by Kate Stewart
Paige stood fuming as Reid rounded her hood and walked toward the restaurant.
Letting my anger get the best of me, I gave him a little venom, too. “And you’re an asshole!”
Paige’s pale neck turned crimson. “Alright, that’s enough, Stella!”
“Hey—” I shrugged “—as long as we’re clearing the air.”
Reid smirked and walked through the doors of the rapidly-filling restaurant. I would make it my mission to piss him off the same way.
Annoyed that a ten-minute car ride was about to come between us, I extended a slightly thorny olive branch. “Look, I’m sorry, but that was an asshole thing to do, Paige. This is exactly what I’m afraid of. Rubbing you or Neil the wrong way and being shooed back to Dallas. I’m thankful for you putting me up, you know that. And you know the week I’ve had. I’m a bit on edge, and I’m at your mercy. You know that, too. I’m helpless here!”
She chewed her lip as she looked at the ground between us. “I know. I’m sorry. Reid’s a great guy. You just have to get to know him and give him a chance. I shouldn’t have said those things in front of him, but honestly, he knows a ton about you. He’s my best friend.”
“I’ve gathered. And I’m not?”
“No, you’re my sister,” she said with soft eyes. “Means much more.”
“It better.” I huffed as we both shared a hesitant smile.
“Bitch.”
“Asshole.”
“See you later?” Paige said with a smile as she tied her apron around her jeans.
“If you’re lucky,” I taunted.
“I better get lucky. Don’t make me worry, okay?” She picked up her pace as she headed toward the porch of the restaurant then turned to look back at me, her expression maternal.
I let out a resigned sigh. “Fine. I won’t make you worry.”
“Need some money?”
“A little,” I clipped, hating my situation that much more.
She laughed as she pulled a twenty from her pocket. “I get off at eleven, so be back then, okay?”
“Lend me the car.”
“Forget it.”
Twenty bucks and a kickass T-shirt. That’s all I had on me when I strolled into the busy office of Austin Speak, a city paper that was funded purely by ads and free on every newsstand. The building itself sat in a questionable part of town. It wasn’t a place you wanted to walk away from alone at night. Still, the few blocks I walked to get there got me a little more familiar with Austin’s streets, my home for the next few years. Austin was a mass arena of historical, commercial, and designer commercial. I had several reasons for wanting to move to the city, but the best one was the music. In my master plan, I’d always thought I’d work someplace like Austin Speak to get my feet wet, though deep down I knew it would be a hard sell with my inexperience and lack of a degree. And I was sure the pay was shit. I would have to get another job to compensate for monthly expenses, but it was my first stop, and the only job I truly wanted while I furthered my education. I’d sent in a ton of different resumes and attached several articles I’d written, but hadn’t heard a word. Persistence wasn’t the only edge you had to have in the hunt, yet it was all I had at that moment.
The paper was bustling past the cheap, wooden reception desk. A fair-haired and freckle-faced receptionist that looked my age greeted me with a smile and appreciated Samuel on my shirt before she asked if she could help me.
“I want to work here. How do I get a job?”
Her laugh echoed throughout the joke of a lobby, and several of the staff members in the desks behind her gave a pregnant pause.
“Wow, you’re blunt.”
“Blunt, honest, hardworking. I would be an asset to this place,” I said, noting the retro, pea-green linoleum floors and chipped paint on the walls.
She raised her hands, palms up toward me. “Don’t try to sell me. I don’t pay the rent here.”
“So, who do I sell?”
“That would be Nate Butler.”
“Okay, may I see Nate Butler?”
“He’s in a meeting.”
I gave her a wary eye. “He’s always in a meeting, isn’t he?”
Her smile got wider.
“That’s your job description,” I went on, “isn’t it? Answer the phone and take good messages because he’s always in a meeting?”
She pressed her lips together to keep her laugh in. I planned on encountering nothing but slamming doors in my future. But I had just the right shoes to wedge my foot in for the Hail Mary strategy I would need to have to be taken seriously. I’d spent the majority of my time in junior college writing various articles that kept up with current artists. I had a hard drive filled with a few million words. It was atypical of me not to know the details of any endeavor before I stuck my neck out, especially for the job I was looking to land. But flying by the seat of my Levi’s was another skill I had to master to become a force to be reckoned with. So, completely unprepared, I stared down the receptionist, ready to do whatever was necessary to have an audience of one named Nate Butler.
“I don’t want to pull an ‘I’ll wait.’ I don’t have the patience for that hat trick. Help me out here?”
“He’s pretty blunt himself. You sure you don’t want to come back better prepared?” She glanced at my T-shirt.
I grinned. “You think a tie would dress this up?”
She shook her head with a chuckle.
“I agree, it’s a bold statement.” I looked for any sign that she got my Pulp Fiction pun and was disappointed when she missed it. “He wouldn’t happen to have a fetish for opinionated brunettes?”
“No, he’s more of a long-legged, silent but affectionate blonde type of man.”
I wrinkled my nose. “And a breast man, too, am I right?”
“Probably, also he’s close with his mom.”
“That’s a good thing. He might be a decent human.”
“He’s pretty much an ass,” she assured. We both smiled.
“Now that I have plenty of. But I’ll just have to go with personality.”
“I’d hire you.” She winked as she picked up the phone and looked to me in question.
“Stella Emerson,” I announced proudly. “Estella for short.”
Her smile said she enjoyed my sarcasm. “Spanish?”
“Texican.”
She let out a loud laugh this time that caught the attention of everyone in the room behind her. I waved to those most aggravated faces with big eyes and dual handed spirit fingers. Apparently, behind the reception desk is where happiness went to die.
“Nate, I have Stella Emerson here to see you. No, she doesn’t have an appointment—”
Before he could give an excuse, I gently gripped the phone away from her. She was more amused than upset. I liked her.
“Mr. Butler, I will only take five minutes of your time.”
Hesitance on the other end of the line and then, “Mrs. Emerson—”
“Miss.”
“Miss Emerson, if you’ll have Sierra make you an appointment.”
“Sierra?” I asked as I held my hand over the speaker. “I like it, good name. Your mother must love you more than mine.”
She just chuckled as I went on with my bullshit reverie.
“I’m here for my interview, sir.”
“I see.”
“We have an interview today—” I looked at the clock on Sierra’s desk “—at four thirty.”
A door opened behind one of the desks situated in the circular media room. I expected a bald man with wiry hair and a short temper to emerge. Instead, I got a copper-haired gent in a tailored suit who, across the desks, looked only a few years older than me. Phone in hand, he took one look at my appearance and sighed before he lifted the phone back to his mouth.
“Miss Emerson, I know full well you don’t have an interview.”
“Sexy voice,” I whispered to Sierra.
“I heard that,” he said, unimpressed.
I c
leared my throat. “My apologies. We’ve already wasted a minute in debate. I’ll take the last four.”
He released another sigh before he looked between Sierra and me—a lingering angry stare on my new friend. “Come on back.”
I handed the phone back to Sierra. “Sorry, desperate times.”
“I hope he hires you,” she said, unaffected by my stunt.
“Me, too. I owe you a drink either way.”
“Deal,” she said as the phone rang. She gave me a wink as she answered. “Austin Speak.” She paused before she smiled through her answer, laugh-creased eyes on me. “Mr. Butler is in a meeting.”
Walking back toward the open door, I glanced at the desks and looked for any sign of life behind them. The rest of the offices were empty. There were a total of twelve people working at Austin Speak. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Still, I pressed on through the door, shut it behind me, and turned to see the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Butler.”
Chapter Four
Numb/Encore: JAY Z /Linkin Park
Nate Butler was a god that someone must have tucked away in an old warehouse disguised as an office and forgotten about. His thick, burnt-strawberry blond hair was loosely slicked back around a prominent widow’s peak. Dark eyebrows, violently bright blue eyes, and strong, sleek features made up his face, while his build remained somewhat of a mystery cloaked in his suit. He sat in his office chair as his eyes assessed me. When they reached my shirt, they softened slightly while he hid his smirk. Samuel Jackson was such a good icebreaker.
“Let me guess, Miss Emerson, you’re freelance looking for a desk job, and you’ll do whatever it takes to get a foot in the door.”
“Student, journalism, third year, and I’ll do a lot, but not whatever it takes. I sent you an email this morning.”
“I got your email, all of them. What I don’t have are room and budget. What I do have is a line a mile long of people with degrees, experience, and resumes far more qualified than yours.”
“So, you’ve looked at it?” He sighed as he sat back, and his smile finally won. I moved to sit.
“Don’t bother taking a seat. We’re at three minutes. Go.”
He began typing on one of two keyboards on the spacious black desk, and I took the seat anyway.
“I want to cover entertainment.”
He barked out an incredulous laugh before his typing resumed.
“How old are you?”
“Isn’t that illegal to ask?” I said, leaning over slightly to invade his personal space and to get a whiff of whatever cologne he was wearing. Dead sexy, intimidating, those were only a few good adjectives to describe Nate Butler.
“It would be illegal if I had an open position and this was a real interview—” he glanced at Samuel over one of his screens “—which it’s not.”
“I’ll be twenty on Saturday.”
“You’re a baby. You have nothing to offer me. And you can’t legally get into most of the clubs in this city.”
“We both know that’s horse crap. With a press badge, I’ll be able to get in anywhere. And I am very persuasive.”
He paused his typing. “Is that why you’re here? For a free pass?”
He looked me over again and sat back with his hands clasped.
Gripping the edge of the cheap chair, I gave my ready defense. “I’ve been to over two hundred shows. I’ve met a ton of musicians and celebrities at those shows. This isn’t a Make-a-Wish type deal for me.”
“Being a fan doesn’t make you a writer.”
“I disagree completely. Being a fan is the reason I’m a writer.”
“Why Speak?”
“Because I have to start somewhere.”
“Aiming low, huh?” He wasn’t insulted in the slightest.
“No insult to the paper, it’s no Rolling Stone, but it’s a paper people read. I read it.” That wasn’t a lie. I’d read it since I moved to Austin.
He nodded. “Two minutes. And I liked the piece you did on The Beatles influence.”
“Thank you,” I said as a shred of hope glimmered a ray through his cold office.
“Pretty insightful, Kurt Cobain and Don Henley both credited them for different reasons, and in the span of two decades, very different sounds were born.”
“Agreed. Music is so organic. If there were a musical game like Seven Degrees to Kevin Bacon, I’m positive it would be The Beatles.”
“Did you just quote yourself?” He shook his head with a smirk. “You are so green.”
“Help me change that. I really will start anywhere. I’ll make lists. Readers love lists.”
“I can’t. You have one minute, Miss Emerson.”
“Then I do a five or ten column. ‘Five ways to get the job of your dreams’. ‘Five ways to mentally turn your day around.’ ‘Ten things you didn’t know about Spam.’”
“Those have all been done. You’re reaching.”
“But that’s what sells papers. I’ll think of new lists, better lists.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“I’ll contribute, then. One article a week, edited. You won’t have to do anything but read it.”
“Fifteen,” he warned, “and even I don’t skip on an editor.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s 101.” His decision was made.
“I’ll pay for myself. I’ll find ads.”
He finally paused, but only briefly. “I have people for that.”
“What could it hurt? I bring ads in to pay my own salary. That’s me doing all of the work.”
“Freelance, Miss Emerson. Why don’t you try that route?”
“Because I’m nineteen without a degree and I’ve never been published, that’s why. And that’s why you’re slamming the door in my face.”
“I’m sorry. Time’s up.”
“Thank you.” I stood, unable to hide my disappointment, and faked a smile to match my lying shrug. “Well, at least I have my first rejection story.”
His brilliant eyes danced over me, and I had no choice but to acknowledge the warmth that spread as a result. His beauty stunned me. But so had Dylan’s.
“I hope it was memorable.”
Unable to not flirt with Nathan Butler, I lifted my eyes. “It could have been better.”
A sinful smiled crossed his lips. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
I paused at the door. “I really wish I had something epic to say right about now, but I’ve got nothing. Don’t take this out on Sierra. Don’t fire her, okay? I forced my way in here.”
“You didn’t force anything. I let it happen. And I won’t fire her. She’s my cousin.”
“Oh.”
Standing at the door, I felt the full disappointment. The first being a piece of my dream had been stripped, and the second was I wanted to see Nate Butler again. He was easily the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. But the first outweighed the latter. No matter how well prepared I was for the rejection, it still stung. But it was a crapshoot from the start.
Nate stood and splayed his fingers on his desk. “Even though your writing is a little indulgent for someone completely unknown and whose opinions don’t matter, you really have something. You should know that.”
“I do.”
He gave me another flash of teeth. “Good, stay confident. You’ll need that.”
“As much good as it did me. Thanks again.” I walked out of Austin Speak jobless, but I still had twenty bucks and a kickass T-shirt.
Chapter Five
Bittersweet Symphony: The Verve
After hours of walking up and down 6th Street, Austin’s famous strip filled with endless clubs, and filling out applications, I’d decided I’d earned a beer at the very least. Paige’s shift would end soon, and I didn’t want to use her money, but I’d failed my mission. I was still jobless, and I needed to numb the sting. The kicker to applying for a job at every place on 6th Street was that I couldn’t use my fake ID there in the immediat
e future. I ended up retracing my steps back toward Speak and found a bar called Louie’s around the corner. A flash thunderstorm had drenched me to the point of no return, and Samuel was pissed. And so was I. Pissed and disheartened, I finally let my shitty mood win. I sat down at the bar and tossed my ID that read Juanita Sanchez. She was my cousin and was only a year older than me. Her hair and skin were far darker, and she had brown eyes, but the ID had never been called into question. Ever. “I’ll take whatever draft you have for happy hour.”
“This one is on me.” Only a small part of me was happy about the fact that the man who just crushed my hopes had just bought me my consolation beer. Still, I couldn’t help the little dance my insides agreed to on their own accord at the sound of his voice.
“Mr. Butler, thank you.”
“Nate.”
“Nate. Thank you.”
“I really shouldn’t have done that,” he said, reminding me he knew my age.
“Well, then don’t.” I set the twenty on the bar, and he pushed it toward me.
“Be nice. I’m trying here.”
“Sorry,” I said as I took the money away and put it in my pocket. I felt like a wet dog as he looked down at me with something close to pity.
He stood close enough for inspection, so I finally let my eyes appraise him while he unbuttoned his jacket, hooked it on the bar chair, and dusted his glistening hair before he took the stool next to mine. I could see the outline of his undershirt beneath his damp, starched shirt, and under that nuisance of material, I saw a sculpted man. He was intensely beautiful, blunt, and a little cocky. But the half of me that was Latina knew I had already won the second he sat down.
He may have been arrogant, but I’d been battling machismo my whole life. I had more cousins my age than I knew what to do with, and I learned their tricks early. Which really did make me a dumbass for going after a toddler in a band called Meat.
Nate took a long pull of his beer. “No luck anywhere else?”
“Yeah, I can bus tables if I so desire. Pure progress.”