Page 6 of Hey Girl

I groan, completely out of ammo. “Fine, sir. I’ll be good.”

HaveI mentioned I hate meetings?

At least going to this thing will give me a chance to hop on my motorcycle. I rev up my beautiful neon green Suzuki GSXR and go ripping out of my garage and down my driveway.

I’ve always had an endless tank of energy, and as a kid I could never sit still. I ran crazy all over the place, always needing some kind of stimulation. I couldn’t follow along in school because there was just too much damn sitting. My teachers all got sick of me and my antics pretty quickly, but I never meant any harm, and it’s not like I could help it. I was always the first chosen for sports teams though.

When I was eight, my parents finally gave up on the whole it’s just a phase idea and took me to some kiddie shrink to find out what the hell was wrong with me. According to him, I was hyper with some kind of attention problem, I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention, funnily enough; I was too busy trying to slingshot all his paperclips from the fortress that I’d assembled out of his couch cushions.

As I’ve grown up (ha!), I’ve learned how to control it more. Not completely, but enough to act like a human rather than a wild animal in public. But in situations where acting reserved isn’t required, oh, it’s on. I go thrill-seeking every chance I get during the band’s down time and I never miss a chance to get loud and rowdy at after parties. I know what you’re thinking, andI’m not all sex, drugs and rock ‘n’roll… I don’t do drugs. Alcohol, sure, and sometimes with my beloved BLAST energy drinks, but drugs? Never touch them. Even I don’t want to see me on drugs; it’d be like feeding a gremlin after midnight.

Maybe I should listen to my mom and quit trying so hard to give into my energy and just release it. Let it go, as Elsa would say. It would likely be healthier for me to chill out and find some Zen. It would take a lot of time and devotion though, like I might have to go to Thailand and spend some time with the monks, but who am I kidding? There’s no way I’m getting rid of this hair, and they’d want me to shave it all off.

Ehh. I’ll think of something.

But in the meantime…

“Pay attention, Chris. Be quiet and respectful, Chris…” I mimic Ron’s words in a whiny, bitchy tone as I zip my bike into the parking lot of the business building. Maturity is something I’ve never been accused of, but still, you’d think the guy would have some kind of faith in me to not be a dick to a shy person. Hyper around them, absolutely, but I’m not an asshole, no matter what Tatiana spews out when she’s raging.

After whipping my baby into a parking slot, I remove my helmet, and replace it with a BLAST ballcap and stroll to the front glass doors.

I pull one open and am greeted by a refreshing blast of cold air from the AC and hop onto the first elevator I see. Once I reach the fifth floor and the doors open, I’m sure to slide my hand down all the other buttons, making them glow a pretty, bright white before I step off. Come on. How is anyone with any sense of fun supposed to resist that?

After turning down a couple of hallways, I find the conference room, and of course all my band buddies are already seated like the obedient little kiddos they are. All the lights are off, the only illumination coming from the windows.

God, it’s like they’re already trying to put me to sleep with this meeting. I have to sit still in the dark? I’m gonna die.

No, seriously… when I go, it will not be by flipping my motorcycle, my parachute failing while base jumping, or a fiery jet ski crash. It will be by boredom.

I sit down and the chairs don’t swivel. No stimulation to be had anywhere.

“That’s it. I’m out,” I declare, trying to get to my feet, but Matt’s hand comes down on my shoulder, slamming me back down in my chair.

“Shhh!” I hear from two other of my stupid band members like we’re in sixth grade science class as a petite lass walks into the room, head down, clutching a laptop to her chest. She pulls out a chair at the end of the table and has a seat without so much as looking up.

Shy is right: she looks like she’d rather be anywhere in the world but here. Even a dentist’s chair. Which is not the usual reaction we get from women. Normally they’re all starry eyed and chirpily friendly.

Opening her laptop, she quietly clears her throat while opening a folder full of laminated images.

“Hi,” she finally squeaks like a little mouse. Cute.

A few curious looks are exchanged around the table as we all return her salutation. She tries to smile, but it’s down at the tabletop, and like me, she can’t sit still.

“I-I’m Rebecca,” she oh so quietly introduces herself, and if I hadn’t leaned in, I probably wouldn’t have caught it. “Thanks for meeting with me, it’s an honor to meet you all. I’ll start by passing out some images of con-”—she closes her eyes and takes a breath before continuing—“concepts I came up with for your upcoming album and t…tour merch.” She concludes her introduction with a very long-winded exhale, blowing a few papers around on the table. Sheesh. She speaks so slowly andcarefully. It’s like those few sentences took considerable effort to get out. I bet my bandmates wish I had that problem.

Several of the laminated images make their way around the table as the shy little artist pulls her sleeves all the way down, partially over her hands before propping an elbow on the table and resting her chin. Or rather, hiding her face as much as she casually can by the looks of how she’s turning inward.

“Damn,” Jack muses as he picks up one of the images, just as my copies reach me. “We’ve never had a look like this.” He raises an eyebrow as his eyes scan up and down the sheet. I pick up my copy and whoa…

Jack is correct. Our album covers have always been along badass lines. Storm clouds, alleyways. Basically, dark and dangerous. But this… this is romantic. And not in a dime a dozen Hallmark way, but artsy. It’s the difference between a burger and a cordon bleu meal by a Michelin starred chef.

Hey…wait a minute.

I look up at the little mouse, still leaning into her hand, eyes cast down at the table as she nervously taps at the polished oak.

“Hey,” I try to gently get her attention but I still notice her body go rigid.

“Hmm?” She turns toward me about an inch, still looking at the table.

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