Chapter 2

Interview From Hell

I could feel Mike's eyes boring into the back of my head. Dang, I was in for it.

"Ashley, I want to talk to you after the interview."

"Why not now?" I asked hopefully. If I could get the lecture over with now, I could also miss more of the interview from hell. No way I was going to be able to concentrate anyway.

"After the interview," he said firmly, giving me a small push toward the table where everyone else was sitting. As I walked over there with the slowest pace I could muster, I wondered if the interview was going to last forever. I needed to buy the tickets, and soon. Surely it wouldn't, couldn't, last too much longer. This girl may be the most annoying person in the world, but even she couldn't drag it out that long. It had better be over by 12:30 at the latest.

I took a seat in the cheap plastic chair and placed my elbows on the table. Propping my head up on my hands, I ignored the looks the guys were giving me. I returned the wide grin the girl sent me with a lukewarm smile of my own. She resumed her never-ending prattle and I mentally checked out. Maybe I should have asked Mike before inviting Jeremy and Kim to New York. Where would they stay? The hotel we were staying at was totally full. I think we'd made reservations a couple of months ago, in fact. I guess I could share with Jeremy, and Kim could…erm. Well, maybe Jeremy and Kim could share my room and I could stay with…no, nobody would want to share their room. I guess Kim could get the bed, and Jeremy and I could take the floor. A bit uncomfortable, but it wasn't like we hadn't done it before, when-

"Ash." I winced at Jake's sharp elbow in my side and looked up quickly. Everyone was looking at me. Wonderful.

"Ashley, what would be your perfect date?" I could tell by her annoyed tone that it probably wasn't the first time she'd asked me. My mouth once again went on autopilot, this time my saving grace. I think I said something about a candle-lit dinner, or…I honestly don't know. Explain to me again exactly what this had to do with our music?

"What's your favorite type of girl?" The question was directed at me again. I guessed that she must be reading the same questions off a list for each one of us. Judging from the bored expressions the guys wore, I was probably right.

She cleared her throat and I realized that I'd drifted off again. Oops. "Umm, I don't know. What do you mean?" I mentally kicked myself for sounding so incredibly retarded. She sent me a look that said she agreed with the retarded part. I gave her the most innocent expression I could find. Mental note: I was running low on my stock of those.

"What kind of girl do you like best?" She spoke very slooooowly, like I was stupid or something. Now where would she get that idea? I debated asking her to write it down for me. Seriously, if I hadn't understood the first question, how would rephrasing it like that have helped me? I wisely chose not to voice my opinion. Instead, I settled with the suddenly enlightened look. Ohhhh, when you put it that way, I thought sarcastically. Looking around for inspiration, I caught Mike's glare instead. The look of Death, with a capital D.

"I like, um, girls…" Well, I'm glad we've established that. "Who…." That was going nowhere fast. Oookay, time for a new tactic. It's called BS and I'm gonna pull it straight out of you-know-where. "Erm. Usually, I prefer girls with a good sense of humor, who can relax and let loose once in a while, and…yeah." Simple answer for stupid question. What was I supposed to say? I like girls with big hooters? I'm sure whatever magazine this girl was from would love that. Still, she looked somewhat satisfied with my answer, so I chose to leave it at that. When I saw her turn her attention to her next victim – Trevor - I plopped my head in my hands in frustration and tried to muffle my sigh. Through my fingers I saw Dan and Eric exchange bewildered, irritated, and worried expressions. Not worried about me, mind you, but more like, what-the-heck-are-we-gonna-do-to-fix-the-mess-he's-made worried. How nice.

I rubbed my hands over my face, almost as if wiping the emotion off my face, and ended up cupping them around my chin again. For a moment I stared at the table blankly, embarrassed, and still very frustrated. What the heck was I gonna do with Jeremy and Kim? Take them on tour with us? I'm sure Mike and Mike would love that. But I couldn't leave them there, with their…father. Disgust flitted across my face as I thought of Mr. Austin, but I erased it quickly, realizing that Dan and Eric were still looking at me uncomfortably.

"So, Trevor, describe your perfect date…"

I was halfway tempted to zone out again, but common sense told me I needed to get with the conversation. It couldn't last much longer, could it? I scratched my wrist, discreetly trying to check my watch. It was just 12:08. Great.

I glanced up to make sure no one had seen me look, only to catch Dan's knowing smirk. I sent him a small, lop-sided smile in return, then turned my attention back to the girl. She'd just fired a question at Eric, and, judging by the look on his face, it had been loaded.

"I'd really prefer not to discuss that right now, thanks," he told her. "It's not a very…comfortable subject for me right now."

"I understand," she replied, smiling fakely. Like hell she did. Her gaze swept over the table, and landed on me. Maybe she was impressed that I was actually paying attention now. But I doubt it.

She looked back at her list. Please say you're done, I thought hopefully. Ran out of questions? Come on, please. "Ashley…." No such luck. Why am I not surprised?

"Who is your role model? Who inspired you to become a musician?"

Wow, one I could answer. Thank God for autopilots. "Definitely my mom. She did so much for me. She taught me how to play the piano, and she encouraged me to go for whatever I wanted. Also, a friend of mine who was my acting teacher, my voice coach, and music teacher. My mentor, really. He helped me learn how to play guitar, and gave me my first guitar." I grinned. "Well, he tried to give it to me. I paid him a dollar for it." But she probably couldn't give a flying flip about that, so…back to the subject. "But, um, yeah. Both he and my mom helped me get where I am now." The girl nodded, writing quickly. Maybe I'd be partially redeemed. Ha, maybe not. She probably hated my guts. But, honestly, what did it matter? Some journalist from some magazine I'd never even heard of dislikes me? I wish that was the worst of my problems.

Problems…. One was standing over there by the door at that moment, looking very unhappy with me. I'll give you a hint, his name's Mike.

One…was about a million miles away. But if I let myself think about him for just a second, I could feel him right next to me, hitting me, touching me again. My body tensed up involuntarily at the thought, and a chill ran up my spine. Before, I'd always heard that phrase and thought, how cliché. 'A chill ran up my spine.' Who does that ever happen to, anyway? But now I knew how it felt, and it was rather unnerving. Especially when I remembered the reason it happened. I felt a lone ghost hand touch my stomach, move up my chest. I shuddered at the memory, and tried to shake off the feeling. Suddenly my shirt was too close, too restricting. It was touching me, why wouldn't it stop touching me? I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down before I totally freaked out. I'm sure Mike wouldn't appreciate it if I had a nuclear meltdown in front of this magazine writer. As my head cleared, I felt the adrenaline rushing through my body. When would this interview end? I wanted out. I want out, lemme out. Don't freak, don't freak. Deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Inhale, exhale. Chill, just chill. He's not here, he never will be here. Nothing to freak out about.

I want out.