Tamora Pierce
SyDra
Title: The Mad Troubadour
Summary: Well-let's imagine that Joren is a 35-year-old really hot stunt actor in our time doing action-packed masculine type films...total attraction magnet, but turns every woman down with his totally cold greater-than-thou attitude. Except for the vivacious, attractive, and slightly mad reporter who stalks him day and night, not only for media purposes. She is: Me.
Rating: PG-13 (It gets juicy, I promise)
Disclaimers: I do not own any of the recognizable characters, and I am the reporter (Azalea Lorenzo). Please, please, PLEASE do not flame this story because I dared put myself in it! I've had that from certain anonymous people before, and it's not nice! The idea for this story just...came to me, if you know what I mean, quite randomly as I was biking through the quaint town of Andover, so I'm typing it up now to see how it comes out in writing. LOL. Oh-p.s.-Joren kinda looks like Josh Hartnett in The Virgin Suicides, only with blonde hair and really cold attitude.
"Mr. Stone? Mr. Stone? This is Evan Dale from News 4...I'd like to ask a few questions..."
"Joren! I'm Ronda McCartney from Fox 25-I'd like a word, if you don't mind..."
"Joren Stone! I'd really like to know..."
From the corner of the low building that contained the theatre at which Joren Stone's movie had premiered, a lone reporter stood, half hidden in the dark shadows of the evening. Behind her were a cameraman, and a girl holding an overhead microphone. The reporter herself held only a small hand held microphone and a small bundle of cards with questions and dialogues mapped out for her. She waited patiently, knowing all too well that she stood just by the $800,000 midnight Mercedes owned by the man of the night himself. Off by the theatre entrance, Joren coldly shoved his way past the masses of cameras and camcorders, dismissing various reporters and newscasters with the flick of a large hand.
She took a deep breath, waiting for him to swagger her way, his long, black leather jacket carelessly slung by a finger over his broad shoulder, his pale blond hair tucked carefully behind his ears. She was prepared for his icy, piercing blue eyes, the mouth firmly set in the characteristic grim line. She had seen every one of his high-action films, watched every single episode of every TV show he'd ever been on, and recorded on tape every commercial he'd ever cut. Little did Joren Stone know that his number one fan was leaning cattily on his shiny new ride this very moment. Which made her think, why not a limousine? It's his premiere, after all.
And here he came. The reporter smoothed her long golden hair, and brushed on a bit more of her purple lipstick. He was almost to the corner-
"Joren Stone, how are you? I'm Azalea Lorenzo, reporter from WSKG, Boston. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions..." She trailed off nervously, noting a rather annoyed look on his face. "I-I..."
"I have places to be, things to do. You should feel honored. At least I said something. Now, if you'll MOVE, I need to get into my car!" He nodded icily at her. Azalea stepped aside, quite shaken. Though his words were polite enough for a pompous movie star, his tone made it seem as though he were saying, 'Time for your last words.'
She was stricken silent, looking from him to her cards and back to him. He had struck her silent, not only with his cold air, but also with his very presence. She felt he would have stricken her wordless even if he were the most jovial of men. He fumbled a bit with his keys, finally selecting one, and without a further glance in her direction, slid into his car, rolling up the tinted windows. As he sped off into the streets of New York, she gazed at his taillights despairingly, her microphone slowly dropping in her hand. When it disappeared, she abruptly whipped around to her cameraman and mic holder.
"Guys? Looks like there's nothing to do but go back to the hotel. To the van?" The three walked quickly back to their white WSKG van, the driver waiting in his seat. Azalea gave the smallest of sighs as they drove back to the Marriott. Her only chance to meet the man of her dreams had been disintegrated. But just as they pulled into the half circle at the door of the hotel, and idea came to her, and she grinned behind her hand. No one would know about it, and she would hardly drop a hint. She walked quickly toward the nearest open elevator and pressed the button to the first floor.
Tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the elevator to reach its destination, she folded her arms and suppressed her wide grin. The bell rung as the door slid open, and she whipped out her key card, striding purposefully to room 15.
"Laptop...modem...phone jack...mouse...all set," she whispered as she entered the lavishly decorated five star room. All she needed now was the perfect hack site...
TO BE CONTINUED...
SyDra
Title: The Mad Troubadour
Summary: Well-let's imagine that Joren is a 35-year-old really hot stunt actor in our time doing action-packed masculine type films...total attraction magnet, but turns every woman down with his totally cold greater-than-thou attitude. Except for the vivacious, attractive, and slightly mad reporter who stalks him day and night, not only for media purposes. She is: Me.
Rating: PG-13 (It gets juicy, I promise)
Disclaimers: I do not own any of the recognizable characters, and I am the reporter (Azalea Lorenzo). Please, please, PLEASE do not flame this story because I dared put myself in it! I've had that from certain anonymous people before, and it's not nice! The idea for this story just...came to me, if you know what I mean, quite randomly as I was biking through the quaint town of Andover, so I'm typing it up now to see how it comes out in writing. LOL. Oh-p.s.-Joren kinda looks like Josh Hartnett in The Virgin Suicides, only with blonde hair and really cold attitude.
"Mr. Stone? Mr. Stone? This is Evan Dale from News 4...I'd like to ask a few questions..."
"Joren! I'm Ronda McCartney from Fox 25-I'd like a word, if you don't mind..."
"Joren Stone! I'd really like to know..."
From the corner of the low building that contained the theatre at which Joren Stone's movie had premiered, a lone reporter stood, half hidden in the dark shadows of the evening. Behind her were a cameraman, and a girl holding an overhead microphone. The reporter herself held only a small hand held microphone and a small bundle of cards with questions and dialogues mapped out for her. She waited patiently, knowing all too well that she stood just by the $800,000 midnight Mercedes owned by the man of the night himself. Off by the theatre entrance, Joren coldly shoved his way past the masses of cameras and camcorders, dismissing various reporters and newscasters with the flick of a large hand.
She took a deep breath, waiting for him to swagger her way, his long, black leather jacket carelessly slung by a finger over his broad shoulder, his pale blond hair tucked carefully behind his ears. She was prepared for his icy, piercing blue eyes, the mouth firmly set in the characteristic grim line. She had seen every one of his high-action films, watched every single episode of every TV show he'd ever been on, and recorded on tape every commercial he'd ever cut. Little did Joren Stone know that his number one fan was leaning cattily on his shiny new ride this very moment. Which made her think, why not a limousine? It's his premiere, after all.
And here he came. The reporter smoothed her long golden hair, and brushed on a bit more of her purple lipstick. He was almost to the corner-
"Joren Stone, how are you? I'm Azalea Lorenzo, reporter from WSKG, Boston. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions..." She trailed off nervously, noting a rather annoyed look on his face. "I-I..."
"I have places to be, things to do. You should feel honored. At least I said something. Now, if you'll MOVE, I need to get into my car!" He nodded icily at her. Azalea stepped aside, quite shaken. Though his words were polite enough for a pompous movie star, his tone made it seem as though he were saying, 'Time for your last words.'
She was stricken silent, looking from him to her cards and back to him. He had struck her silent, not only with his cold air, but also with his very presence. She felt he would have stricken her wordless even if he were the most jovial of men. He fumbled a bit with his keys, finally selecting one, and without a further glance in her direction, slid into his car, rolling up the tinted windows. As he sped off into the streets of New York, she gazed at his taillights despairingly, her microphone slowly dropping in her hand. When it disappeared, she abruptly whipped around to her cameraman and mic holder.
"Guys? Looks like there's nothing to do but go back to the hotel. To the van?" The three walked quickly back to their white WSKG van, the driver waiting in his seat. Azalea gave the smallest of sighs as they drove back to the Marriott. Her only chance to meet the man of her dreams had been disintegrated. But just as they pulled into the half circle at the door of the hotel, and idea came to her, and she grinned behind her hand. No one would know about it, and she would hardly drop a hint. She walked quickly toward the nearest open elevator and pressed the button to the first floor.
Tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the elevator to reach its destination, she folded her arms and suppressed her wide grin. The bell rung as the door slid open, and she whipped out her key card, striding purposefully to room 15.
"Laptop...modem...phone jack...mouse...all set," she whispered as she entered the lavishly decorated five star room. All she needed now was the perfect hack site...
TO BE CONTINUED...