back at her over my shoulder. "It's a fucking rat's nest. I didn't know a photo shoot was in the plans today. Sorry." I'm apologizing again. I feel bad, like I'm making her job harder.
She smiles and it's friendly. It makes me want to stay in this room forever. "Never doubt me," she says. "There's a product for everything." She starts finger combing my hair again. "Even this."
Five minutes later, my hair looks better than it has in months. I guess I shouldn't have doubted her.
Lindsey hangs up the shirts and folds the jeans that weren't used while someone applies makeup to my face. Usually I hate it when they put this shit on me, but I'm not paying attention because I can't take my eyes off Lindsey.
When the makeup artist (I didn't look to see if it was a man or woman) leaves the room, I blurt out, "Are you going to our show tonight?"
She laughs again and it's like music to my ears. "No. Though I've heard some of your songs on the radio. You're good."
"You should come. I can get you in." I sound ridiculous. And desperate. Of course I can get her in; I'm in the fucking band.
"I can't. Have to catch a flight back to Seattle tonight. Thanks anyway, Gustov."
"How about dinner? Before you leave?" Goddamn, it's almost embarrassing how hard I'm trying here. And it's not even about the potential of sex with her that's got me so wound up. It's just ... her.
She blinks a few times and I already know she's going to turn me down. "Gustov, I'm flattered. Truly." She smiles to soften the rejection, I suppose. "And you're not an asshole," she adds quickly. "But I have a boyfriend."
I nod. Understood. And if it's possible, I have even more respect for her. I don't get in the middle of other people's relationships. End of story.
Someone clears her throat behind us. I turn and there's a woman standing just inside the doorway. Her stance tells me she'd rather be anywhere but here. For the most part, her attention is focused on the doorframe in front of her. I can only see the left side of her face, and it looks tight, not friendly. I wonder how long she's been standing there. Judging by her posture, it's been a while. She shifts her weight to her right side, and she's holding a legal pad of paper tightly in her hand. She looks impatient. Impatient, like it's her middle name. Like she eats, sleeps, and breathes impatience. I already don't like her.
"Gustov, if you're done here ... " Her voice is quiet, and her eyes flit in our direction without turning to face us. The hasty eye contact tells me she heard everything. She's judging me. "They're ready for you." The tone of her voice is total annoyance.
Without taking my eyes off Lindsey, I hold up a finger in Impatient's direction asking her to give us a minute. She turns and quickly disappears.
Closing the gap between me and Lindsey, I offer my hand again. I'm nervous. I hate being nervous.
She shakes it. She's calm. The calm bleeds in through the contact and I welcome it.
Meeting her eyes, I say, "He's a lucky man, Lindsey." I mean it.
Smiling, she nods and winks. "Thanks Gustov. And just so you know, if I wasn't completely, madly in love with the guy, I would've said yes to dinner."
I smile like a schoolgirl, release her hand, and walk out the door.
The photo shoot, an event I usually loath, isn't as miserable as I expected. And I'm not even drunk. The photographer, Jack, isn't the type we've worked with in the past. They usually take themselves too seriously and wear the title, artist , like it somehow elevates them to a state incapable of communicating with the lowly "talent." Jack has a sense of humor and humility. It's a nice pairing, one of my favorites. He gets all of us to loosen up and act natural. Hell, I don't know what natural is anymore, but I'm doing it.
By the time I get out of the shower and change into some clean clothes from my bag after the shoot, Lindsey's gone. I kinda wanted to see her again, but I know that's a little too stalker for my style. It
She smiles and it's friendly. It makes me want to stay in this room forever. "Never doubt me," she says. "There's a product for everything." She starts finger combing my hair again. "Even this."
Five minutes later, my hair looks better than it has in months. I guess I shouldn't have doubted her.
Lindsey hangs up the shirts and folds the jeans that weren't used while someone applies makeup to my face. Usually I hate it when they put this shit on me, but I'm not paying attention because I can't take my eyes off Lindsey.
When the makeup artist (I didn't look to see if it was a man or woman) leaves the room, I blurt out, "Are you going to our show tonight?"
She laughs again and it's like music to my ears. "No. Though I've heard some of your songs on the radio. You're good."
"You should come. I can get you in." I sound ridiculous. And desperate. Of course I can get her in; I'm in the fucking band.
"I can't. Have to catch a flight back to Seattle tonight. Thanks anyway, Gustov."
"How about dinner? Before you leave?" Goddamn, it's almost embarrassing how hard I'm trying here. And it's not even about the potential of sex with her that's got me so wound up. It's just ... her.
She blinks a few times and I already know she's going to turn me down. "Gustov, I'm flattered. Truly." She smiles to soften the rejection, I suppose. "And you're not an asshole," she adds quickly. "But I have a boyfriend."
I nod. Understood. And if it's possible, I have even more respect for her. I don't get in the middle of other people's relationships. End of story.
Someone clears her throat behind us. I turn and there's a woman standing just inside the doorway. Her stance tells me she'd rather be anywhere but here. For the most part, her attention is focused on the doorframe in front of her. I can only see the left side of her face, and it looks tight, not friendly. I wonder how long she's been standing there. Judging by her posture, it's been a while. She shifts her weight to her right side, and she's holding a legal pad of paper tightly in her hand. She looks impatient. Impatient, like it's her middle name. Like she eats, sleeps, and breathes impatience. I already don't like her.
"Gustov, if you're done here ... " Her voice is quiet, and her eyes flit in our direction without turning to face us. The hasty eye contact tells me she heard everything. She's judging me. "They're ready for you." The tone of her voice is total annoyance.
Without taking my eyes off Lindsey, I hold up a finger in Impatient's direction asking her to give us a minute. She turns and quickly disappears.
Closing the gap between me and Lindsey, I offer my hand again. I'm nervous. I hate being nervous.
She shakes it. She's calm. The calm bleeds in through the contact and I welcome it.
Meeting her eyes, I say, "He's a lucky man, Lindsey." I mean it.
Smiling, she nods and winks. "Thanks Gustov. And just so you know, if I wasn't completely, madly in love with the guy, I would've said yes to dinner."
I smile like a schoolgirl, release her hand, and walk out the door.
The photo shoot, an event I usually loath, isn't as miserable as I expected. And I'm not even drunk. The photographer, Jack, isn't the type we've worked with in the past. They usually take themselves too seriously and wear the title, artist , like it somehow elevates them to a state incapable of communicating with the lowly "talent." Jack has a sense of humor and humility. It's a nice pairing, one of my favorites. He gets all of us to loosen up and act natural. Hell, I don't know what natural is anymore, but I'm doing it.
By the time I get out of the shower and change into some clean clothes from my bag after the shoot, Lindsey's gone. I kinda wanted to see her again, but I know that's a little too stalker for my style. It
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