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Sebastian picked up his camera and Julian came alive. It was exciting the way they worked off each other’s energy. Julian was making a statement, blurring a line he had never stepped over before, and I thought this was a beautiful way to do it. The pictures we had to choose from for the cover were tough, because all of them were so good.
“I don’t like the hand placement here, but the expression works.” Sebastian scrolls through the photo grid back to the one I was editing.
“His pose in that one is the most confident, I think.” I look over at Sebastian, waiting for his response, because I want him to see that I have a good eye. I can do more for him than retrieve coffee or hand him equipment.
Sebastian chews on his nail. “Tell me why.”
Thrown off guard I struggle for my words at first, but then I look at Julian in the photo. “His chin is tipped just a bit higher in this one and his eyes, even though they aren’t looking directly in the camera, makes him seem vulnerable like he’s not wearing this for shock value, this is who he is.”
I slide my eyes over to Sebastian who’s eerily quiet, because I think he’s going to tell me to look again, but his lips tip up into a smile.
“Great perspective,” he compliments me, and I can’t help but smile back.
He looks at the clock. “I have a dinner reservation, so why don’t we pick this up tomorrow?”
He stands up, smoothing the creases in his pants. I close the laptop and gather the rest of my things.
“Oh, by the way,” Sebastian says while grabbing his bag from the backside of his chair. “The magazine is covering a music festival in San Francisco at the end of the month,” he continues, and I hold my breath. “I’d like it if you’d come with.”
I beam with excitement because not all interns get to go on assignment. I knew it was a possibility, but being so new I didn’t think I’d get a chance like this until much later.
My head bobs enthusiastically, “Yes,” I try to sound more professional. “I would love to.”
Sebastian laughs at my attempt to tamper my excitement.
“Just keep up the good work, Sasha,” he says, and waves before leaving his office.
I grab the rest of my things and follow him out, stopping in the ladies’ room to freshen up before heading to the elevator.
The building is occupied by other media companies, andAlt Presstakes up the eleventh and twelfth floors. The lobby is filled with professionals leaving for the day, and everyone spills out onto the street. At the bottom of the stone steps that leads to the busy L.A. street is Cash Morgan in his leather jacket that smells like gasoline, sitting on his bike.
I clutch my bag against my body and let out a breath. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, but the sight of him makes me weak. I was angry with him and I needed time to process everything. I can relate that none of this is easy for him either, and now that I’ve had a chance to step back, I do understand why he didn’t say anything to me sooner, but it still hurts. He texted and I ignored him. He texted more and I continued to ignore him, thinking that I was punishing him, but I was just punishing myself.
I approach him at the curb.
“We need to talk,” his voice is raw.
The stubborn side of me doesn’t want to give in, but seeing him, and on that bike, a part of me wants to jump on and never come back to reality. If I could just go back to when I was oblivious about my dad or the fact that Cash has a connection to him, I would.
Stubbornly, I say, “I’m not sure there is anything else to say.”
He cocks his head, and I can see the shadow of his eyes behind his sunglasses. They see right through me.
“Sasha, don’t be a brat.” He lowers his glasses and commands, “Get on.”
The authoritative tone of his voice lures me forward. I abandon all rational thoughts and get on behind him. The smell of leather and old records grounds me as I lean into him. The minute my helmet is on and my hands are securely around his waist, he hits the clutch and lurches forward into traffic.
When I move, you move.
L.A. is notorious for traffic jams due to too many cars and not enough lanes, but the further away we get from the center of the city, the highway opens, and we take a turn towards West Hollywood, a part of town that is abandoning the old and constructing the new.
Cash pulls up in front of the construction site of a new high rise, and as soon as I take the helmet off, I move to get off, but he stops me. Instead, he cuts the engine and turns his head so I can hear him, pointing to the building in front of us. “This is where I lived when I first moved to L.A,” he says. “There used to be a rat-infested abandoned building with no running water here.”
I look at the construction site trying to imagine a squatters building. There are tons of them around L.A., and I can’t even begin to understand what it’s like to live in one. This is one of those times where I fully realize how lucky I was with my upbringing.
“Of course, when Jack called me saying he had a record deal and wanted me and Wade to come out to L.A., we never imagined leaving our nice dorm rooms to sleep on a mattress we pulled from a dumpster.”
My fingers dig into the soft leather of his jacket, and I want so badly to lean my head against his back and close my eyes.
