Doren was born with a powerful gift—a gift he's managed to use to put him well on his way to becoming a star. But there is more to that gift than just musical talent, and as careful as Doren is to hide that fact, there are some who know of the power behind the sound, and all the ways they could abuse it.
August's goal in life is simple: make an impact in the music industry. An opportunity to work as the personal assistant to Doren seems to be exactly the kind of break he needs to accomplish that goal.
But all too often in life, simple becomes just another complication, especially when there are people whose goal is even simpler: destroy and dominate.
August fidgeted in the hard plastic chair and checked the
clock for what had to be the hundredth time. They’d all been there for more
than an hour and not a single one of them had moved yet. As if they had all the
time in the world to just hang around and wait.
He took a second to let his attentions wander over the
rest of the room. Also for the hundredth time. Also in duress of what he found
there. So many beautiful people, so many cool ones, while he sat there looking
like an overdressed high school kid waiting for his prom date.
But whoever heard of going to a job interview in jeans,
for heaven’s sake? It would be laughable if the truth wasn’t so obvious—he was
the one who looked out of place. Not Ms. Snake-skin-tights or Mr.
Jeans-so-snug-you-must-have-painted-them-on. Not even Mr. Green-hair. Amidst
the funky clothing and extra-cool t-shirts that probably cost more than his
last week’s pay altogether, it was the conservative navy-blue pinstripe suit
that looked foolish.
He sighed and let his head fall back on the wall behind
him. What was he even doing there? He wasn’t in these people’s league. He
wasn’t even done his program yet at college. And if he didn’t have serious
doubts in his ability to obtain a high enough grade to keep him there, he
wouldn’t have even bothered applying for the job in the first place.
August knew the value of a buck. And the job promised to
offer a good one. Not that it would take much to outshine the nine bucks an
hour he got at the record store. Nor was the concept of merely asking for money
from his parents that big of an issue—to them. To him it was a mortification of
unfathomable proportions, an admission that he couldn’t make it on his own.
Perhaps even a suggestion that getting into the music industry was as much of a
joke as they’d told him it was when he’d said that was what he wanted to do.
After all, if one couldn’t make it through college while pursuing the dream,
perhaps that was an indication of how hard it would be to find a job once one
was done? August could hear the words as if his father was speaking them right
into his ear.
He’d been surprised, but not floored, when he’d seen the
posting on the billboard. A lot of companies posted their part-time and
low-man-on-the-totem jobs at the school. The students were perfect pansies.
They would work like dogs trying to make a good impression, they weren’t good
enough to expect a lot in return, and they were more about “making contacts”
then making money. So they got the jobs nobody else wanted and they were paid
like sweatshop kids.
The posting had seemed a little different though: a bit
more put together, a touch more promising. A real job.
Wanted — Personal Assistant
P.A. needed to provide
trustworthy, efficient assistance for serious musical professional. Must be
flexible with hours, willing to travel, and have the ability to assume a
variety of responsibilities. Make some contacts, learn the ropes, and share a
valuable experience working right in the heart of the industry.
It was simple, to the point, and the number was local.
He’d stolen the card right off the board, a huge protocol no-no what with it
not being fair to everybody else and blah, blah, blah. The school even provided
wee pencils and scrap paper for one to write information on just for that very
purpose. But he did it anyway. And all the way back to the apartment on the bus
he’d read it over and over again.
The woman August had spoken to on the phone had been
polite, intelligent, and the most cryptic person August had ever held a
conversation with in his life. Diana, August repeated mentally as she gave him
the details of the interview process and reiterated the information that had
been in the posting. And with his eyes closed, processing the word so as not to
forget it, she’d changed her tone and lowered her voice. “Just follow the signs
when you get here. You can do that, right, August?”
He hadn’t answered immediately—just listened to the
extended pause after the question. In all truth August hadn’t really been sure
what the woman was asking. “You can follow the signs, right?”
August had done what he’d been told. He’d followed the
signs through the tall, well-decorated building. He’d gazed through plate glass
windows at shiny desks and album-bedecked walls, nervous but hoping. Hoping and
wishing. Wishing and praying. Yet for the last hour all August had been asking
himself was why he’d bothered. He should be out looking for a real job—one that
he actually had a chance of landing. He should be finishing his paper that,
even if aced, would still not be enough to pull his grade up to passing. He
should be trying to find a way to tell his parents he’d be coming back in
December instead of May.
He almost said to hell with it. He even put down the
magazine he’d been pretending to read and lowered the foot he’d had resting on
his knee. He’d settled both shoes flat on polished hardwood, took a breath,
lifted his head … and there he was. August hadn’t even seen him come in; it
didn’t appear that anyone in the room had. But as the newcomer stood there,
stopped, looking up at the ceiling, people began to notice.
With fingers that suddenly seemed too shaky to be
functional, August located the magazine he’d just dropped and picked it back
up, flipping quickly through the pages to confirm. Then he nodded to himself.
Damn and hell and God and the Virgin, there the man was. Right there—in big,
bright glossy Hollywood style and shine, on page thirty-eight. Doren. And damn
but if he wasn’t just as beautiful in person as he was on paper.
Dark, thick hair cut wild and styled even more so, blue
eyes that seemed bright enough to be reaching supersonic, and the casual
disinterest that should have an “I’m sexy and I know it” song playing as
background. He was that perfect combination of old-school white knight and
dangerous bad-boy, with a body that was tight and lean and long—as if he’d been
born for the sole purpose of fanning the hormones of schoolgirl and matron
alike.
Henley was born with a full-blown passion for run-on
sentences, a zealous indulgence in all words descriptive, and the endearing
tendency to overuse punctuation. Since the early years Henley has been an
enthusiastic writer, from the first few I-love-my-dog stories to the current
leap into erotica.
A self-professed Google genius, Henley lives for the
hours spent digging through the Internet for ‘research purposes’ which, more
often than not, lead seven thousand miles away from first intentions but bring
Henley to new discoveries and ideas that, once seeded, tend to flourish.
Henley has been proudly working with LT3 since 2012, and
has been writing like mad ever since—an indentured servant to the belief that
romance and true love can mend the most broken soul. Even when presented in
prose.
Comments, kudos and signature card requests are happily
received at afhenley.com.
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