Nothing in twenty years prepares me for that man on his knees. ā©
Naked to the waist. ā©
Sweat gleaming on his shoulders. ā©
The spotlight caresses the ridges of a body cut from stone as though it wants to follow him around forever.
ā©
Maybe it does.ā©
But heās not stone. His skin would be warm, not cold. ā©
Silhouetted hands reach for him over the edge of the stage, like something out of Danteās Inferno. Souls in hell grasping for their last chance at heaven.
That seems misguided because the way Jax Jamieson grips a mic is straight-up sinful. ā©
Next to the poster is a photo of four men in tuxes, gold statues in their hands. ā©Weāre attracted to gold for its sheen, its promise of something elite and revered and sacred. ā©
My gaze drags back to the man in the poster.
Elite. Revered. Sacred.ā©
āIāve read your resume. Now tell me why youāre really qualified.āā©
The dress pants that were a bad damn idea slip on the seat. The polyester scrapes along my skin, and I force eye contact with the woman interviewing me.
āI reset at least two hundred undergrad passwords a week. And I make a lot of coffee. My roommate says Iām better than the baristas at her cafĆ©.āā©
āExcuse me?āā©
The printed job description sticks to my fingers. āāTechnical support and other duties as appropriate.ā Thatās what you mean, right? Rebooting computers and making coffee?ā ā©
She holds up a hand. āMiss Telfer, Wicked Records is the only private label that has survived everything from Napster to streaming. There are two hundred applications for this internship. Our interns write and produce music. Run festivals.āā©
The woman looks as if she missed getting tickets to the Stonesā Voodoo Lounge tour and has been holding a grudge ever since. ā©
Or maybe she was the next one into the record store behind me the day I found Dark Side of the Moon on vinyl in Topeka.ā©
Itās probably not a fair assessment. Under that harsh exterior, she could be genuinely kind and passionate about music.ā©Maybe Iām in The Devil Wears Prada and this womanās my Stanley Tucci.ā©
āI run an open mic night on campus,ā I try. āAnd Iām a developer. I write code practically every day, and lot of people fork my repos on GitHub, andā¦ā My gaze sneaks back to the poster. ā©
āDonāt get too excited,ā she warns. āWhoever gets this jobāāher tone says itās not meāāwonāt work with the talent. Especially that talent.ā ā©
Her final questions are nails in my coffin. Closed-ended things like if the address on my forms is right and if the transcripts I submitted are up to date.ā©
She holds out a hand at the end, and I hold my breath.ā©Her skinās cold, like her heart decided not to pump blood that far.ā©
I drop her hand as fast as I can.
Then I shoulder my backpack and slink out the door. ā©The idea that the biggest rock star of the last ten years just saw me bombāeven if it was only his posterāis depressing.ā©
Iām on the second bus back across Philly to campus before the full weight of disappointment hits me. ā©
Are college juniors supposed to have run music festivals in order to pour coffee? Because I missed that memo. ā©
I drop my backpack at our two-bedroom apartment, change out of my weird interview pants and into torn skinny jeans and my momās brown leather jacket, then make two coffees and walk to campus, the UPenn and Hello Kitty travel mugs in tow.ā©
āExcuse me.ā A girl stops me on the way into the cafĆ©, right beside the sign that says Live Music! āThereās a cover tonight.ā ā©
āIām here every week.ā My smile fades when I realize she really has no clue who I am. I point to my chest. āHaley. I get the bands.āā©
āReally?ā She cocks her head. āIāve never noticed you.ā ā©
The table at the back is de facto mine, and I set the travel mugs down before crossing to the stage.ā©The guy there frowns as he plays notes on his guitar with one hand, holding the headphones attached to the soundboard.
When he notices me, a grin splits his face. āHaley. You like the new board?āā©
āI like it if it works.ā I take the headphones and nod at his guitar. ā©
The first chord he plays is like the snapping of a hypnotistās fingers. My world reduces to the vibrations and waves from Daleās guitar. ā©I adjust the levels on the board.
āThere. You should be good.āā©Before I can lift my head, Daleās tugging the headphones off my ears. I jerk back like Iāve been scalded, but he doesnāt notice my jumpiness. ā©His earnest brown eyes are level with mine.
āPerfect, Haley. Thanks, Haley.ā Did he say my name twice? āYou should sing with us tonight.āā©
I glance toward the back of the cafĆ© thatās starting to fill. āAh, I donāt think so. I have toā¦ā
I make a motion with my fingers, and Dale raises a brow.ā©āMasturbate?ā ā©
I frown. āNo. Code.āā©
āRight.āā©I retreat to my table. The second chair is occupied.ā©
āHe tried to touch me,ā I say under my breath.ā©
My roommate Serena tosses her honey-blond hair in a move thatās deceptively casual. āThat asshole.ā
I roll my eyes. āYou know some people communicate affection through touch. Itās even welcomed.āā©
āIn hell,ā I say darkly as I drop into my chair. āWe have our own bodies for a reason. I donāt understand how some people think itās okay to stand super close to someone. And donāt get me started on whispering.ā I shiver, remembering the contact.
āIf I wanted some random person to breathe on my face or grope me? Iād ask for it. Iād stand there waving a sign saying, āPlease God, run your unfamiliar hands all over my skinā.āā©
āIf you did that on campus, there would be a pileup.ā
She winks before turning back to the stage, where Daleās bandmates have joined him and are getting ready to start their set.
āDo you think Dale knows you have a man in your life?" she goes on. "Because heās not getting so much as a āmaybe, if Iām drunkā unless his name is Carter.āā©
āProfessor Carter,ā I remind her. āHeās twenty-eight and has a PhD from MIT.āā©
āWhatever. Heās cute in glasses. But he lost my respect when he bailed on your research assistant gig.āā©
āHe didnāt bail. His funding fell through. It wouldāve been perfect since Iād have more time to work on my program, but at least heās still supervising my senior project next year.āā©
āThatās his job.ā
She snorts. āBut I think he likes you tripping over him.āā©The look she shoots me has me shaking my head as I glance toward the stage.ā©
Daleās no Jax Jamieson, but his latest is pretty good. The bandās super acoustic, and they have a modern sound that plays well with a college crowd. ā©
āCome on,ā Serena presses. āHe doesnāt love having college girls undressing him with their teenage eyes in Comp Sci 101? Yeah right. The man might be young enough to have danced to Britney Spears at prom, but thanks to Mr. āOops, I Did it Again,ā you have two days to find a job so you donāt get kicked out of the co-op program.āā©
I flip open the lid of my computer. āItās my fault, not his. I suck at interviews. I havenāt had to get a job before.ā
Serenaās smile slides, and I wince. āOkay, stop giving me the āsorry your momās deadā look.āā©
āItās not just āsorry your momās dead.ā Thereās a side of āI canāt believe you have to pay your own college.āā
Serenaās parents are loaded and generous.ā©
āIf it wasnāt for the requirement to be employed by an actual company," I say, "I could spend the summer working on my program and enter it in that competition.ā ā©
When my mom died last year, I took a semester off, lost my scholarships, and missed the financial aid deadline. Now I have to come up with tuition myself. I know I can figure it out because a lot of people do it, but if I win the coding competition in July, thatāll help big time.ā©
āWhere were you interviewing today?ā Serena asks.
I blow out a breath. āWicked.āā©
She shifts forward, her eyes brightening. āShit. Did you see him?āā©
I donāt have to ask who she means. A low-grade hum buzzes through me that has nothing to do with the music in the background. ā©
āJax Jamieson doesnāt hang around the studio like a potted fern,ā I point out. āHeās on tour.āā©
āI donāt care what kind of nerd god Carter is. Jax Jamieson is way better with his hands, and his mouth. Any girl would love having that mouth whisper dirty secrets in her ear. Even you.āā©
I shift back in my seat, propping my Converse sneakers on the opposite chair across and fingering the edge of my jacket. ā©
āI donāt need to get laid. Iāve been there.ā I take a sip of coffee, and my brain lights up even before I swallow. āThe travel agent promised Hawaii. Instead it was Siberia.āā©
āCold, numbing, and character building?āā©
āExactly.ā ā©
Sex is awkward at best.ā©What I can deduce from my own meager experience, porn, and Serenaās war stories is that guys like to be teased, squeezed, popped until they burst all over you, at which point theyāre basically deflated hot air balloons taking up the entire bed.ā©
And donāt you tell them what youāre really fantasizing about is when it will be over and you can take a scalding-hot bath. ā©
āMy vibe has more empathy in its first two settings than the guys on campus,ā I go on, and Serena cackles. āIn fact,ā I say, lifting my UPenn travel mug, āI may never have sex again.āā©
āNoooo!āā©
Her protest has me laughing. āPlato said there are two things you should never be angry at: what you can help and what you canāt."
āYeah, well. White men who got to wear bed sheets to dinner said a lot of crazy shit.ā Serenaās green eyes slice through me. āBesides. Iām not angry. Iām planning.ā
I raise a brow.
āTo find you a guy with a tongue thatāll turn you inside out,ā she says proudly.ā©
I shudder. āThatās sweet. Truly. But I didnāt come to school to get laid, Serena.ā Her fake shocked face has me rolling my eyes. āI want to do something that matters.āā©
When I started college, my mom told me I was lucky to have been born now, and her daughter, because Iām free to be whatever I want. By that, she meant a famous painter or a rocket scientist, or straight or gay, an advocate for children or the environment. ā©
Itās not enough. ā©
Serenaās right. Iām obsessed with Jax Jamieson, but itās not because of his hard body or the way he moves or even his voice.ā©
Itās because Jax Jamieson matters. ā©
He matters by opening his mouth, by lifting his guitar, by drawing breath. He matters by taking peopleās hopes, their fears, and spinning poetry with them. ā©
Every time I sit down and listen to Abandon on vinyl on the floor of my bedroom, a coffee in my hands and my eyes falling closed, itās like he matters a little bit more.ā©If I ever meet Jax Jamieson, Iām going to ask him how he does it.ā©
Before Serena can answer, my phone rings. ā©
āHello?āā©
āThis is Wendy from Wicked Records. You got the internship.āā©
Disbelief echoes through me. I glance over my shoulder in case Iām on camera for some reality show.
āBut what about the other two hundred applicants?āā©
āApparently their coffee making left something to be desired. Be here tomorrow at seven thirty.āā©