A Love Song for Dreamers - Piper Lawson Page 0,70
for the requirement to be employed by an actual company, I could spend the summer working on my program and enter it in that competition.”
When my mom died last year, I took a semester off, lost my scholarships, and missed the financial aid deadline. Now I have to come up with tuition myself. I know I can figure it out because a lot of people do it, but if I win the coding competition in July, that’ll help big time.
“Where were you interviewing today?”
I blow out a breath. “Wicked.”
She shifts forward, her eyes brightening. “Shit. Did you see him?”
I don’t have to ask who she means. A low-grade hum buzzes through me that has nothing to do with the music in the background.
“Jax Jamieson doesn’t hang around the studio like a potted fern,” I point out. “He’s on tour.”
“I don’t care what kind of nerd god Carter is. Jax Jamieson is way better with his hands, and his mouth. Any girl would love having that mouth whisper dirty secrets in her ear. Even you.”
I shift back in my seat, propping my Converse sneakers on the opposite chair across and fingering the edge of my jacket.
“I don’t need to get laid. I’ve been there.” I take a sip of coffee, and my brain lights up even before I swallow. “The travel agent promised Hawaii. Instead it was Siberia.”
“Cold, numbing, and character building?”
“Exactly.”
Sex is awkward at best.
What I can deduce from my own meager experience, porn, and Serena’s war stories is that guys like to be teased, squeezed, popped until they burst all over you, at which point they’re basically deflated hot air balloons taking up the entire bed.
And don’t you tell them what you’re really fantasizing about is when it will be over and you can take a scalding-hot bath.
“My vibe has more empathy in its first two settings than the guys on campus,” I go on, and Serena cackles. “In fact,” I say, lifting my UPenn travel mug, “I may never have sex again.”
“Noooo!”
Her protest has me laughing. “Plato said there are two things you should never be angry at: what you can help and what you can’t.”
“Yeah, well. White men who got to wear bed sheets to dinner said a lot of crazy shit.” Serena’s green eyes slice through me. “Besides. I’m not angry. I’m planning.” I raise a brow. “To find you a guy with a tongue that’ll turn you inside out.”
I shudder. “That’s sweet. Truly. But I didn’t come to school to get laid, Serena.” Her fake shocked face has me rolling my eyes. “I want to do something that matters.”
When I started college, my mom told me I was lucky to have been born now, and her daughter, because I’m free to be whatever I want. By that, she meant a famous painter or a rocket scientist, or straight or gay, an advocate for children or the environment.
It’s not enough.
Serena’s right. I’m obsessed with Jax Jamieson, but it’s not because of his hard body or the way he moves or even his voice.
It’s because Jax Jamieson matters.
He matters by opening his mouth, by lifting his guitar, by drawing breath. He matters by taking people’s hopes, their fears, and spinning poetry with them.
Every time I sit down and listen to Abandon on vinyl on the floor of my bedroom, a coffee in my hands and my eyes falling closed, it’s like he matters a little bit more.
If I ever meet Jax Jamieson, I’m going to ask him how he does it.
Before Serena can answer, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“This is Wendy from Wicked Records. You got the internship.”
Disbelief echoes through me. I glance over my shoulder in case I’m on camera for some reality show. “But what about the other two hundred applicants?”
“Apparently their coffee making left something to be desired. Be here tomorrow at seven thirty.”
Chapter 2
Haley
I can’t deal with the slippery pants two days in a row, so I borrow Serena’s skirt that hobbles me at the knees.
On top of my sleeveless blouse, I stick my leather jacket.
For safety and comfort.
My backpack holds my computer and the completed paperwork HR sent me by email.
Walking through the glass doors should be easier than yesterday—hell, I got the job. But it’s not, because I don’t know what they expect. I want to ask, “Why did you hire me?” but the security guy checking my paperwork and processing my pass probably isn’t the right person to answer.
“You’re on two. Up the elevator.”
The first two elevators are packed full, so I