"Oh, yes, I already submitted a revised list for you," she mumbles, flicking through her emails on the tablet. "And I really wish you'd tell me what that new nickname you have for me means. It's irritating not to know."
I've been calling herlittle woodpeckersince she unplugged the speakers and started bossing me around in earnest. It feels right. Sure, I've never given another assistant a pet name before, but this one is special. She's annoying, like a woodpecker when you're trying to sleep. A small, very attractive woodpecker, but one nonetheless. Our fingers touch when she hands me the damn square electronic, and I watch quietly as she hurriedly pulls back and looks away.
It's not uncommon for people I work with to find me intimidating. I'm used to it. But for some reason, I don't think that's what this is. This is something else entirely.
Did I cause this? Or was this here before, and I just didn't notice it?
"We're here, you two," Roger says from the front, his eyes meeting Denali's in the rear view mirror. "Would you like me to wait, or just be back at a certain time?—"
"There's no telling how long they'll go on, but they have a strict cutoff time of four, so meet us back here then?" Denali checks her schedule again, frowning. "No, make that three thirty. I'll see if I can wrap them up early so we can squeeze in that restaurant across town for lunch—Cutlery, I think they're called. They've been sending you invitations to appear, and though it's just publicity for them, it's a healthy restaurant, so it'll be good for your image, too. And Arista already approved it, so if you like the food, we can work out a sponsorship, maybe."
And lunch is a necessity, for humans,she'll likely add?—
"And lunch is a necessity for us humans. Which I'mstillnot sure you are."
And there it is.
In the short few months Denali has worked for me, I've started to learn her mannerisms, her habits, her sayings she defaults to. It's amazing, because I never took the time to get to know my assistants or my drivers like I've taken to with her and Roger. She did that. Her words that first day changed me and I don't know why. Something in me wants to give her a good opinion of me, not a bad one.
I shouldn't care. She's just a worker bee in the great hive that is kNight Entertainment. But something about her makes me want to be on my best behavior. Or as good of behavior as I can manage, which is a wholly different thing from a normal person's good behavior.
Scandals and I don't know each other. There's no string of illicit affairs in my history, no secret kids, no weird headlines for doing stupid shit where people or cameras can catch me. No, as far as global or digital scandals go, I'm squeaky clean. But I'm no saint, and my image attests to that.
The questions on the list were all the basics—what brought you here? What do you hope to find with your new company? Do you have plans for the future? Are you making Nocturna Beach your new home?But beyond those are carefully phrased ones designed to get around the censorship and let the interviewer ask more personal questions.How does your family feel about the separation? Is there anyone else joining you here soon? What do you do in your free time? Have you made any friends yet?
They just want to know if I'm seeing anyone, what I'm doing with my life. Back home, I'm not allowed to answer those questions. But here, they've been approved. If I ever plan to go back to Japan and be successful, then I'll need to be careful of what I say here, evenifthe company has approved it.
It's not just the present day that would be affected. It's the future, too.Myfuture, not theirs.
I'm ushered into the shiny, boring-ass glass building and dragged away to a makeup chair where they powder me up to make me look paler, prettier, however they want me, and then style my hair. Once that's done—and it's a mediocre job at best—I'm led to a recording booth, where the podcast host is waiting with his stack of papers and his little soundboard and cue cards, watching the door for the moment I walk in and things kick off.
I'm not thrilled. I'm actually nervous. I hate when people only hear my voice. It's worrying to me, because my voice is nice, sure, but I've always been known for my face. How will people know who it is behind that mic if it's just me and some other random guy talking?
Old worries surface, but I tamp them down and take a deep breath. I'm no longer that little scared trainee. Nor am I a fresh idol with a thin skin. I'm a tried and tested professional, and there's no room for self-doubt in my schedule. Only perfection.
"We're ready for you, Mr. Kobayashi," the little assistant to the station says with a smile, holding her arm out to direct me to the booth. Not that I need the direction, since it's right in front of me. I give her a polite nod and step inside, already wishing I can get out of here before the time is up.
The interviewer is a man this time, but there's a woman behind him, and she's staring me down like she wants to take a bite of me. I'm not timid around women, but something about her feels like a trap. Still, she's pretty, so I offer her a polite smile and prepare to get down to business. It's not her fault I'm miserable about being here. I wonder, though, why she's here, when the interview only needs one person.
"So nice to have you on the show," the man says with a grin that's too wide, too forced. He's not happy to be here, either. "I'm Danny, the host of the show. Why don't you have a seat and introduce yourself, Mister Kai—can we call you that? Is it Kai, or Kaito, or?—"
"Kai is fine," I say with a wince. The chair is mildly uncomfortable, the back too straight, the seat cushion flatter than the fields of corn country. I cross my legs, then watch as the man across from me notices, and frowns. "It's nice to be here."
It's not, but they don't pay me to tell the truth. These people don't want the truth. They want what sells, and I know that well.
"Well, shall we get started?"
The questions run out fifteen minutes in, though I do my best to drag the answers out. It's impossible to do more without a captive audience. I can't interact with people as well verbally as I can visually. But that's not going to change just because I want it to, so I suck it up and straighten my spine when the woman swaps places with the man and starts asking the more personal questions thatweren'ton the approved list of things they could ask me.
"So, Kai, do you have a secret romance perhaps? Is there a special someone you miss back home? Or maybe a new flame here in town?" She licks her lips and leans forward when she asks, like she's volunteering to fill the role if it's empty and I'm looking.
I'm not. I don't want a woman long-term. I am just fine with the temporary flings I fall in and out of bed with these days. One night, maybe two, if they're good, and then I delete their numbers and go on my way. No repeats, no return trips, no lingering feelings.
They wouldn't understand my lifestyle, anyhow. Not many women are interested in a man who won't have time for them. And time is a commodity I don't have enough of, that's for sure.
"No secret romance," I say with a chuckle, trying my best to sound amused instead of irritated. "I'm too busy for lingering relationships like that. Can't have a new flame, or an old one, if you eat, sleep, and breathe the idol life."
"Ah, yeah, you have a point," she teases, her voice light. "But surely there'ssomeoneout there you spend your time with, right?"
