Sound Bites. Rachel Burke K
Читать онлайн книгу.
Writing, however, was something that had always been a passion of mine.
My eagerness had clearly shown through on the day of the interview, when the entertainment director hired me on the spot. I’m not sure if she hired me because no one else had applied for the job or because she saw the undying love for music glowing from my eyes, but either way, I was told to report to the lobby on Monday at nine and bring two forms of ID.
When my first day arrived, I was sitting in the lobby, pretending to be engrossed in the latest copy of the L.A. Weekly, when I noticed him. He strolled across the room steadily, his white polo hugging him just tightly enough to show off the outline of his biceps.
“You must be Renee Evans,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m David Whitman, Pace’s sports editor. It’s nice to meet you.”
I stood up and shook his hand, still stunned by the beauty of his dark, deep-set eyes and perfectly chiseled frame.
“The HR team is in a meeting, so they’ve asked me to bring you up to the conference room to get started with your new hire paperwork,” he continued. “Follow me.”
I grabbed my purse and followed him down the corridor. I had to increase my speed to keep up with his brisk pace. One of my college professors had taught us that, when in a business environment, there were three things you should always remember: make eye contact, have a firm handshake, and walk with confidence, “with a purpose,” as he’d called it.
David Whitman walked with a purpose.
After recovering from the initial intimidation of his beauty, I felt instantly at ease with him. By the end of my first day, the budding feeling of lust had already started to form in the pit of my stomach, and I found myself humming on the way home from work like a smitten teenage schoolgirl.
By the end of the second day, he had already asked me out.
I can remember our first date as clear as you’d remember anything else of significant importance in your life: your first kiss, your first love, your first heartbreak. He picked me up in a black Lexus RX, wearing a white baseball cap and a light-green shirt that showed off the tanned tone of his skin. He took me to dinner at Bandera in Brentwood, then for a walk down the Santa Monica Pier. When he leaned in and kissed me, all I could think of was how long it had been since I’d felt like this.
Naturally, at first, I thought it was love, as everyone does when they’re blindsided in the initial relationship stages. I even withheld sex for as long as physically possible, because I was “waiting for the right time.”
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Justine had asked. “Singing angels to come down from the sky?”
“Hey, we don’t all put out on the first date like you,” I’d joked, but in truth, I really did want it to be perfect, just like everything, up until that point, had been.
But after the honeymoon stage fizzled out, a few concerns emerged. For one, if things didn’t work out between us, I knew the inter-office romance drama at work wouldn’t go over well, and could possibly cost me my newfound dream job. And I had also slowly started to come to the realization that David and I didn’t have a hell of a lot in common.
I had just been assigned my first research piece at Pace, where I was instructed to review the album charts for the past decade and compile a list of the most popular rock bands of the twenty-first century. After coming up with a pathetically weak list of bands not even worthy of mention – it was of no comparison to the bands like Nirvana and Radiohead that had severely impacted the music world a decade prior. I began to wonder if the entire music scene had gone downhill in the last ten years.
When I presented my frustration to David, his lackluster attitude gave way to the realization that we were definitely lacking in the common-interest arena. David’s only passion in life was sports, which was like a foreign language to me. For the first time since we started dating, I began to question our relationship’s shelf life. Common goals and passions may not be important to some people, but they were to me.
“Cornell is still around,” he’d argued when I vented about my article.
“My point exactly. Cornell was one of the talented artists who evolved in the nineties. Name at least one of your favorite bands who evolved over the past ten years.”
Silence.
“See?” I pointed out. “It isn’t easy, is it? I literally sat at my desk for hours today trying to come up with some great bands that have formed in the last few years and I ended up having to include bands that I don’t even like. The only one worth adding to the list is Muse.”
“Who’s Muse?”
***
The lobby to my apartment building was lined with a horizontal row of silver mailboxes, each of which held a small lock in the center. Every afternoon, like clockwork, I’d spend at least ten minutes trying to force my key to unlock the damn door, which usually resulted in my fist beating it repeatedly until it swung open.
Which was exactly what I was doing when Dylan came strolling through the front door.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss California herself,” he greeted, sidling up next to me. His mood seemed to have slightly improved since our last encounter.
I groaned and continued to toy with the lock. Dylan watched me for a good thirty seconds before reaching out and taking the key from my grasp. “Allow me,” he said, unlocking the door in one swift move. I stared at him in bewilderment.
“Try turning the key to the left and then to the right,” he explained. “Works every time.”
I nodded and scooped a pile of junk mail into my arms.
“A thank you would be nice.”
I feigned a smile and mumbled “thanks” before turning to walk away. I could feel his glare as I began to ascend the stairs.
“Why are you such a bitch all the time?”
I spun around to face him, but said nothing.
“Christ, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,” he continued. “But I’m trying to be cordial and say hello. The least you could do is reciprocate.”
I felt like I had suddenly teleported back to middle school, back to when the class bully would poke fun at you in front of everyone, and instead of coming up with a wise comeback, you’d be too frazzled to think of a good response. I remember racking my brain for something, but I always ended up sputtering off at the mouth and sounding like a complete idiot.
Which reminded me that in most circumstances like these, it’s better to keep your mouth shut.
Without another word, I turned around and stomped up the stairs to my apartment. Somehow, I could feel Dylan laughing at me as I made my way up the stairs. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t hear him, but I could feel him. And the bastard was laughing.
Being unemployed whisks you into this magical world where you lose all concept of reality. You never know what day it is, what time it is, and you can’t understand why you’re still constantly late for everything when you have no job. People have a tendency to blame everything on work: the reason they’re behind on chores, the reason they’re late to events, the reason they need to go home early after a few cocktails. Ironically, all these things still take place when you’re jobless, except now you have nothing to blame it on.
My