Page 15 of Paparazzi

Everyone laughs, including Thomas, who’s on the sidelines.

“That’s not true!” I pretend to be offended, but I know I’m a bit of a pain in the butt in that regard. I just can’t lie if I didn’t like something; I can do it calmly, giving my reasons without tearing down other people’s work, but I certainly can’t shut up or write something that’s not true.

Some of the guys look over at Thomas, who I almost forgot was in the room. I introduce him, finally addressing his presence.

“This is Thomas, my...friend,” I say, choking on the last word because I don’t know if he considers it an exaggeration. I glance at him and he smiles, reaching out his hand, first toward Seb, then to everyone else who shakes it, and unceremoniously introduces himself.

They recognize him, of course, but they’re all professional enough, or perhaps intimidated enough, not to comment. I mentally thank them because I want this to be their moment, their interview, their space.

“Shall we begin? Do you mind if I also take some pictures for the blog?” I ask before sitting on one of the sofas in the room and pulling out my camera and notebook with the questions I prepared in advance for the occasion.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Thomas leaning against a table scattered with takeout containers and water bottles, crossing his arms and watching my every move. He’s discreet about it so it doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, I like that he witnesses what I consider my actual work. Maybe I’m looking for justifications for my lies. I’m hoping that when he finds out I’m a paparazzo, he can tell the difference between what I do for the sake of music and what I do just to survive.

*

“Do you want a beer?” he asks when we leave the green room. The second band has almost finished playing.

“Yes, I do.”

We both sit at a tall table away from the stage. It’s sticky with old liquor. Thomas nods to the waitress, gives her his credit card, and invites me to order first. I’d rather him not pay for my beer, but I have no choice, since my credit card is at the limit this month and I don’t have enough cash in my pocket. When I accepted, I didn’t know Manhattan bars prefer credit cards and don’t like cash.

When our orders arrive, I pull out my wallet, but he glares at me. “Don’t even think about it. I asked you if you wanted a beer, and I intend to pay for it.”

His voice is calm but firm. He wants to make a nice gesture. I bite my tongue and put aside my eternal battle about equality. Women and men should be free to pay their own way on dates without the unwritten obligation that the guy should pay for the whole night. But this isn’t a date, right?

“Thank you.”

Thomas smiles and sips from his beer. “You’re very professional when you do interviews. I hardly ever see journalists pulling out a prepared list of questions. They usually use the standard ones they’ve memorized without doing research on the band they’re interviewing.”

His words make me blush. It’s nice that he realizes I put commitment and passion into what I do. I’m proud of how I run my blog. “I like my job, I like music and, honestly, the most beautiful part of the interview is just getting to know the story of the people behind the songs. When I ask them questions, I want it to be like talking to a friend because I’m really interested in what they have to say. I don’t want it to be just a simple sterile question and answer, without any human contact, without emotions. After all, music is emotion. Why shouldn’t I put it in my articles when I talk about it?”

Thomas looks me straight in the eye, nailing me to my stool with those ocean-blue eyes. A smile forms on his lips, and his gaze lights up when he glances at my mouth. I didn’t realize I was so close to him until I feel his breath caressing my face. Thanks to the darkness of this corner, it feels like we’re alone. People crowd around the stage listening to the third band, but I don’t even care. All I can look at right now are Thomas’s eyes, loaded with desire, and his face inching toward me. His lips crush mine in a kiss so perfect it makes my toes curl. His hands slip into my hair, grab me tightly, and pull me toward him in a kiss full of desire and despair. It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime.

His tongue caresses mine in a mixture of frenzy and sweetness, releasing those butterflies in my stomach I thought I’d managed to numb when I was sixteen. In fact, I thought this entire moment was just the impossible dream of a little girl in her first crush. My hands slip under his jacket, pulling his shirt until he gets off his stool. He presses his hot body against mine, letting out a little groan when my fingers slip under his shirt, caressing his skin, the muscles flexing under my touch. He takes a moment to catch his breath, but then his lips pounce desperately again on mine as he intensifies his grip on my hair. I groan into his mouth.

“Iris, we’re going. We’ll leave you here if you don’t move your ass now!” For the second time tonight, Albert’s voice interrupts us, and I’d like to kill him.

We’re still panting when we separate. Thomas can’t take his eyes off mine. I reluctantly look at my friend, and reality hits me like a landslide crushing my heart. The disgust on Albert’s face brings me back to the truth of who I am and what I do for a living. I grab my bag and jacket and, without one last look at Thomas, I walk away quickly. Thomas’s voice calling me sounds almost like a mirage.

We reach the others in the parking lot in silence, Albert pouting like a child, and I with the most conflicting feelings in my chest.

“What the hell happened?” asks Emily as soon as she sees us.

I look at her begging her to let it go, but Albert jumps right in. “God, I didn’t think you would become the groupie of the first rock star you met. How low can you stoop?”

His words hurt, but I try not to show it. “What the hell is your problem?”

“You stuck your tongue in the mouth of the first jerk you meet who has a little fame.”

“Did you kiss Thomas?” Emily’s incredulous voice makes me turn toward her to find a smirk painted plainly on her face.

I nod with half a smile, but I don’t tell her anything. I don’t want Albert to ruin this moment by making me feel guilty.

“He was practically fucking her on the table.”

“That is not true!”

“Really? When will you see him again?” Emily asks.

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