Callie stood on the sidewalk staring up at the mile-high glass office building, trying to swallow the pounding of her heart in her throat. People weaved around and jostled her small form, a few of them swearing, most of them just giving her a quick, annoyed glance before hurrying on.
So this is New York, and I'm officially insane.
The verdict was in—might as well carry on with the sentence. She clutched a red folder to her chest as she followed a woman in a gray pinstriped suit through the revolving glass door. Her fingers were stained pink from biting her nails and folding the edge of the folder back and forth, over and over, on the subway. She had missed her stop—twice—and was already forty-five minutes late for this appointment.
She felt extremely underdressed, even in her plain black skirt and white blouse, as she stood in the lobby and dug out the business card tucked into the front pocket of the red folder:
Jason Adams
Voiceover Division
Adams Agency
1006 Ninth Avenue,
25th Floor
New York, NY
Twenty-fifth floor. She slipped between bodies onto the elevator, pressed further and further toward the back as more people piled on. She tried to see around the shoulder of a navy blue suit, straining to see if the number 25 was lit up. She felt too timid to open her mouth and ask—but surely someone in this crowd had to get off on the twenty-fifth floor?
But when the doors finally opened at floor twenty-five, she found herself stuck, rooted to the floor. She rode the elevator up, hugging her folder and chewing on a cuticle, until it started back down again, stopping once more at twenty-five. This time she managed to get off, excusing herself through bodies until she was standing in front of a receptionist's desk, breathing in the unfamiliar but unmistakable smell of the New York office, like clean reams of paper or new carpet.
"Hi, there." The blonde behind the counter was beautiful, her eyes smiling at Callie. "How can I help you?"
"Jason Adams." Callie cleared her throat, taking a step toward the desk. "I had an appointment at nine, but..."
"He's waiting for you." The blonde picked up the phone, still smiling, and dialed. "Jason? Your nine o'clock is here. Do you want—?" She paused, listening. "Okay." Putting the phone back in the cradle, she stood, smoothing the lines of her skirt. "He's in the middle of taking some specs, but he says he'll be out in five. Do you want some coffee while you wait?"
Callie shook her head, spotting chairs over against the wall. "I'll just..." She edged her way over and tried to make herself as small as possible in the chair, trying hard not to fidget as she watched the office activity. She thought about asking for a bathroom to check her appearance in a mirror, but instead just smoothed her long, red hair with her fingers, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass next to an office door. She adjusted the straps on her black heels and crossed one knee over the other, pressing the curling edge of the folder flat with her fingers, trying to smooth that, too.
"Callie?" His voice was golden, like liquid fire, the kind of voice that could talk a woman into anything. She recognized it immediately from their phone conversations.
"Jason?" She stood, taking his extended hand, blinking at his grip, warm and firm, his hand swallowing hers. This was a man used to shaking hands. She noticed the gray-green of his eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her.
"That's me," he confirmed with a wink, rubbing the reddish goatee on his chin. "Running late, huh?"
"I got lost." She shrugged sheepishly. "But still, you'd think I could find a building this big! Especially being right across from the Empire State Building..."
"Right?" He chuckled. "Are you ready to give it a go?"
She glanced up at him—way up, he was quite tall and lean—blinking fast. "I guess so."
"Come on, then."
She followed him down a long hallway and into a small booth. He shut the door behind them and nodded toward the chairs. She sat in one, watching him as he set up a microphone in front of her. Just the sight of it made her feel dizzy.
"You nervous?" He smiled, sitting beside her.
She nodded. "Is it that obvious?"
"I'd tell you to just picture me naked, but considering what you're here to record..."
Callie laughed, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. "What if I already am?"
He raised an eyebrow at her and grinned. "I wouldn't object."
"You're so bad." She picked up her red folder, opening it, amazed at how easily it had resumed, their phone conversations turned into face-to-face contact without hardly missing a beat. "I brought two... which one do you think I should try?"
He took two short stories from her, separated by a staple, glancing at the titles on the covers and flipping through them thoughtfully. She knew he had read them both—he'd read all of her writing—but he was in business mode now, considering the options.
"This one." He put
Folsom Prison Blues
down in front of her. It was a short piece, written as a letter, first person—a woman writing to her lover in prison. It was definitely the more graphic of the two. Callie glanced at it, flushing when she remembered how many times she'd used the word "cunt" in it.
"You're really sweet to offer to do this, Jason." She picked up the story, flipping past the title page. "In a million years, I never thought I'd be sitting in an agent's office in New York about to record one of my own erotic stories..."
