“Ah… It’s James,” I answer fast. “He said your sister went back to the house to send in a few things. He has the car waiting on us.”
We shake hands and part ways with the DJ, assuring him we’ll be back before the concert on Thursday with Bonnie and Zeb. He says something about him booking a private party for the radio and the band tonight at The Red Attic—one of the town’s few VIP clubs, and I hear Reed agree for all of us.
Guess I’ll be wearing this mask a little longer today.
A photo Andi took of us during the interview shows up on our official social media pages within an hour. It’s a great angle, showing off both of us in front of the mics, Reed mid-smile. It’s black and white, and I wonder what we’re talking about as I take a seat on the couch. We’re at a local studio owned by the record company—one of the only places they trust to let us jam out this week and hang with some press without renting out something.
“Damn, I can’t believe we didn’t get the invite to this,” Bonnie says as she holds up her phone. “Pretty fucking rude.”
“Didn’t you get to hang out with a hot journalist this morning?” Reed asks.
Bonnie twirls her drumstick between her fingers, shakes her blonde shaggy hair out of her eyes, and grins his way. “Yeah, she was,” she says.
Zeb shakes his head as he plugs into his amp. “Someone is being modest,” he mutters. “Tell them what you did.”
I lean over my knees and grin, knowing what she’s about to say before she says it.
Bonnie chews her gum with an open mouth in a cocky way. “I don’t know what to tell you. She tasted fucking divine.”
I laugh as Reed drops his microphone, and as he begins asking for details, I open up my messages to text Andi.
I shouldn’t be texting her.
I shouldn’t be thinking of her as much as I am, trying to figure out ways to ensure that she’s in the same room as me every moment of every day this week.
It doesn't fucking matter.
I’m obsessed.
The photo looks great, I text her, wishing I had something more clever to say.
You sound surprised, she replies almost instantly.
Blame it on my own self-criticism, I say.What are you doing now?
She sends me a photo of her sitting on the deck with her laptop, a plate of pumpkin cookies, and a warm mug of orange liquid. I can just see the tops of her bent legs.
My mouth dries. Fantasies of those legs wrapped around my face had kept me up a few hours last night.
Working, she says.
What are you doing later?
Tina mentioned dinner. Why? Is there something on the agenda that I missed?
Work event tonight at The Red Attic. The radio station is sponsoring. You should come.
My boss hasn’t mentioned it. I can ask if she wants me there.
No, I mean just as yourself. Not on official duty.
No camera?
No camera.
Does Reed know you’re inviting me?
I glance up at Reed, who’s doing his mic check, and I know I only have a couple more minutes to waste.
