if I could report back a Dave Grohl or Ed Sheeran sighting. Despite how unlikely.
Even the remote possibility humbled me.
I rode to the ninth floor with trepidation and giddy expectation, but an anticlimactic silence greeted me when I entered the floor for the Rock Paper. There were a few people scattered about, but the overhead lights hadn’t even been completely turned on.
Somewhat relieved I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone right out the gate, I found my assigned cube sandwiched between a pair of identical desks on either side. Another matching set ran parallel across the narrow aisle. I tried to ignore the implication of so much conformity, accepting the necessity of efficiency. Still, I had a romantic notion of the music industry. Mainly, I liked to ignore the industry part of that phrase. I’d been around long enough to understand the compromises and little deaths that everyone, even the most artistic people—the ones who made the rest of our jobs possible—had to endure.
I dropped into my chair and slid paperwork out of the manila envelope they’d given me, searching for my login credentials. When I noticed nobody had delivered the company-issued laptop, I bent forward to check under the desk and peeked around the cube walls in case they’d left it with my neighbors.
Nothing.
In the cube cattycorner to mine, a head of brown curly hair bobbed in a jerky rhythm. As self-assured as I came across on my website, I had a hard time talking to people in real life, but I’d need to get over my anxiety working in the real world, so I mustered up my courage and knocked on the strip of metal along the top of the wall. The cube’s inhabitant didn’t look up. I tapped again before I noticed she wore headphones, something I’d be doing as soon as I had a laptop and assigned projects.
I walked around to her side of the dividing wall and touched her shoulder. The girl jumped out of her seat with an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, my Lord. You scared the dickens out of me.”
Her chair spun, and when she looked up, I found myself face to face with Josie Wilder. My eyes grew wide, and I took a giant step back because I knew her well—although she didn’t know me from Adam. And I shouldn’t have known her. Josie was a relatively obscure photographer, not a celebrity in her own right. However, through a spiderweb of connections, she’d earned a bit of notoriety in my small corner of the universe. She was the girlfriend of Micah Sinclair, whose sister was Eden Sinclair, whose husband was none other than Adam Copeland, lead singer of Walking Disaster, the band my fan site idolized. True story.
I’d never expected to run into my own celebrity fixations. Not at work. Certainly not on my first day.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted out.
She tugged her headphones out of a tangled lock and shook out her curls. “Boyfriend’s on the road, and I was going batshit insane in that empty house. I thought I’d file these photos here.”
Right. Of course. I knew she freelanced for the Rock Paper, but I envisioned her working on a tour bus, at a concert, somewhere exciting. The juxtaposition of my imagination and this office-space reality threw me.
A second later, the detonation of the word boyfriend went off, and I realized she meant Micah—rock star in his own right. My eyes popped open even further if possible.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly. “Have we met?”
I stood flummoxed, unsure whether to reveal that I’d seen and loved her concert photography, or if I should praise Micah’s music, or if I should confess my involvement in the whole fan community. But I really didn’t want her to read my awkwardness as recognition.
Thankfully, despite my extreme social ineptitude, my solid Midwestern upbringing prevailed, and I stuck out a hand. “Hi. My name’s Layla Beckett. Sorry for the rude greeting. I’m new here, and I’m still a bit lost.” I clamped my lips together to shut up.
Jo had more grace than me and didn’t seem to notice that I was genuinely starstruck. “I’m Jo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She took my outstretched hand. “You’re new? What will you be doing?”
Her slight southern accent surprised me. I’d seen dozens of pictures of her, but I’d never once heard her speak.
“Social media. Web content. That sort of thing.” I tugged the sleeves of my cardigan over my hands, shrinking into myself, wanting