Page 16 of Drive
“Being a fan doesn’t make you a writer.”
“Idisagreecompletely. Being a fan is the reason I’m a writer.”
“WhySpeak?”
“Because I have to start somewhere.”
“Aiming low, huh?” He wasn’t insulted in the slightest.
“No insult to the paper, it’s noRolling Stone, but it’s a paper people read. I read it.” That wasn’t a lie. I’d read it since I moved to Austin.
He nodded. “Two minutes. And I liked the piece you did on The Beatles influence.”
“Thank you,” I said as a shred of hope glimmered a ray through his cold office.
“Pretty insightful. Kurt Cobain and Don Henley both credited them for different reasons, and in the span of two decades, very different sounds were born.”
“Agreed. Music is so organic. If there were a musical game like Seven Degrees to Kevin Bacon, I’m positive it would be The Beatles.”
“Did you just quote yourself?” He shook his head with a smirk. “You are so green.”
“Help me change that. I really will startanywhere. I’ll make lists. Readers love lists.”
“I can’t. You have one minute, Miss Emerson.”
“Then I do a five or ten column. ‘Five ways to get the job of your dreams.’ ‘Five ways to mentally turn your day around.’ ‘Ten things you didn’t know about Spam.’”
“Those have all been done. You’re reaching.”
“But that’s what sells papers. I’ll think of new lists, better lists.”
“Thirty seconds.”
“I’ll contribute, then. One article a week, edited. You won’t have to do anything but read it.”
“Fifteen,” he warned, “and even I don’t skip on an editor.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s 101.” His decision was made.
“I’ll pay for myself. I’ll find ads.”
He finally paused, but only briefly. “I have people for that.”
“What could it hurt? I bring ads in to pay my own salary. That’s me doingallof the work.”
“Freelance, Miss Emerson. Why don’t you try that route?”
“Because I’m nineteen without a degree and I’ve never been published, that’s why. And that’s why you’re slamming the door in my face.”
“I’m sorry. Time’s up.”
“Thank you.” I stood, unable to hide my disappointment, and faked a smile to match my lying shrug. “Well, at least I have my first rejection story.”
His brilliant eyes danced over me, and I had no choice but to acknowledge the warmth that spread as a result. His beauty stunned me. But so had Dylan’s.
“I hope it was memorable.”
Unable tonotflirt with Nathan Butler, I lifted my eyes. “It could have been better.”
A sinful smiled crossed his lips. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
