SKYE
Hollywood runs on three things: gasoline, caffeine, and the crushed hopes and dreams of young artists.
Which is why I'm waiting at the counter of the coffee shop down the street from my apartment.
For the caffeine that is. Not for the crushed hopes and dreams.
"Are you gay?" the barista asks from behind the counter.
Is she flirting with me or do I just come off as a woman who likes women?
"Um..." I say, pondering how to answer. "Thanks, but I have a boyfriend."
The woman stares at me with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.
"I uh... have a caramel macchiato for Gay?"
Oh hell.
This is exactly why I need to learn to think before I speak.
I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks and I try to resist the urge to cringe at my own awkwardness.
I'm guessing they managed to spell my name wrong again.
I stand up and walk over to grab my drink, avoiding further eye contact with the barista. When I told the cashier "Skye with an E," I was pretty sure she got it wrong. But looking at the name scrawled across the cup, she got it really wrong.
GEY.
Naturally.
I scurry off to our table in the back corner, relieved that Greg picked a spot far away from the front counter.
"I'm never coming here ever again," I say, sitting down beside him as he reads on his iPad.
"Should I ask why?" He raises an eyebrow but doesn't look up from what he's reading.
"Let's just say I had the world's most awkward encounter with the girl who made my coffee and I can never show my face in a Starbucks again."
I sigh and take a sip of my macchiato. It's far too early for me and I'm desperate for the caffeine.
"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."
"You're probably right, but not the best way to start off my day."
"When's your shoot?" he asks.
I glance at my phone. It's 7:30 am. Uggh.
"In an hour. I don't know why they insisted on booking the studio so early, but it's a good gig."
I'm photographing four models today for a local up-and-coming lingerie designer. It's an all-day shoot so I guess they wanted to start first thing in the morning.
Greg hums slightly and takes a sip of his own coffee before returning to his reading.
A soft guitar rhythm plays from the café speakers and I recognize it as a personal favorite. I grab my coffee and begin to quietly sing the words into my straw as if it were a microphone.
"Why do you build me up? Buttercup, baby, just to let me down! And mess me around and then worst of all..."
I pass my faux-mic to Greg for him to join in, but he looks up at me like I'm insane.
Whatever. Your loss.
I continue to dance in my chair, lip-syncing the words. I only get one or two strange looks from the other patrons, but this is Hollywood after all—people are used to a lot of weird behavior around here.
"Excuse me," a man says with a tap on my shoulder.
Hopefully this is not the manager telling me to take my basic-bitch dance moves out of the café. I've already embarrassed myself enough for one morning.
I turn to see the man sitting at the table next to us with a newspaper. He's wearing a brown floral button-up shirt, tight jeans, and suede boots. His warm brown hair is just long enough to sweep behind his ears and a loose lock rests on his forehead. He has a combination of sharp jaw and full lips that you only see on supermodels.
That's the other thing you learn to expect in Hollywood—beautiful people. Aggressively, at times offensively, beautiful people. This guy is one of those people.
"Do you know who does this song?" he asks. "It seems like you're a fan."
I freeze like a deer in the headlights. There's something strikingly familiar about him and, despite my best efforts to be unaffected by his hotness, he's thrown me completely off guard.
"I uh... the... The Foundations. It's... it's The Foundations."
"Yes! That's it—The Foundations. Thanks, that was driving me crazy."
"Yeah, no problem. I know how-" The words get caught in my throat as I realize why he looks so familiar to me—the guy I'm talking to is Jackson freaking Ford!
He tilts his head and gives me a confused look.
Oh damn it, I stopped talking mid-sentence. I just can't stop embarrassing myself today.
"You're..." I mutter. "Shit."
His eyebrows raise and he nearly chokes on a laugh.
"I like to think I'm not that bad."
He smirks and puts his hands in his jean pockets.
"Oh my god, no!" I say, wide-eyed as I realize that my words came out all wrong. "You're not shit. I just–I recognized you. I meant you're, well, I guess you know who you are."
"I'm familiar, yes," he says, a smile still tugging at his lips.
"I'm sorry." I shake my head. "I have a tendency to put my foot in my mouth, except not actually—because if my foot was actually in my mouth I'd probably embarrass myself a lot less."
"Jacks," he says, reaching his hand out to shake mine. His fingers are adorned with several different ornate gold rings and his nails are painted black.
"Skye," I say, shaking his hand.
"Do you mind if I join you two?"
I look to Greg but he doesn't seem to be paying attention.
"Sure," I say, gesturing to the empty seat opposite me. Jackson—er, Jacks—moves to our table and introduces himself to Greg, who seems to have just noticed he's here.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" Greg asks.
I can't decide whether I should say something or not.
"I live a few blocks over," he says. "You may have seen me around."
Greg nods, returning to his iPad.
"You know your music," Jacks says.
"Thanks," I say. "I love music. I'm obsessed really. There's nothing I won't listen to."
"Not just sixties soul?"
"All of it. Sixties soul, nineties grunge-rock, thirties jazz, disco, k-pop, hair metal—you name it, I listen to it."
"Wow," he says with a smile. "Is that part of your job? Music?"
"I wish. I mean, I actually enjoy my job quite a bit. I'm a photographer. But it would be awesome to work in the music industry in some way too. I'd love that."
"What kind of photography do you do?"
"It's a mix. I do fashion, product photography, and boudoir."
"Boudoir?" He furrows his brow.
"It's like, sexy photography in lingerie. I work with models a lot in fashion, but I like working with real people when I can, so I do these shoots for everyday women. Make them feel like Victoria's Secret models for a little while. It's a lot of fun. I like making people feel good about themselves."
"These are just for women then?" he asks.
"No uh... men too. That's sometimes called 'dude-oir'. I do those too, I just don't get as many requests."
He chuckles and his hair falls slightly into his face.
"Dudeoir? I like that." He turns to Greg and tries to catch his attention. "So what about you, Greg? You a photographer too?"
"Oh, no," he says with a bit of a huff. "I'm an investment accountant."
"A money guy, huh? So how do you two know each other then?"
"Oh, we're together. Just got engaged, actually."
Jacks pinches his lips together and nods, then takes a sip of his coffee.
"Congratulations," he says.
"What is it that you do?" Greg asks, adjusting his glasses.
I can't believe he just asked Jackson Ford what he does. I mean, Greg isn't exactly a music person, but this man is on the cover of a different magazine every month. You couldn't avoid his face if you tried.
"I'm a musician."
"Oh. Good for you," he says. "What do you for money?"
I'm desperate to hide my face right now.
Jacks just laughs and leans back in his chair, resting an ankle on his knee.
"I do music full time, actually."
"Well that's quite impressive. That industry is tough."
Jacks turns to me and smiles.
"So where are you from?" he asks. I'm relieved someone is changing the subject, because that was getting awkward.
"I'm a SoCal native, actually," I say. "Grew up in Long Beach. Moved to Hollywood a few years ago to start my photography business."
"Do you like living in Hollywood?"
"I like it a lot. It's not too far from home, but it's a very different world. Long Beach was a more relaxed, surfer culture. Here everyone is so polished everywhere they go. I feel like I'm gonna get arrested by the fashion police if I wear my flip flops."
He laughs as he leans an elbow on the table and his sage-green eyes lock with mine.
"Well if you do get arrested, give me a call. I can come bail you out."
"I'll keep that in mind," I say with an awkward giggle. This man is too handsome to look people directly in the eyes. He's turning my insides to mush.
"Speaking of... would you have a business card? In case I wanted some photos?"
Taking photos of Jackson Ford would be a huge break for my career. I know he's probably just being nice, but I'm stunned that he'd even ask.
"I uh... yes... cards... I have cards in my purse."
I stare for a moment and he smirks in response.
"Could I have one?"
Oh duh. I'm such an idiot.
"Yes, of course," I say, grabbing my purse and digging around for my business card case. After a moment of searching, I pull one out and hand it to him.
"Thanks."
I can't believe Jackson Ford just asked for my business card. Photographing a huge musician like him could open so many doors for me. I've always wanted to work in music somehow. This could be my shot.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Jackson Ford is not actually going to call me.
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