untitled

If it weren’t completely unprofessional, she would have rolled her eyes and actually cursed when Joe walked into the meeting five minutes late, triumphantly bearing another venti Starbucks cup. What was it with this kid? Why did he seem to take such great pride in aggravating her to no end? It was completely obnoxious and frankly, inappropriate.

She supposed she was silly to expect anything else. She’d watched enough You Tube interviews to know that he was the loud one, the over-the-top one, the center-of-attention one. Why she would have expected him to be mature and professional was suddenly beyond her. This was a teenaged pop-star, not a businessman. And even she knew that businessmen were only occasionally purely professional, especially around her.

She ground her teeth together as he took the empty seat between her and his youngest brother, feeling incredibly frustrated at the world. At her age and her body and her insane hair. At her inability to be unenthusiastic and centered and calm when she knew she was on to something big. At all the hurdles laid before her that had nothing to do with her resume or her achievements or her brilliant work plan. At the people like Joe who thought it was cute to laugh at her and trivialize her position.

When he put the latte down she wanted to pick it up and throw it at him. Hit him in the same spot her fist had landed twenty minutes ago, and watch the smug, self-satisfied look on his face disappear. But she knew doing that would confirm everyone’s suspicions about her. About her professional conduct. So she merely narrowed her eyes.

“You think you’re so charming, kid, and you’re not,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth as the band’s A&R rep brought the meeting to order around them.

“Who are you calling ‘kid’?” he asked, indignant.

“I don’t know, maybe the one sitting next to me?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“You know, I don’t see my little brother Frankie in here anywhere. Least of all sitting next to you,” he spoke while looking around the room, his final statement made as he faced her directly. She refused to face him.

“No, I’ve met Frankie before; he’s actually fairly mature for his age. I’m talking about the one that reeks of skim latte to my right.”

“You cannot possibly mean me.”

“Oh I absolutely can, kid.”

“You do know that was only attractive on Humphrey Bogart, right?”

“Are you even old enough to have seen that movie?”

The argument continued for the remainder of the meeting. Whenever she was not addressing the group, she was engaged in petty verbal warfare with Joe. Every word he said was getting under her skin. She could not stop herself from responding to him, could not let him have the last word. She could feel her body tightening with her increasing irritation: her jaw constantly clenched and her back drawn taught, her spine straight as an arrow, the muscles around it beginning to knot painfully. The meeting could not end fast enough.

As soon as people began to pack up, she followed suit. Marc had another meeting immediately afterwards, so she knew he was in a rush to be on his way. She would follow him out to avoid seeming rude by not mingling. She would pretend she had places to be as well. Really, all she had to do was go back to her office, and that was in her apartment. She had a long day of quiet work before she had to be ready for the listening party that night.

“By the way, Taylor Hanson circa 2002 called. He wants his haircut back,” she whispered at Joe, her lips nearing his ear as she turned to leave.

It was low. But she knew from experience that he wouldn’t be able to respond to that. And so she said it. And she booked it out the door, forcing conversation with Marc so that she could not look back to see the expression on his face.

In protest, she had not so much as sipped at the latte. It sat on the table in the spot where she had once been.

***

She sat on her bed staring blankly into her closet, mulling her options for the evening. A pair of high-waisted, wide-legged jeans sat on the bed next to her with a pair of ridiculous brown platform sandals that she loved. It was the top that was eluding her. 70s siren was the concept, and she wanted to look hot. This was, of course, a creative and sartorial challenge. She was attending a party, so she was allowed to loosen up a bit. But she’d also be around colleagues, so she couldn’t loosen up too much. She needed to maintain some mystery, some modesty. …Even if she was dying to catch the eye of the hot Hollywood Records blonde she’d been scoping out around his office for weeks.

Twenty minutes and four discarded tops later she had found something passable. A slim cobalt blue tank top tucked into the jeans, its scooping neckline modest but its fit leaning toward bombshell. She left her hair down, still drying, and went with a clean face of makeup focused only on soft, smoky brown eyes. A pair of large rose gold hoops and a wrist full of bangles and a cocktail ring completed the look. A quick spin in front of Meg—who was in her bedroom on the phone with her long distance boyfriend—earned a thumbs up, assuring her that the outfit was acceptable. Once again cutting it close on time she scooped up her oversized evening clutch and clambered down the two flights of stairs to the street.

***

The lighting in the club was low and the music—thankfully not the Jonas Brothers just yet—was just loud enough that she had to lean close to the bartender to order her gin and tonic. She’d made a beeline for the bar upon entrance, which was her usual tactic when she attended a professional function alone. The trip to the bar usually allowed her time to case the room to get a sense of who was attending, and at the bar often she met someone new with whom to commiserate about the overlong wait for a drink. Networking was simultaneously one of her best skills and her most hated activities. She was great at it. At pretending she felt calm, comfortable, compelling and witty. But on the inside she was typically a mess, fighting to hold it together, and sweating up a storm in the process. She was never comfortable, it was always an act. It was just an act she’d gotten particularly good at.

The bartender pressed a very nearly overflowing rocks glass into her hand and she offered a smile as she began to turn away. A sip of gin mingled with tonic slid, crisp and warming, down her throat and she knew in a few moments she would feel much more at ease. The gin would play its part in her act. However, when she turned to find Joe Jonas standing directly behind her the smile slid off her fast faster than the gin could make its way to her bloodstream.

“Taylor Hanson circa 1998 called,” he began as she gulped at her drink, again resisting the urge to act unprofessionally, “and he told me he’d like his career back.”

Her heart was pounding, her blood beginning to boil. She said nothing.

“Isn’t that a shame?” he asked, shaking his head slowly.

“You thought about that all day, didn’t you?” she finally asked. He had closed the space between them and now stood uncomfortably close. “Now, that is a shame.”

“I see alcohol does nothing to improve your mood,” Joe shot back, maintaining his proximity.

She stepped backward, trying to create space. Space to breathe, to move, to think. Without realizing what she was about to do, she began to take a second step and found her back and elbow pressing against something firm but warm.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed turning to find the Hollywood Records Hot Blonde behind her.

Joe instantly faded into background noise as she placed her hand on the tall blonde’s strong arm.

“I didn’t spill your drink or anything, did I?” She smiled sweetly, “I’m such a klutz. I should pay more attention to where I’m going.”

“Don’t worry…” he knit his eyebrows and looked at her silently for a moment.

“Aisling,” she finished his sentence for him.

“Don’t worry Aisling, its fine. Actually, it’s more than fine. You saved me the effort of having to approach you,” he smiled winningly and held out his hand, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Brett.”

His hand was strong, warm, and absolutely massive by comparison to hers. She let him maintain his grip for longer than strictly necessary, holding eye contact for a few seconds before dipping her head and looking back up at him through her eyelashes, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“So I’ve seen you around the office a lot lately, but I know you don’t work for Hollywood, so what gives?”

She could still feel Joe behind her, his eyes burning into her back. He was still standing terribly close. She wanted to elbow him, to shake him off. It was distracting, having him there while she flirted, trying to play every girl trick in her book. The girl tricks required focus—singularity of mission and intent. Joe, once again, was making her life difficult. And probably taking pride in it.

She would show him.