“Sir, you have to move along,” the policeman on the door said.
“Oh, sorry. I’m here to see Mr. Dawkins?”
“What apartment number?”
He took the information to the desk, and chatted with the man there. The doorman looked up and smiled at him, motioning him over.
“Mr. Dawkins is expecting you. Mister…?”
“Donner, Aaron Donner.”
The doorman nodded. “Yep, on the list. Thanks, Pete.”
Pete tipped his hat, sort of, and walked back out to where a small group of tourists were trying to peer in the doorway. Why would someone choose to live in this crazy high-profile building?
“Mr. Donner, you can take the elevator up to Mr. Dawkins. He’ll be the third door down the hall on the right when you get off.” He motioned to the elevator door at the end of the reception area.
“Thanks,” I said, clutching the drumsticks I’d brought. Lucky purple. I took a deep breath.
“Kid,” the doorman said, “you’re fine. Yoko’s in London this week and Ringo hasn’t been here recently.”
I snapped my eyes to his. “What about Paul?”
“Directly across the park, on Fifth. He doesn’t stop by much.”
“Christ,” I grumbled.
“Building is full of celebrity musicians, kid. You’re going to visit one now.”
My heartplungedinto my stomach. “Excuse me?”
He smirked. “Didn’t tell you, eh? Taylor Dawkins.”
“The drummer from Up Down Left Right?” I gasped for air, clutching the sticks tighter. “I’m going up to his apartment? What the actual…”
“Go on. You’ll be fine.”
“I wish I had my inhaler.”
“You’re asthmatic?”
“No, just having a moment where I wish I had an inhaler so I could calm my shit down.”
The doorman laughed and pointed me on. I managed to walk to the elevators and they opened. He was clearly controlling them from the desk, and I stepped in. As they closed I pressed the button for the eighth floor and watched as the floors ticked by.
I was in the Dakota.
Riding an elevator up to Taylor Dawkins’ apartment.
Taylor Dawkins lived in the Dakota.
Christ.What was I getting into?
The door pinged, and slid open. I stepped out and headed down to the right. I counted three doors and stared at the number of the apartment. After a moment, I raised my hand and knocked.
Even my knock sounded nervous.
Less than ten seconds later, the door popped open and Taylor Dawkins was standing there. Hair naturally messy, long limbs, dressed in a Henley that was a tour shirt from his own tour two years before and pair of faded and ripped jeans. He was barefoot. Helookedlike he lived on the drums and I was jealous.
