Drive(13)
“Good afternoon, Mr. Butler.”
Numb/Encore
JAY Z /Linkin Park
Nate Butler was a god that someone must have tucked away in an old warehouse disguised as an office and forgotten about. His thick, burnt-strawberry blond hair was loosely slicked back around a prominent widow’s peak. Dark eyebrows, violently bright blue eyes, and strong, sleek features made up his face, while his build remained somewhat of a mystery cloaked in his suit. He sat in his office chair as his eyes assessed me. When they reached my shirt, they softened slightly while he hid his smirk. Samuel Jackson was such a good icebreaker.
“Let me guess, Miss Emerson, you’re freelance looking for a desk job, and you’ll do whatever it takes to get a foot in the door.”
“Student, journalism, third year, and I’ll do a lot, but not whatever it takes. I sent you an email this morning.”
“I got your email, all of them. What I don’t have are room and budget. What I do have is a line a mile long of people with degrees, experience, and resumes far more qualified than yours.”
“So, you’ve looked at it?” He sighed as he sat back, and his smile finally won. I moved to sit.
“Don’t bother taking a seat. We’re at three minutes. Go.”
He began typing on one of two keyboards on the spacious black desk, and I took the seat anyway.
“I want to cover entertainment.”
He barked out an incredulous laugh before his typing resumed.
“How old are you?”
“Isn’t that illegal to ask?” I said, leaning over slightly to invade his personal space and to get a whiff of whatever cologne he was wearing. Dead sexy, intimidating, those were only a few good adjectives to describe Nate Butler.
“It would be illegal if I had an open position and this was a real interview—” he glanced at Samuel over one of his screens “—which it’s not.”
“I’ll be twenty on Saturday.”
“You’re a baby. You have nothing to offer me. And you can’t legally get into most of the clubs in this city.”
“We both know that’s horse crap. With a press badge, I’ll be able to get in anywhere. And I am very persuasive.”
He paused his typing. “Is that why you’re here? For a free pass?”
He looked me over again and sat back with his hands clasped.
Gripping the edge of the cheap chair, I gave my ready defense. “I’ve been to over two hundred shows. I’ve met a ton of musicians and celebrities at those shows. This isn’t a Make-a-Wish type deal for me.”
“Being a fan doesn’t make you a writer.”
“I disagree completely. Being a fan is the reason I’m a writer.”
“Why Speak?”
“Because I have to start somewhere.”
“Aiming low, huh?” He wasn’t insulted in the slightest.
“No insult to the paper, it’s no Rolling Stone, but it’s a paper people read. I read it.” That wasn’t a lie. I’d read it since I moved to Austin.
He nodded. “Two minutes. And I liked the piece you did on The Beatles influence.”
“Thank you,” I said as a shred of hope glimmered a ray through his cold office.
“Pretty insightful, Kurt Cobain and Don Henley both credited them for different reasons, and in the span of two decades, very different sounds were born.”
“Agreed. Music is so organic. If there were a musical game like Seven Degrees to Kevin Bacon, I’m positive it would be The Beatles.”
“Did you just quote yourself?” He shook his head with a smirk. “You are so green.”
“Help me change that. I really will start anywhere. I’ll make lists. Readers love lists.”
“I can’t. You have one minute, Miss Emerson.”
“Then I do a five or ten column. ‘Five ways to get the job of your dreams’. ‘Five ways to mentally turn your day around.’ ‘Ten things you didn’t know about Spam.’”
“Those have all been done. You’re reaching.”
“But that’s what sells papers. I’ll think of new lists, better lists.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“I’ll contribute, then. One article a week, edited. You won’t have to do anything but read it.”
“Fifteen,” he warned, “and even I don’t skip on an editor.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s 101.” His decision was made.
“I’ll pay for myself. I’ll find ads.”
He finally paused, but only briefly. “I have people for that.”
“What could it hurt? I bring ads in to pay my own salary. That’s me doing all of the work.”
“Freelance, Miss Emerson. Why don’t you try that route?”
“Because I’m nineteen without a degree and I’ve never been published, that’s why. And that’s why you’re slamming the door in my face.”
“I’m sorry. Time’s up.”
“Thank you.” I stood, unable to hide my disappointment, and faked a smile to match my lying shrug. “Well, at least I have my first rejection story.”
His brilliant eyes danced over me, and I had no choice but to acknowledge the warmth that spread as a result. His beauty stunned me. But so had Dylan’s.