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He doesn’t say anything but gives me a look of tortured pain. I figure since he’s not arguing, I might as well run with it and charge ahead. “So first, let’s get the basics out of the way . . . the Wikipedia version of who Keith Perkins is. Tell me about yourself.”
He sighs, rolling his eyes, and I know it’s exactly the kind of question he’s had to answer a million times before. But I need it direct from the source for the articles, and it helps break the ice a little, gets him talking on comfortable ground.
Finally, he starts. “My name’s Keith Tiberius Perkins. I’m a musician, a singer-songwriter. I’m thirty years old, born and raised in Idaho in a tiny town nobody’s ever heard of, including some of the people who lived there. As soon as I graduated high school, I left home for Boise to play in local dive bars and clubs. I even had to use a fake ID to get in because I was underage. As far as my mom was concerned, I might as well have run off to New York City or even hell, judging by her reaction. But I learned, worked hard, and after a few years, moved to Nashville to play in hole-in-the-wall dives there with every other dreamer. Got discovered one night, signed a contract with my label, and now here I am, years later, hit songs and awards later, doing interviews I hate.”
I grin. He’d been doing so well until the end there. I do wonder, though—why leave Nashville? They’d worship him around there. What brought him to this area of the country, not exactly New York but still, not quite the center of country music?
“Sounds like you’re living the dream, huh?”
Keith smirks, then remembers where he is and grows serious again. “Yeah, I worked hard for a lot of years on my music. Still do. That’s all I want to do . . . write songs, sing them for people, and go home. Alone.”
“Damn, dude, like a dog with a bone. Let it go. I get it. I’m in your man cave that’s the size of a McMansion, but I’m really not trying to be a bitch here.”
He shoots forward in his chair, giving me a fierce look, and I realize I said that out loud, not in my head. “Excuse me?”
Shit.
Backpedaling, I try to smooth over the accidental out-loud monologue. “Sorry for saying that out loud, but not for thinking it.”
I smirk at him, virtually daring him to puff all up in anger again.
Instead, he sits back in the couch, pointing a finger at me and dropping his voice to a sexy commanding growl. “My turn. Tell me about yourself, Elise Warner.”
I smile, liking this game. If a bullet point list of all things me is what you want, I’ll give it to you, asshole. You’re not in control of things yet.
“I’m Elise Warner, twenty-six, grew up here in East Robinsville, and went to school at State where I got my journalism degree. Did some small-time reporting for the local paper before getting hired by The Daily Spot, where I write celebrity tabloid crap but get to keep my investigative skills fresh. And this interview series is a big deal for me, so don’t fuck it up. Please.”
He huffs out a surprised laugh. I don’t think he was expecting me to be so honest or so confrontational with him. By his smile, I think he likes it, too. He quickly asks the same follow-up question I did. “So, living the dream? Is this what little Elise wanted to do when she grew up?”
I shake my head, letting the ‘little’ comment slide. I’m all grown up, buddy, and you damn well know it. “No, not really. I like investigative reporting, but I wish I could do something more . . .”
Unexpectedly, I stumble for words, searching for something big enough to explain my heart while Keith looks on, interested. “Go on.”
“Just, I want something more impactful,” I admit. “Fight for the little guy, expose the bad guys, that kind of thing. But that’s a hard gig to come by, so I’m working my way up. If I was in your story, I guess I’m still in the dive bars in Boise but working on that big move to better things, chasing the dream.”
He hums, seemingly thinking about what I’ve said. I want to keep the ball rolling, to capitalize on the bit of sympathy I seem to be getting from him, so I decide to address the elephant in the room, the main reason I’m here.
“So, your professional life is golden, all you could’ve dreamed of. What about your personal life, Keith? What’s happening on the dating front? Who are you buying maxis for? Who’s the milk for, Keith?” I ask with a conspiratorial tone.
