Page 21 of Fame and Obsession

Shit.

Now would be a great time for Gage to show up. He follows the indie rock band just for the insatiable crush he has on the lead singer. I, on the other hand, have nothing to offer, other than the ability to draw crude replications of the tripod in Gage’s imagination.

“Of course, sir.”

Nice. Always good to lie to the boss.

“Good.” He slaps a hand on the top of the cubicle wall. “Surge Records is hosting their album release party on Friday, and you’ll be representing Vinyl. I’ll expect you and our photographer, Nate Jacobs, to be at the early press conference.”

I try not to act intimidated. “Sir, I don’t understand. Isn’t Eric usually responsible for album releases?”

Eric Lafontaine serves as music features editor, but his unofficial title around the office reverts to the often preferred, Ass Cactus. A condescending egomaniac, he constantly treats the rest of us to his infamous “rise to stardom” story from the lowly ranks of the mail room to his swoon-worthy, coveted position.

Castellano narrows his eyes. “Actually, no, Miss Ryan, not usually responsible—always responsible. I suppose in this instance he just didn’t have the right...equipment required.” Before I can respond, he returns to his glass cave and seals the door.

I have no clue what the hell he meant by that, but the day has now officially gone from bad to worse. Sighing, I roll my stiff neck and dive back into the world of Vaggie Prime.

After twenty minutes of staring blankly at the screen, I shove the keyboard under my desk. What’s the use? The day has been shot to hell.

Rubbing my eyes, I sigh as the morning’s events replay in my head.

Every Thursday morning, I walk into the boardroom with the rest of the editorial staff to pitch my ideas and make somebody—anyfreakingbody—notice me. But there are only so many times I can be told, “The east end of the table is out of coffee, go get some,” before realizing I’ll be stuck interviewing anti-razor femme-bots until I die.

Males dominate the music industry, and I’ve determined most female power players get to the top by either busting balls or sucking them. After five months of the same Thursday morning routine, sucking balls no longer sounds like a bad business plan.

I’ll be drafting my own plan soon if the growing stack of publisher rejection letters are any indication. Who the hell works for the parent company of a damn publishing house and still can’t get a book acquisition?

Uh, this girl.

Boardroom Barista.

Future Ball Sack Sucker.

“Great. Now what?” Leaning down, I swipe a candy wrapper from the floor—a discarded casualty of my post-boardroom pity party.

Tossing it in the trash can along with the eleven others, I lick the chocolate still smeared on my fingers, Gage’s disgusted voice ringing in my ears as if he stood right behind me.

“Baby doll, I’m not going to tell you what emulsified bug-fuckery is in that shit you eat, but if you keep stuffing your gorg face with it, your ass is going to be big enough for IMAX.”

I want to smack myself. Only one person has the ability to calm my nerves and center me.

Fishing my phone out of my pants pocket, I pull up his contact and hit the call button.

Gage answers on the first ring. “Hi, honey, I’m not home.”

I roll my eyes, although I know he can’t see me. “Liar.”

“Are you running away from work, baby doll?”

“Depends. Will you run with me?”

“Ah, but where shall we live? We can only sell our bodies for so long before you get old and look like a handbag.”

I giggle. “Why just me?”

“Pheebs, I’m an actor. We don’t age. We embalm till rigor mortis takes over.”

My anxiety vanishes. “I love you, Gage.”

---