Good Girl

Chapter 1: Haley

Nothing in twenty years prepares me for that man on his knees.

Naked to the waist.

Sweat gleaming on his shoulders.

The spotlight caresses the ridges of a body cut from stone as though it wants to follow him around forever.

Maybe it does.

But he's not stone. His skin would be warm, not cold.

Silhouetted hands reach for him over the edge of the stage, like something out of Dante's Inferno. Souls in hell grasping for their last chance at heaven. That seems misguided because the way Jax Jamieson grips a mic is straight-up sinful.

Next to the poster is a photo of four men in tuxes, gold statues in their hands.

We're attracted to gold for its sheen, its promise of something elite and revered and sacred.

My gaze drags back to the man in the poster. Elite. Revered. Sacred.

"I've read your resume. Now tell me why you're really qualified."

The dress pants that were a bad damn idea slip on the seat. The polyester scrapes along my skin, and I force eye contact with the woman interviewing me. "I reset at least two hundred undergrad passwords a week. And I make a lot of coffee. My roommate says I'm better than the baristas at her café."

"Excuse me?"

The printed job description sticks to my fingers. "'Technical support and other duties as appropriate.' That's what you mean, right? Rebooting computers and making coffee?"

She holds up a hand. "Miss Telfer, Wicked Records is the only private label that has survived everything from Napster to streaming. There are two hundred applications for this internship. Our interns write and produce music. Run festivals."

The woman looks as if she missed getting tickets to the Stones' Voodoo Lounge tour and has been holding a grudge ever since.

Or maybe she was the next one into the record store behind me the day I found Dark Side of the Moon on vinyl in Topeka.

It's probably not a fair assessment. Under that harsh exterior, she could be genuinely kind and passionate about music.

Maybe I'm in The Devil Wears Prada and this woman's my Stanley Tucci.

"I run an open mic night on campus," I try. "And I'm a developer. I write code practically every day, and lot of people fork my repos on GitHub, and..." My gaze sneaks back to the poster.

"Don't get too excited," she warns. "Whoever gets this job"—her tone says it's not me—"won't work with the talent. Especially that talent."

Her final questions are nails in my coffin. Closed-ended things like if the address on my forms is right and if the transcripts I submitted are up to date.

She holds out a hand at the end, and I hold my breath.

Her skin's cold, like her heart decided not to pump blood that far.

I drop her hand as fast as I can. Then I shoulder my backpack and slink out the door.

The idea that the biggest rock star of the last ten years just saw me bomb—even if it was only his poster—is depressing.

I'm on the second bus back across Philly to campus before the full weight of disappointment hits me.

Are college juniors supposed to have run music festivals in order to pour coffee? Because I missed that memo.