Kind of Famous (Flirting with Fame Book 3) Read online

  I stopped talking and waited for any kind of reaction.

  Nothing.

  After a beat, I lost confidence in my own proposal and added, “It’s just a first step. Lots of blogging software already has similar functionality.”

  Dave frowned and breathed in. I expected him to tell me he didn’t understand or say it wasn’t feasible, but he surprised me. “Yeah, our web presence is pitiful, and this seems simple enough. Could you write it up and set up a meeting? We can hammer out the requirements later this week and design within the month.”

  “Sure.”

  He gave me his full attention. “Let me know any other ideas you have.”

  “Will do.”

  Meeting adjourned, I bounced to the kitchen, eager to get some caffeine and settle in to write up the requirements for the proposal. While the coffeemaker sputtered out a dark, sludgy liquid, I sensed a presence behind me and spun around to find myself face to face with a dark-haired, dark-eyed, well-dressed Gabriel Sanchez who I recognized instantly from his byline. I started to speak, but my throat produced a sound eerily like the over-used coffee machine.

  He must have taken my reaction as some kind of insta-lust because his lip curled into a mischievous grin. “Well, hello. And who might you be?”

  I stuck my hand out. “Layla. Layla Beckett.”

  Gabriel wrapped his hand around mine. His smile grew and he showed his perfectly white teeth. “Layla? Should I get down on my knees?”

  I grimaced but forced out a pitiful laugh. “Heh.”

  “I’m Gabe. Or you might know me as Gabriel Sanchez. I’m one of the head writers.” He leaned against the counter, looking as casual as one could in the middle of a brightly lit half kitchen.

  The temptation to take a picture and post it in the forum overwhelmed me, but I mastered my face to get my surprise under control and managed to play it cool. “What do you write?”

  That was the wrong tack to take with him. He straightened up and pressed his lips together briefly. “I hope you’ll figure that out soon enough.”

  Nervous words spilled out. “I’m getting up to speed.”

  If he had been any other writer, I might have casually mentioned I’d read all his reviews, and it would have been mostly true. I’d done my homework before coming to work here. I wanted to know the names of all the staff writers and freelancers. But I hadn’t needed to research Gabriel Sanchez. I had a guilty obsession with his reviews because he’d become increasingly hostile to the bands I loved most. Particularly Walking Disaster.

  Ever since the magazine had hired Jo, Gabe seemed to go out of his way to pan anyone remotely connected with her. I secretly doubted the magazine cared enough to make such elaborate plans, but try telling fans their opinions amount to ridiculous conspiracy theory.

  He retrieved a mug from the pantry and slid it over, taking the opportunity to edge closer to me. “How are you enjoying it here?”

  “Fine.” I added a packet of sugar to my mug then stepped around him to give him free access to the machine. “There’s so much to do. The work is interesting so far.”

  “And what work is that?”

  “I’m the new social media manager.”

  He dropped a French Roast packet into the machine and punched the start button. “So, you schedule the tweets for all the current articles?”

  I stirred my own coffee. “That and I’ll be helping writers like yourself make sure links to your articles automatically post elsewhere.”

  He crossed his arms and his tailored shirt creased ever so slightly. He came across as some old European effete—both effeminate and masculine all at once. He was lithe and radiated grace and charm. “Maybe you could tweet the review of Walking Disaster’s latest album I put up earlier this week?”

  “Oh! I was just setting that up.” It wasn’t exactly true, but I really wanted to talk to him about it and couldn’t think of a better way to recover from failing to admit I’d heard of him.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. It’s literally my job.”

  “And did you read it?” His brow rose, as though he anticipated my praise.

  “I may have scanned it.” I narrowed one eye and lied. “Looked like a well-argued review.”

  He sneered. “Several crazy fans disagree.”

  “Oh?” I studied the floor tiles to hide any expression that might give me away.

  “But you liked it?”

  “I mean, I can’t speak to your opinion on the album, but the writing was quite good.” There. Honest, yet hopefully misleading.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  His coffee finished belching out, and he poured in some creamer.

  I awkwardly lurched for something to say to break the weird tension. “So, you really didn’t like that album, huh?”

  “Like or dislike? That’s a simplistic way to look at it. Reviews are more nuanced than that.”

  I bit my tongue. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “It’s a question of expectations. The band has made solid, if derivative, efforts in the past, but this new album goes in a direction that doesn’t offer anything new.”

  “I see.”

  “You do?”

  “So, you think the value of rock music is what it brings in originality.”

  “Well, no, that’s not what I mean exactly.”

  “Oh, I must have misunderstood you, then.” Even though I sort of agreed with him, I never got tired of arguing about music.

  “What I mean is that they’ve diverged from the sound that made them really stand out in the market.”

  “Ah. So, you don’t like that they’ve done something new.”

  He shifted with an exasperated sigh. “You’re twisting my words.”

  “Am I?” I tilted my head at him as though I really didn’t understand. “You want them to stay in their lane while creating something groundbreaking at the same time.”

  His eyes disappeared briefly into his palms. “You are purposely misrepresenting my words.”

  At that moment, Ajit entered the kitchen. He stopped when he saw us, apologized, and turned on his heel. I saw the scene from his point of view. Gabe held his hands up in frustration, and I was horrified to discover my finger pointing at him in righteous indignation.

  I laughed to diffuse the situation. “I didn’t mean to get into an argument.”

  “Indeed.” He licked his lips. Why did someone so arrogant have such pretty lips? “We are getting off to a bad start.”

  “I’m sorry. Shall we start over?” I held out my hand. “My name’s Layla.”

  “Gabriel.” He took my hand and didn’t let it go. His hands were soft, softer than mine. Like calf leather or a newborn puppy. “I wonder if you might be free tonight. You’re new to the area, right? There’s a decent steak restaurant around the corner from here.”

  My eyes must have turned into softballs. I hadn’t seen that coming at all. “Oh, uh. I actually promised a friend I’d do something with her.”

  He grunted. “I see. Well, maybe some other time.” He stood and straightened his slacks. In the entire office, he was the only person dressed professionally. Besides me. I could have worn jeans and a concert T like everyone else here, but all my T-shirts were a dead giveaway for my band preferences, and while I wasn’t ashamed of them, given the circumstances, I didn’t think I should broadcast my feelings. I could only imagine the previous conversation with Gabriel if I’d worn a Walking Disaster T-shirt circa 2017.

  “Sure. Maybe.” I hoped I’d simply misjudged him. He might be stiff and lacking in humor and boorish, but perhaps underneath all that—

  “Won’t you ease my worried mind?” he sang.

  Nope. Underneath all that, he was an oaf. I plastered a fake smile on my face. “Yup. That’s the one.”

  “Oh, I guess you must get
tired of that.”

  Captain Obvious. “A little.”

  “I apologize, then. The song’s been stuck in my head since you introduced yourself.”

  “Understood.” I hoped I didn’t sound mad. I just wanted to part ways without him thinking I was a huge bitch. I’d worked with and dated guys like him, and it was always a tightrope walk between being nice enough to keep them from treating you like a she-devil and being mean enough to discourage their attentions. As cute as he was, his demeanor made my gut clench.

  Gabe’s eyes slowly trailed off me, and he walked toward the hall. “It was nice to meet you.”

  Back at my desk, I spent the rest of the morning trying to write up how the developers might implement my proposed design. I only took a short break to grab a sandwich at a shop and surfed the forum while I ate, cracking up at some in-fighting over something as obscure as the interpretation of a homophone in a song lyric. Then I went through the latest month’s Rock Paper articles to set up staggered automated tweets to promote them. That took longer than I would have liked, proving that they needed to create a better system for controlling their social media.

  Once I’d set up the last tweet, I stretched until my back cracked, then reached for my phone to text Jo.

  I suddenly remembered Shane’s text with the same wide-eyed oh no as if I’d forgotten my purse in the middle of Grand Central. I’d intended to wait thirty minutes or an hour to appear sane, not an entire day. I hadn’t wanted to give him the impression I didn’t care. Damn.

  My fingers flew. It was great to meet you, too. I hope I see you again soon.

  I wondered if he’d be at Jo’s again. The night before had probably been an anomaly.

  When my phone remained silent, I texted Jo to let her know I was heading back and that I’d be fine taking the subway.

  She texted back: Wait for the town car!

  Standing near Times Square, waiting to be picked up by my own personal driver—okay not my own, but still—felt like a million bucks. I had so many things to share and nobody to share them with.

  Except Ash. She knew where I’d taken a job. Surely, I could at least tell her about meeting Gabe. That wouldn’t be unexpected, I rationalized.

  I typed: You’ll never believe who I met!

  Smiling stupidly, I stared at my phone, waiting for her to write back and ask, composing the response in my head. Should I blurt it out or make her guess? How would I answer if she correctly guessed Micah Sinclair?

  The town car arrived before any response from Ash, so I pushed my phone back in my pocket and climbed in the back seat, disappointed twice. Once in myself for having given in to the temptation to over-share. And again, for my confession falling on temporarily deaf ears.

  Talking Disaster Forum

  Topic: Walking Disaster - Music - Albums - Horizon: New Dawn - Page 14

  Walker wrote:

  Next stanza:

  Every hour, a new day’s begun

  Next rotation. another generation

  And with the rising dawn

  We welcome a brand-new sun

  Gropeland wrote:

  Thanks for transcribing the lyrics, Walker, but I’m going to tweak a line. I suspect that instead of: We welcome a brand-new sun, it should actually be: We welcome a brand-new SON. Think about it.

  Walker wrote:

  That makes no sense. The whole song is about the sun. The line before is: With the rising dawn. Rotation is about the earth turning, right? A new day is the sunrise. So, sun makes the most sense.

  Di$a$ter wrote:

  Are you stupid? The word generation is a dead giveaway that he’s referring to his progeny here.

  Walker wrote:

  In the next stanza, which I’m transcribing now, he goes on to talk about the afternoon, etc. Why would he be talking about the course of the sun in the afternoon if he’s talking about his kid?

  Gropeland wrote:

  You’re in denial, Walker. This entire album is Adam’s meditation on what it means to have a kid. Have you ever had a kid? You start to think about your own place in the universe, your own parents, your own mortality. Obviously, afternoon refers to what stage of life Adam is at. The title of the song, “New Dawn” has to do with a beginning. What’s beginning? He’s starting a family. You are aware of symbolism?

  Pumpkin39 wrote:

  Guys, don’t be jerks, okay. Did it occur to you you can both be right? That’s the beauty of art. If you want to read more into it, you’re free to do that. Only Adam knows for sure, so let’s keep the discussion civil.

  Chapter Six

  When I arrived at the townhouse, Jo threw open the door but immediately ran upstairs, yelling, “Sorry, I’ve got to finish this. Come up.”

  For some reason, this welcome made me feel more at home than if she’d ushered me in with a polite greeting. The apartment was quiet and rather dark, like nobody had been home all day. I looked around for signs Micah was around somewhere before climbing the stairs to find Jo sitting in the guest room at the computer.

  I sat on the edge of the bed while she clicked a picture and started typing, cursed, deleted, and typed again.

  “Ah! I have to tag all these pictures before we go. Are you ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Cookout. You should change into something more comfortable.”

  I scooted onto the floor and opened my suitcase, wondering if I should reveal the depths of my fandom in the form of a Walking Disaster T-shirt or wear one of my nice for-work knit shirts.

  Jo kept her eyes trained on her screen. “How was work today?”

  “Interesting.” I pulled out a pair of jeans. Nothing controversial there. “I met Gabriel Sanchez.”

  I watched her from the corner of my eye and swore her hand froze on the mouse for an instant. She blinked and continued to work. “Oh, yeah? What did you think of our local Lothario?”

  “Lothario?”

  With a flourish, she exited the program she’d been working in. Her attention freed, she lavished it on me, changing her position to face me with a knowing look. “There’s no way he didn’t hit on you.”

  I laughed. “How’d you know?”

  She shook her head gently. “You’re too pretty to have passed by him unmolested.”

  Her choice of words made me grimace. “Ew.”

  “He’s mostly harmless.” She snickered. “Except with his pen.”

  “Pity. He’s kind of cute.”

  “To be fair, I hold a slight grudge against him on Micah’s behalf.” Her forehead wrinkled. “You should have seen the steaming pile of dog doo he flung at Micah’s band last month.”

  Actually, I had.

  “But you wouldn’t believe the vitriol his fans came back with.”

  No, I would.

  “I’m sure you don’t care about all this foolishness.”

  Oh, yes, I did.

  I’d read the particularly brutal review he’d written about Micah’s last album. “You’d think he’d be a little nicer considering you work there. Did you claw his eyes out?”

  “I leave that to his fans.” She covered her mouth as if to hold in a cackle. “They get under his skin.”

  Interesting. “He gets upset when fans retaliate?”

  “He gets insulted. Like his opinion is final.”

  How obnoxious. “Doesn’t he just write worse reviews?”

  She leaned in. “Gabe’s an ass, but he thinks he’s objective.”

  Her glee over the fan support made me instantly regret having squelched the revolt. Maybe they were right and I was wrong. A little fan pressure might make Gabriel Sanchez think twice about writing a shitty review.

  I mulled this over while deciding between a navy blue short-sleeved V-neck sweater and a white silk button-up blouse, neither appropr
iate for a cookout. But neither had the name of a band plastered across them.

  “Do you want to borrow something?”

  I held up my wardrobe choices. “I have jeans, but my shirts are either too dressy or too . . .” I didn’t want to confess they were too fan girl. If I were hanging out with anyone else, I’d throw one on, no problem.

  She pointed across the hall. “My dresser is on the far wall. There should be a T-shirt you can borrow in the bottom drawer. Or if you want something a little nicer, check the closet.”

  I thanked her again for her hospitality and proceeded to invade her privacy even more. Her openness constantly impressed me, given her own history and that of anyone around her. The press could print the ugliest stories about her. Yet, she trusted me. It meant a lot.

  She’d been on the road with so many bands by this point, it didn’t surprise me to find a varied collection of her own concert T-shirts in the drawer. I picked one up and smelled it, immediately feeling weird about that. Fans always joked about that, asking “What does Adam smell like?” when someone got lucky enough to meet him. Sadly, I knew the answer to that. For some reason, he supposedly smelled like jasmine.

  Micah supposedly smelled like citrus. I was in Jo’s drawers, and all I could smell was laundry detergent.

  “Did you find anything?” she hollered.

  I glanced at the shirt in my hands. In giant gold letters, it read Not throwing away my shot! I laughed because it brought up visions of my mom singing along with the Hamilton soundtrack in her car.

  “Yes!” I hollered, pulling it on. I clicked a photo and texted my mom.

  “Good. Because we need to be going.” She walked into the bedroom. “Ah. You found my favorite shirt.”

  “My mom would love this.”

  “Yeah? I’m a huge theater geek myself.” She pulled the bedroom door closed so she could look in the hanging mirror. “Shit. I need to fix my hair and makeup. Do you need a minute in the bathroom?”

  I still didn’t know where we were going, but a cookout sounded casual, and casual sounded familiar, and familiar made me think it involved her friends, and her friends included Shane.