Page 2 of Rock My Girl

"Crap." I raced to the coffee room beside her desk and filled two mugs.

As I passed again, I asked, "What am I supposed to do if he doesn't show up? It's my first day as his assistant, and the model is here."

She shrugged. "No idea, sorry."

I went back into Studio Three, and handed Ford his coffee. Pulling up a chair, I sat near him, trying to pretend that it was completely normal for me to be killing time with a rock star while waiting for someone who might not show up.

"Let me guess," Ford said after a few sips of coffee. "Tom won't be joining us today?"

"I don't know." I looked unhappily toward the half-open door, trying to will him into existence.

"It's okay," Ford said. "I know his reputation. When he's in the zone, he's amazing. And when he's not…" He waved his hand toward the empty studio. "Here we are."

Ford turned to face me head on. "You have an incredible voice, Cassie. You're a singer?"

Somehow I managed to swallow the coffee in my mouth before snorting. "No way. I don't know anything about that."

"But you sounded terrific just now. What else is there to know?"

I couldn't believe that he was staring at me with so much intensity. It was thrilling and unnerving.

"You know, the technical stuff. What notes go where, and how many chorus repeats should be at the end. What makes a song a hit."

Ford's rich laugh rang out, echoing off the concrete floor. "Please. We make it up as we go. It's mainly gut instinct."

The sunlight was hitting his face just right as he lounged on the black leather couch. With the intentionally chipped blue-gray painted wall behind him, and the deeper blue mug in his hand, he looked like he was sitting in an artsy cafe.

"What sort of photos did you need today?" I asked.

"I don't even know. Apparently the PR team sent the brief to Tom. Casual shots to make me look like an important singer-songwriter, I assume."

I loved that he didn't take himself too seriously. "May I take a few test shots? The light is perfect right there."

"Sure."

I grabbed my camera from my bag and crouched in front of him. After a few shots, I began coaching him to lift his chin, gaze toward the light, raise and lower his mug. He followed direction perfectly.

Then I took the mug from him, replacing it with my notebook and pen. "Could you move to the other end of the couch in front of the mural? Pretend you're writing lyrics."

Ford grinned, then did exactly as he was told, posing so naturally as he pretended to write that it was obvious he was used to being photographed.

My camera stopped. "The memory card is full – just one second."

As I dug in my bag for a spare, Ford flipped through my notebook. "I'm sorry, I'm nosy, but these lyrics are amazing."

"Um, thanks, but it's just fragments of poetry." I crouched in front of him again, excited to be getting such incredible shots.

"They’re amazing. We should—"

The door crashed open and a wild-eyed man burst into the room, then glared at me. "You're taking photos of my model?" he roared. "Who the hell do you think you are, you little pipsqueak bitch? You'd better—"

I jumped, my heart leapt into my throat, and I began to shake.

Ford was on his feet in an instant, standing between me and the angry mess that must be Tom Wilson.

"Grab your stuff," Ford said to me. Tom backed down as soon as he saw Ford's size.

Collecting my things, I raced from the studio and straight out the lobby into the parking lot.

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