“Professor Carter,” I remind her. “He’s twenty-eight and has a PhD from MIT.”
“Whatever. He’s cute in glasses. But he lost my respect when he bailed on your research assistant gig.”
“He didn’t bail. His funding fell through. It would’ve been perfect since I’d have more time to work on my program, but at least he’s still supervising my senior project next year.”
“That’s his job.” She snorts. “But I think he likes you tripping over him.”
The look she shoots me has me shaking my head as I glance toward the stage.
Dale’s no Jax Jamieson, but his latest is pretty good. The band’s super acoustic, and they have a modern sound that plays well with a college crowd.
“Come on,” Serena presses. “He doesn’t 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. ‘Oops, I Did it Again,’ you have two days to find a job so you don’t get kicked out of the co-op program.”
I flip open the lid of my computer. “It’s my fault, not his. I suck at interviews. I haven’t had to get a job before.” Serena’s smile slides, and I wince. “Okay, stop giving me the ‘sorry your mom’s dead’ look.”
“It’s not just ‘sorry your mom’s dead.’ There’s a side of ‘I can’t believe you have to pay your own college.’” Serena’s parents are loaded and generous.
“If it wasn’t for the requirement to be employed by an actual company, I could spend the summer working on my program and enter it in that competition.”
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, that’ll help big time.
“Where were you interviewing today?”
I blow out a breath. “Wicked.”
She shifts forward, her eyes brightening. “Shit. Did you see him?”
I don’t have to ask who she means. A low-grade hum buzzes through me that has nothing to do with the music in the background.
“Jax Jamieson doesn’t hang around the studio like a potted fern,” I point out. “He’s on tour.”
“I don’t 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.”
I shift back in my seat, propping my Converse sneakers on the opposite chair across and fingering the edge of my jacket.
“I don’t need to get laid. I’ve been there.” I take a sip of coffee, and my brain lights up even before I swallow. “The travel agent promised Hawaii. Instead it was Siberia.”
“Cold, numbing, and character building?”
“Exactly.”
Sex is awkward at best.
What I can deduce from my own meager experience, porn, and Serena’s war stories is that guys like to be teased, squeezed, popped until they burst all over you, at which point they’re basically deflated hot air balloons taking up the entire bed.
And don’t you tell them what you’re really fantasizing about is when it will be over and you can take a scalding-hot bath.
“My vibe has more empathy in its first two settings than the guys on campus,” I go on, and Serena cackles. “In fact,” I say, lifting my UPenn travel mug, “I may never have sex again.”
“Noooo!”
Her protest has me laughing. “Plato said there are two things you should never be angry at: what you can help and what you can’t.”
“Yeah, well. White men who got to wear bed sheets to dinner said a lot of crazy shit.” Serena’s green eyes slice through me. “Besides. I’m not angry. I’m planning.” I raise a brow. “To find you a guy with a tongue that’ll turn you inside out.”
I shudder. “That’s sweet. Truly. But I didn’t come to school to get laid, Serena.” Her fake shocked face has me rolling my eyes. “I want to do something that matters.”
When I started college, my mom told me I was lucky to have been born now, and her daughter, because I’m 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.
It’s not enough.
Serena’s right. I’m obsessed with Jax Jamieson, but it’s not because of his hard body or the way he moves or even his voice.
It’s because Jax Jamieson matters.
He matters by opening his mouth, by lifting his guitar, by drawing breath. He matters by taking people’s hopes, their fears, and spinning poetry with them.
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, it’s like he matters a little bit more.
If I ever meet Jax Jamieson, I’m going to ask him how he does it.
Before Serena can answer, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“This is Wendy from Wicked Records. You got the internship.”
Disbelief echoes through me. I glance over my shoulder in case I’m on camera for some reality show. “But what about the other two hundred applicants?”
“Apparently their coffee making left something to be desired. Be here tomorrow at seven thirty.”
CHAPTER TWO
Haley
I can’t deal with the slippery pants two days in a row, so I borrow Serena’s skirt that hobbles me at the knees.
On top of my sleeveless blouse, I stick my leather jacket.
For safety and comfort.
My backpack holds my computer and the completed paperwork HR sent me by email.
Walking through the glass doors should be easier than yesterday—hell, I got the job. But it’s not, because I don’t know what they expect. I want to ask, “Why did you hire me?” but the security guy checking my paperwork and processing my pass probably isn’t the right person to answer.
“You’re on two. Up the elevator.”
The first two elevators are packed full, so I find a stairwell at the end of the hall.
When I open the door to the second level, I’m in another world.
Pristine carpet, white as snow. Paneled walls in a rich red color that should look retro but doesn’t.
I peel off my leather jacket because it’s warm up here and glance down the hall.
Wendy’s office is supposed to be to the left. But cursing from the first door in the other direction pulls me in.
Inside, a guy who can’t be much older than me surveys a computer rig I’d give my leg for. An error message lights up the screen in front of him, blinking like some doomsday prophecy.
“Can I help?” I ask. With a quick head-to-toe that ends on the pass clipped to my waist, he ushers me in.
“What the hell took so long?” the tech asks. “I called IT ten minutes ago.”
It’s moot to point out that I wasn’t with IT ten minutes ago.
My eyes adjust to the low light as the door slips closed behind me. There are no outside windows, just the glass half panel facing the studio and a closed door that connects the two.