sweet, so protective. She was clearly someone that Gauge gave more leeway to than others in his life.
“Your friendship with her sounds great,” I said.
“It is. She’s an awesome kid, well, not kid anymore, I guess. She’s twenty-two.”
“My age,” said. I’ll admit that it made me wonder if he thought of me in that protective big brother way. God, I hoped not!
“Yeah, I guess so. Hadn’t thought about it.”
“Is she a good singer, too?”
“Hell no,” Gauge said with a huge grin. “She sucks, to be honest. Imagine how a cat fight sounds in the middle of the night and you’ll get the idea.”
“Ew, enough said,” I replied. We started laughing and I really appreciated getting to learn more about Gauge’s family. It felt nice; made him seem like your average guy, not just some larger than life rock star. Note to self, even rock stars start out as your average person; they just climb a ladder to some extraordinary things.
Eventually the talk died down. Before I knew it, it was morning and I was waking up and stretching my arms out. I bumped into Gauge as I tried to massage my own neck and relieve the kink that had built up in there. It was excruciating.
“Let me get that,” he said. I angled my body. I
’ll admit I was glad to do so, because I started to worry that I had morning breath that might knock a guy out.
His thumbs worked out the knot in my neck. I felt the burn of the muscle releasing and winced. It was followed by that amazing feeling that spreads through your body when a weight has been lifted.
“You could have a second career as a massage therapist,” I said appreciatively.
“Hopefully it never comes down to that.”
Then his hands departed from my neck, leaving me feeling abandoned from their powerful touch. I stuck my lip out briefly and turned around to see what was happening.
“Well, I’d better get going. I’ve got a lot to do,” he said.
“Me too. I don’t even know what time we’re leaving today…or where we’re going, now that I think about it.”
“Liverpool, leaving at 1 PM.”
Gauge walked to the door and put his hand on the knob, turning around to look at me one more time. His lips parted like he was going to talk. He swung open the door and walked out into the hallway, leaving me standing there.
I didn’t see them, but I heard Hunter shout. “Way to go, bro.”
My timing was definitely not what it should be. It basically looked like I’d been able to enjoy some mind-blowing sex with Gauge over the past few days. The problem was that I hadn’t even felt his lips on mine yet. Why was that? He wasn’t a tease, and I wasn’t known to be a cock tease. I’d heard of slow and easy, but this was getting ridiculous.
Chapter Nine:
Cutthroat
After a twelve-hour train ride, my intrigue had been satisfied, and I no longer thought it was as sexy as the old classic Risky Business implied. However, that was hardly my largest concern. I was gritting my teeth so hard that my jaw ached. I stared down at the words on my email. They weren’t mean, but they didn’t sing my praises, either. Damn it! I wanted my praises sung.
In small, irritating purple bubbles next to various parts of my two thousand words of first draft brilliance were comments that made me unhappy. I didn’t like feeling unhappy.
