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Shawn’s phone chirps, and as he checks it, he comes to attention. Glancing over at him, I wait for him to say something, but all he does is reply to whoever texted him.
“What’s up?” I ask.
Taking a deep breath, he bites his bottom lip, then casts a sideways glance at me. “So … do you remember me talking about that girl I was trying to hook up with? She’s in my calc class on Wednesdays.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve texted her a couple of times, and she just replied. She wants to go get some food.”
“All right, playboy.” I laugh, pushing his shoulder and calling him the nickname I’ve come up with. He’s not a playboy in the least, but I started calling him it when he told me about this new girl. “So, what’s the problem?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stares at me nervously. “She’s got a free hour right now before she has to go to work tonight.”
“So set something up for this weekend or something.”
“Dude, this might be my shot.” Letting the words hang in the air, he waits for a moment longer. “Austin, cover my shift for me.”
“Are you crazy? What do I know about being a security guard?”
“Security guard?” He starts laughing. “You know as well as I do that this job is less dangerous than Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Come on, man. I’m begging.” He clasps his hands together and shakes them at me.
“Get out of here,” I tell him, laughing.
“Thank you, bro! I got you next time.”
“Yeah, right. The next time some girl texts me. That’s happening soon since I’m not currently talking to anyone.”
“Well, then, it’s an IOU.”
“Go!” I laugh again, pushing him away.
He hurries through the front doors of the building, and I take his chair, folding my legs over the desk and pulling out my phone. Neither of us is lying about the danger of the job, nor of the ease.
I scroll through my InstaPic profile for about twenty minutes before finally getting up and aimlessly wandering around the lobby because there’s nothing else to do. The lobby is lined with black marble tiles with huge windows that look out into the street in front of us. Rich Records has been a staple in Los Angeles for decades. Toying with the rubber fig leaves of the plant next to the door, I roll my eyes at myself and the boringness of it all, before heading back to the chair and plopping back down. A few minutes later, I’m scrolling through my phone again when someone enters through the front doors.
“No,” the girl says to no one.
I glance around, unsure who she’s talking to, but quickly realize she’s talking on Bluetooth.
Carrying a guitar case, she waves her free hand in the air. “Bret, I said no. This is my first day, and I’m already running late. Please, just let me do this on my own.”
Getting up from the chair, I offer her a wave. She gives me a short one back.
“Sure, maybe. I’ll let you know. Okay, bye,” she says. I think she’s looking at me, but I can’t be sure. She’s wearing a light gray hoodie that’s zipped up and covering her head. It looks like she has blonde hair, but most of it is tucked under the sweater, and a pair of huge sunglasses cover her eyes, from her eyebrows to her cheeks. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, no problem. Can I help you?”
She looks around, then scans me up and down. “Are you … the doorman?”
I chuckle, scratching the back of my head. “Uh, not exactly. I’m just covering. What can I help you with?”
“Yeah, I have studio five reserved. I was supposed to show up earlier today, but …” She sighs again, shaking her head. “One thing leads to another and … Anyway, I’m here.”
“Okay.” I check the clipboard on the desk, running my finger over the names. “Studio five, huh?”
“Yeah,” she replies, letting out what seems like an uncomfortable chuckle.
“I think Bieber recorded in there last year. And Lost Link earlier this year. Sorry, what’s your name?”
