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After she says goodbye to Ethan, she closes the door and rounds her desk, taking a seat. Her enthralling perfume follows in her wake, leaving me a bit dizzy. I realize she hasn’t formally invited me to sit, so I hesitate, unsure what to do. The ‘principal’s office’ tide rolls back in with full force.
She throws me a bone and indicates the chair across from her desk. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Davies.”
“Call me Cooper,” I say, relieved to have some direction in this suddenly awkward situation. “And thanks for having me.”
She plants her elbows on her desk and steeples her fingertips, fixing her gaze on me again. “Mr. Davies, I’m extremely busy since we’re in the middle of registration, so I’ll get right to the point. I had no say in your placement as a mentor here at Rhapsody, and to be perfectly honest with you, I would not have voted for it. But, here we are.” She sighs disappointedly at that fact and continues. “I am well aware this is a publicity stunt of some kind, and you’ll most likely only show up for the first few classes until the press get bored, or your scandals blow over, whichever comes first. So, let’s not start this relationship under any delusions, okay? We both know exactly what this is.”
“Excuse me?” I’m sure I didn’t hear her correctly.
“Don’t pretend you’re not being forced here to clean up your image by your record label. Though I will admit, their donation is appreciated.”
“Wait, what donation?” What the fuck is she talking about?
She ignores the question and goes on. “The thing is, Mr. Davies, unlike you, I care about the kids that come to Rhapsody. Not only do I try to make this a safe space for them to explore their creativity, I want them to have a semblance of stability when they come here. That means having mentors who will show up every class, not once or twice, and then bail when they lose interest.”
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, letting her continue her rant. She’s not allowing me to speak, so there’s no point trying to interrupt her. She’s kind of cute when she’s angry, so I don’t mind the show so much.
“So, if that’s your plan, let’s get it out in the open now so I can arrange ahead for your replacement. Because believe it or not, some people want to help these kids out of the goodness of their hearts and from a real sense of wanting to give back.”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Are you done?” I ask, my tone flat. I’m trying to contain my anger at her assumptions.
She doesn’t flinch and ever so slightly nods her head. “I am.”
“Good, Because there are a few things I would like to say.” I lean forward and hold her gaze right back so she can see I’m telling the truth. “First of all, I don’t know anything about a donation, and it sure as fuck wasn’t in exchange for my being here. This leads to my second point. It was an offhand suggestion for me to be here, and I agreed because I think programs like this are important. Third, this has nothing to do with any press bullshit. And finally, I have every intention of showing up for the entire session, not just a few classes.”
It’s her turn to lean back and cross her arms. She throws in an arched brow for good measure. “Is that so?”
I scrub a hand down my face in frustration. This woman seems to have already formed an opinion about me, and it’s pissing me off. While, sure, I’ve fucked up more than my fair share, especially after Andy died, not everything on the internet written about me is true. While I don’t bother reading the bullshit that gets said about me, I’d guarantee at least ninety percent of the stories are complete lies.
“What is your problem with me?” I ask. She doesn’t know me from Adam, and I don’t appreciate the judgment.
“My problem is I know your type, Mr. Davies.”
“Cooper,” I correct. Again. “And what type is that?”
“You’ve gotten used to getting your way because you’re a famous rockstar now, right? Nobody says ‘no’ to you anymore, and you’ve grown to like it a little too much. So much so that you expect it.”
“Actually--”
“That’s not going to fly here, Mr. Davies.”
“Cooper.”
“We don’t work that way. We’re all here for the kids. Not to make it look to the outside world like we give a shit. We actually do.”
“What makes you think I don’t give a shit? You don’t even fucking know me.”
Her mouth tightens, and her eyes narrow as she goes in for the kill. I can feel it coming. “Do I need to rattle off specific examples of why your reputation precedes you? How professional you really are? How suitable you are as a mentor for vulnerable youth? It only took a quick internet search to find a few.” She starts counting off on her fingers. “Let’s see, there’s your last stunt in Vegas of streaking at Newton’s Resort that nobody will soon forget. The two girls with the drugs and…um… photos in Amsterdam not long ago? Remember those? And since you’ve been in L.A., my God, the Sunset Strip hasn’t seen the likes of you since the eighties--”
That’s enough. I stand up and pound a fist on her desk, making her jump and her eyes widen.
Damn it. Not my intention.
“Sorry,” I mutter, but then gather myself, using the momentum to get my point across. “You are making an awful lot of assumptions for someone who just met me two fucking minutes ago. You don’t know a god-damned thing about me. And you certainly don’t know why I’m here.”
The air of skepticism hasn’t left her. In fact, I’d swear she looks even more dubious. I don’t know what the hell I did to piss this chick off, but the ice running through her veins is freezing me out. And I don’t know why, but it’s bothering the shit out of me.
