“Well once you get out the door–in clothes, not a towel– I am sure you will have a fabulous day,” Iris says. She is nothing if not positive all the time. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I could do without the sugar coating. Today, I need all the good vibes I can get.
“Thanks, girl. This job is really, really important.”
“I know it is! A big record company isn’t easy to get signed with. You’ll be writing for the stars!”
“Upcoming artists,” I correct her, stepping into the elevator and closing the door but not before a family of five joins me. I rearrange the towel and the mom, a skinny, blonde woman in skin toned leggings shields her child’s eyes.
Jesus.
“Same thing,” Iris goes on. “Like I said, you’re going to be amazing. You’ve always been amazing. Best song writer I know!”
“I’m the only song writer you know,” I say as the doors open, and I rush out, probably flashing everyone in the process.
“Which is why you’re the best!”
I roll my eyes but laugh. “Thanks, Iris. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Yes! I expect a text ASAP. I heard the place is run by two iron fisted bosses but nothing you can’t handle.”
Right.
I pull on a purple, lacey top and a black, pleather skirt. The dress code was unclear. And by unclear, I mean, I didn’t see one. All the jobs I’ve had before in songwriting didn’t really have dress codes. It was more of a match-the-music vibe. But this is a major record company. For all I know they want me in a ballgown.
I throw on a touch of makeup, just a little tinted moisturizer and some cat-eye. Then I run my fingers through my hair, spritzing it with a texture spray. I don’t need to dry it anymore, the outside air did that for me. And the firefighters confiscated my curling iron. It’s a shame too, I just bought that one. After that, put on a small douse of perfume and head out, ready as I’ll ever be.
The building is huge. I mean, I should have known that considering I’ve seen it from a distance a hundred times. As one of Charlotte’s tallest buildings, it’s visible from the soccer stadium, my favorite wine bar and pretty much all of downtown. But I’ve never stood in front of it like this before and I gulp hard.
“It’s just a job. A writing job. And you are a writer,” I tell myself as I walk inside. I managed to get here four minutes before the time I am supposed to be. In my book, that’s late. But the girl at the front desk doesn’t seem too worried.
“Can I help you?” she asks with a smile. She’s a thin girl with a natural brown pixie cut. She’s wearing a red pantsuit and red lipstick and looks like she belongs here.
Do I look like I belong here? I feel lost.
“I’m Amanda Ambrose. I’m starting work today?”
“Of course! Amanda. I’ll let Mr. Hardin know–”
“Amanda.”
I turn to see a man who looks slightly familiar with shaggy brown hair and a lip ring smiling at me. “It’s alright Anne, I can take her up.”
The woman smiles at me. “Noah will take you back. Good luck!”
I follow the guy dressed in all black. He’s wearing very fitted black slacks, black boots that are dressy but untied purposely and a black t-shirt. He’s also got enough wristbands and tattoos to double as Jack Sparrow, and he looks very vaguely familiar.
He catches me staring and his lips tip in an amused smile.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “You just look…I feel like we’ve met before.”
“Wouldn’t that be funny.”
He leads me down a wide hallway lined with blown up photos of celebrities, some that I know, a few that I don’t. Mostly, I recognize people, not because I listen to their music but because I know who was involved with the writing process.
Chase Brant
Demi Reece.
Conner O’Rielly.
