His forehead glistened with perspiration, his nose was running, and his eyes were watery. The green chile is good today. She grinned.
“I told you—green chile. What is in that is an acid. Once you get used to the burn, it’s addictive. Just scrape the sauce off. That’s where most of the heat is, anyway.”
She picked up a spoon. “Tell you what—if you want to share, I’ll eat the chile sauce and get it out of your way.”
He pushed the plate toward the middle of the table, and she scooped up a spoonful of the lethal goo. “Mmm,” she said after popping the spoon into her mouth. “Such wonderful torture.”
He scraped the enchilada fairly clean of sauce and tried another bite. “You’re right. Now it’s not so bad. But you are an evil woman.”
Kori had a few more spoonfuls, sniffling happily. “Evil? But I warned you. And sooner than you warned me about the car roof, I might add.” She took a swallow of beer and sniffled again.
She would so well fit in with this band. Now it begins. He vowed to get even. “How can you do that? Just eat it plain, like it was a spoonful of soup?” Soup from hell, that is. Oh, yes, you’ll get yours, just you wait.
He realized, with that thought, the decision was made. She was the one. Nobody else so far had dared to even try to play with him. Not only had she tried, she’d succeeded, and he was plotting his revenge. What better proof did he need that she was a good fit? Now, how to broach it…
“Oh, you get used to it, build up a tolerance. Just like anything, I guess.” She met his glance and held it with her honest blue eyes. “You’re around something long enough, you learn to love it.” She swallowed nervously and looked away. “Could you turn those down or something?” she muttered.
His eyes widened in total innocence. “What’d I do now?”
“It’s not what you did. It’s how you look. How you look at me, like you’re looking through me straight into my thoughts. Cut it out. It’s unnerving.” He probably couldn’t help it, it’s just how his eyes are so clear, but still… The beer—how much have I actually had, now?—was taking over, loosening her polite tongue and letting her say what was on her mind without editing.
“Should I just close my eyes, then? I look how I look. I can’t help it,” he lied, thinking that maybe he’d let the beer cloud his judgment. This was a woman who didn’t need his convincing charm act.
Too soon, it seemed, the beer was gone and the food mostly picked away. He’d learned a little more about her as they talked and drained the pitcher dry. He asked why she still used film, and she explained that negatives were the originals of any photograph and there would be no arguing over copyrights. Whoever owned the negs owned the rights. Also, to replace her aged Nikon and lenses with a comparable digital cost far more than she could afford. Besides, she said, it worked, so why replace it?
She’d gotten most of her muscular build while helping her husband learn to walk again after being crippled by a drunk driver. Picking him up off the floor time and again as he stumbled made for strong legs and shoulders, she said. She had never lost the strength, even though that was eleven long years ago. From that point, what she wanted and what her family needed became two very different things. She was finally starting to pursue her dreams, albeit later in life than most. He understood, now, from where the balance in her thoughts stemmed. She weighed what was best for all against what she felt, and the result was often what was best for the many.
“You deny yourself too much personal happiness,” he observed.
“No, not really. I’ve learned to be happy with what life gives me. There’s a difference. It wasn’t an easy lesson, I can tell you that. I fought it constantly, until I realized that I couldn’t be that selfish and still face my reflection in the mirror.”
“You’ll get on well with Clay, then,” he replied. “He’s fought some of those same demons himself.”
“Let’s get out of here,” she suddenly said. “I’ve had about all the mariachi music I can take in this place.”
****
She did it again, getting into the car.
BAM!
“Ouch!” Rubbing her ear, she muttered, “And it would have to be in the same exact place.”
JT, too, managed to whack his head, too busy smirking at Kori holding her ear to pay proper attention.
“Oh, motherfuck!” he cursed softly as he settled into his seat, hand on the side of his head. “That’s three times now, you bitch!” He started the engine, and they sat in the parking lot, each nursing their bruised skull.
“You okay?” she asked him, reaching out to feel for a bump, ever the mother. She did it without conscious thought, touching this stranger’s head. She moved his hair aside and ran her thumb gently over the skin above his ear, feeling for a lump or the possible split skin from a hard impact. Feeling his silky hair under her fingertips.
JT felt a jolt when her warm hand touched his scalp. What a sweet, caring gesture. And I’ll bet she doesn’t even realize what she’s doing. Or how much it means, someone I hardly know, touching me out of concern instead of groping me uninvited from lust.
With a start, Kori realized she was grabbing his head, hunting for bumps like he was her eleven-year-old and she snatched her hand away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” she said softly.
“It’s all right. Really, luv. I appreciate the concern,” he answered, just as quietly. On a whim, he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss above her ear, where her hand had been rubbing the soreness away. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. “To make it feel better,” he smiled.
Kori sat in stunned silence. This entire night, no, make that most of the events since yesterday afternoon, had a surreal edge. The soft brush of his mouth against her hair only nudged her further into the land of make-believe. She blinked her eyes slowly and gave her head a slight shake, as if that would help to clear it, or at least dislodge the happy hum of a little too much beer. She realized that she had to use a bathroom. Soon. The seatbelt was uncomfortable over her burgeoning bladder, bringing a small frown to her usually animated features.
Uh-oh, did I offend her? Maybe she doesn’t know I’m affectionate with my friends. And she is becoming a friend, after a fashion. At least, more than an acquaintance. They had a business arrangement, with his hopes for another, longer-term one, to follow.
“I’m sorry,” he said, really meaning it. “I’m just that way. A touchy-feely sort. Something you’ll have to get used to, I suppose.”
Get used to? How long was he planning on having her around? And why? She lived here, and they were leaving the day after the exhibition match, heading to Phoenix for another show. Russell should be feeling better by then.
“Get used to?” she echoed her thought.
“The other thing I wanted to talk to you about. But not here, in this parking lot. Why don’t we go to the Hyatt, where we can be comfortable, and talk in peace.”
They were only about ten minutes away, she told him, so that would be fine. She grabbed her camera from the back seat floor when they parked, afraid the settling dew might have an effect on the film inside. She followed him, expecting to head for the hotel bar. Instead, he walked through the lobby and toward his suite. He noted her look of concern when they paused to unlock the door.
“I don’t bite, Korina. Well, not unless I’m invited to.” He gave her a disarming grin. “This is just more comfortable, and we won’t have any interruptions.”
She entered the sitting room and stood, obviously uncomfortable. She shrugged out of her jacket. “Do you mind if I put this here?” she asked, indicating the chair.
“Anywhere’s fine. Would you like something to drink? The bar in here is stocked.”
“Just something diet, if you have it. Preferably with caffeine, it’s getting sort of late for me. And may I use your bathroom?”
“It’s the first door on the left.” He smiled, thinking of the volume of beer she hadn’t known she consumed. He’d easily given her half the pitcher
, careful to refill his own glass only when it was empty. He’d had two; the rest of the half-gallon pitcher was in Korina. Lightweight? Can’t hold her liquor? He didn’t think so. She seemed more graceful now than when he’d seen her absolutely sober at her job yesterday.
Upon her return, she found him sitting at one end of the couch, his laptop on the table in front of him, booting up. She sat at the other end.
He patted the seat next to him. “Come here for a moment. I want to show you something.”
Okaaayy, now what? That embarrassing fiction? He kept surprising her with his behavior, and she braced herself for the worst. She perched on the edge of the cushion near him.
JT turned the laptop so they both could see the screen. He’d loaded their website. “Pick any of the pages, and tell me what you think of it.”
“I don’t need to see it - I think I’ve read it all,” she responded. “It’s a good site, better than most. I don’t feel like I’m reading an ad when I go there, and the news is topical and goes a little more in-depth than one would expect. It’s also nice that there isn’t any dancing baloney that takes forever to load.” What was he fishing for?
“Okay, then, let me get right to the point. Our webmaster is very good, but his prose is rather boring and dry-humored. We want it to be more fun, reflect our personalities more. Be more up-to-date more often. Have the links to interviews, TV shows, all that stuff. He doesn’t have the time to do it all, or find it all.”
She sat, waiting for him to continue. The moment stretched on. Finally, she said, “And?”
“And I, we, like your style. Your humor’s not catty. You can get to the point without rambling, or being too abrupt. I’d like you to consider taking the job.”
Job? Job doing what, exactly? Was there an offer here somewhere I’ve missed? “What would you want me to do?”
“Write the news better, conduct the interviews with members of the band, research and post the links to interviews and news of the band from other sites or on-line editions of magazines, post the dates and times of television shows we’re on, all that sort of thing. We haven’t really come up with a job title yet, but it’s something along the lines of senior editor/web publicist.”
Good lord, this would be a dream job! But where would I find the time? “I’d really love to—”
“Fantastic! I can talk to the webmaster about getting you access, and—”
“But I don’t know how I’d find the time, JT. I only get about five hours sleep a night as it is.” She looked utterly defeated. Another dream slipping away…
“I think you misunderstand me, luv. This would be a full-time position. A paying position. You’d need to be on the road with us sometimes, or in the studio, watching. The internet has gotten simply explosive as a media device in the last couple of years, and we want to take full advantage of that. You’d still be home most of the year, we can do a lot by telephone or e-mail. Your family can travel with you when they want to. What are you making now, waiting on people and developing their pictures? Twenty thousand?”
“Eighteen,” she muttered.
“We’d more than triple that. And replace your film camera with whatever digital you want and pay the expenses of DSL and a cellphone, flying, lodging, all of that. Your salary would be yours. We would foot the bill for business expenses.” He eyed her, willing her to take the offer. “So, what do you say?”
Her first instinct was to blurt out an excited yes. The things she thrived on could bring her a livable income. Writing. Photography. Traveling. And, of course, music and her favorite band.
But—
Think about it like this is a marriage, Kori. Do not jump in head first. They’ll own a part of you. How much was her freedom to express herself worth?
And what would Mark say? Did he know anything about this? She thought back to his odd parting words: “This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Grab it with both hands and don’t look back.”
“You already talked to my husband about this, didn’t you?”
Not the response he was expecting. “Well, sort of. Rather, Stuart did. Mark said you’re at our website all the time, so you might as well get paid for it. Look, if that’s your concern, don’t let it be. While you were talking to Ian, Stuart was telling Mark all about this. He was nothing but positive and supportive.”
“What about what I write? And my photographs?”
He let out a sigh. This might take more convincing than he’d expected. “As long as you are under contract, what you write about the band gets our approval first. Since most of the newsy stuff would come from us, anyway, that shouldn’t pose a problem. We’d trust your judgment on the phrasing. What was released, we’d authorize. How it was said would be up to you.”
“I expected that. What I meant was, will you own all copyrights? No matter what it is? Photos, articles, what-have-you?” It was more the what-have-you that concerned her.
“You’re making this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?”
“I’m simply being thorough. You wouldn’t have it any other way, and you know it. If I had just said yes, without any questions, then you wouldn’t have wanted me to do it, now would you?” She quirked one eyebrow at him.
“Noooo, you’re right, there. I expected some questions, or you would’ve made me wonder if you were as intelligent as you appeared to be.”
“So? Quit avoiding the answers, then. I’m being forthright, and I hope for the same from you.” Oh that beeris making my normally shy self quite bold.
“Okay. You deserve honest answers, or we won’t be able to work together. You would get name credit for your work. Articles would be copyrighted to us. Interview content, as well. As for photos, that depends. If it’s posted on the site, it will be copyrighted to us, mostly for pirating protection. Depending on the circumstances of when the photo was taken, we’d either own the photo outright, or rent the right to use it. If we ask you to shoot something, that would be ours. If you’re just out there, happily snapping away, those would be yours. We would want to exercise an option to use them, of course. That would be a separate contract, per incident or per image. Sound fair?”
“So far, I like what I’m hearing.” Knowing how strongly they felt about copyrights, she really didn’t expect anything less. They wouldn’t try to cheat her, of that she was certain, but she wanted to hear details from him before she could make a decision.
She looked down, fidgeting with the tab on her Diet Coke can. “And any fictional stories?” She already knew the answer, but wanted to make him say it, anyway.
“You can be as creative as you like. But no posting them. Anywhere. No sending them to anyone, not even under a fictitious name. If they involve us, or even a make-believe band, no way. You’d know too much about us, and it could prove embarrassing. Or start rumors, even lawsuits - you know, like ‘She wrote that about ME!’ Nope, nobody reads it.”
“That’s what I expected,” she sighed.
“But I wouldn’t want you to quit writing them,” he continued softly. “Especially the really hot ones. Those I would love to read.”
“Think you’re getting your own private pornographer, do you?” She smiled in her embarrassment; she didn’t have enough alcohol in her yet to not be shy and somewhat reluctant to admit she could write things like that.
“What? Hell, no. Besides, what I’ve seen hasn’t been pornographic, simply… erotic. Just if you wanted someone to read them, to give you an opinion, maybe…well, my door would always be open to critique them.” The nights alone were lonelier than he liked to admit, and randomly picking a pretty groupie for sex just wasn’t that much fun anymore. It wasn’t something he engaged in very often these days. Just as their songs strived for more meaning, so did his life. Eventually, someday, making the music would end. He didn’t want to wind up alone when it did, with nothing but the memories.
“Oh, you just want to read the smut. Admit it.” Kori trained her eyes on a spot of nothing on the carpet, feeling more unco
mfortable by the second. It took a fair amount of her courage just to show the stories she wrote to her husband, afraid of what he might think about her. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to be talking to the subject of one of her erotic stories about it. Scared shitless in uncharted territory would be an understatement. Kori felt her heartbeat begin to gallop.
“Well, why shouldn’t I admit it? You don’t write them so that no one can read them. If you wanted to have a fantasy, you surely wouldn’t write it down, you’d just play it in your head. If you want to share what you see here—” he gently brushed her temple— “and here—” his fingertip lightly touched her chest, over her now-jackhammering heart— “that’s when you write it down.”
His hand fell to rest over hers, stopping the nervous motion of her thumb on the aluminum can tab. “I know, because I wrestle with the same things, myself. If it stays inside of me, no one can cut it to ribbons with their criticism. But if I don’t let it out, set it free to be either loved or ridiculed, then some part of me dies along with it.”
She closed her eyes and released a slow breath. “Okay.”
“Okay, what, Kori?” His voice was silk on sandpaper.
She looked up at him then, knowing she’d better get over the reluctance to look into his eyes. “I’ll take the job.”
JT grinned widely. Once again, he got what he wanted. “How about a drink to celebrate, and to seal the deal?”
“Only if it’s more beer. If I mix anything else with it….well, bleah.” She stuck out her tongue like she was going to be sick.
He went to the small refrigerator and produced two cold bottles of Guinness Stout.
“Oooh,” she remarked, “the syrupy stuff. You are trying to get me drunk, aren’t you?”
JT chuckled. They drank to a long and beneficial relationship, then both lapsed into a contemplative silence.
It’s going to be a different experience, working closely with a woman in this capacity. Sure, they’d had wardrobe women, and female stylists. Worked with the women at the management and record companies. As underlings and secretaries. But the highest positions, the representation, the executives they dealt with, had all been men. Would they have to watch what they said? She would, after all, be writing it up.
Dream Me Off My Feet (Sex, Love, And Rock & Roll) Page 5
