Chapter Four

Rude New Yorkers

Wade Kinsella POV

The audition seemed to go pretty well. The woman who listened to us was very prim and proper and clearly not into rock music, but she seemed curious. Anyway, she didn't kick us out, so that's something. I would sort of hoping the girl would still be around when we got out, but if she was, I didn't see her.

We hit a couple other places, some of which saw us, some of which didn't, but the point was that we were getting out there. That was what mattered. I refused to end up just another deadbeat who could not make it out of Alabama.

"I'm goin' to call Addie." Jordan said the second we got through the door.

I rolled my eyes. Addie was Jordan's ex-girlfriend. She was seeing Bill Pickett now, but Jordan refused to give up, even though any idiot could see it was over.

"Hey, don't take to long okay? When you're done wastin' long-distance minutes on a pointless phone call, I'd like to check in with the folks." I called over my shoulder as I flipped on the TV.

There was a knock at the door. "Anybody goin' to get that?" I call. Nobody answers, so, with a sigh, I get up and head to the door.

There's a cute girl standing there wearing a funny hat and carrying a pizza box, "Uh, anybody order pizza?" I call over my shoulder.

"Yeah, I thought we should eat." Jordan answers, covering the receiver. Figures. Guy hogs the phone and doesn't get the door, now I'm stuck paying for his pizza. I reach into my jeans and come up empty, "Uh, just a sec." I say awkwardly before making my way back into the place. "Hey! Any of you guys seen my wallet?" I ask as I look through the couch cushions.

Drake comes in with a soda, "Doubt it's here. We've spent barely two minutes in this place."

"So, what, I gotta search everyplace I been since we got to New York?" He just shrugs. I go through it in my head. The last time I remember having my wallet was at the place with that mystery girl. That P.R. Hart lady gave me a business card and I put it in my wallet. Well, it's a place to start I guess.

"I'm headin' out." I call. Nobody answers. I head for the door, and then remember the pizza girl who's still standing here, "Yo, Jordan, pay for your own pizza!"

It's gotta be rush-hour or something, because New York is even crazier now than it was earlier. There are about a million people elbowing past me, not caring if they knock into me or what. Don't get me wrong, I want to make it here, but there is something way crazy about New York. I get lost a whole bunch of times.

"Hey kid." Somebody calls to me. Well, I think it's to me anyway; it's hard to tell with the billions of people passing.

When I turn around, I see a shady looking kind of guy beckoning me over. I guess I'm a little green, but, what can I say, stuff like this just doesn't happen in New York. "You wanna buy a joint?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, Mary Jane, Weed, Pot?" he looks at me like I'm some kind of idiot, "Marijuana." I just stare at him, "Kid, you retarded or something?"

"I … what?"

He smiles like he's made contact or something. When he speaks again, it's less rough. His voice has a smooth honey-like quality to it. "You look like you could use some."

"I do?"

"Yeah. You look kinda down-on-your-luck like, you know?" I notice he's chewing a wad of something, presumably pot. "New to the city, trying to make it out of whatever Podunk backwards southern hick town you came from."

"Hey, Its not-"

"Hey, hey, calm down man, okay. Yeah, I'm not saying the place doesn't have its merit, but you want more than that, don't you?"

I don't know what to say. I mean, who is this guy?

"You got that green hick boy look to you that a bunch of people are gonna see and kick you out before you can say your piece. This city, it can chew you up and spit you right on out."

"Listen, I'm not-"

"Shhh. You don't gotta say anything brother. I feel you; I know where you're coming from. Tell you what, I'm gonna start you off with a freebie," he slides a plastic bag of weed into my palm, "and if you happen by again and want some more, great, if not, well, no harm no foul, right?"

"I -"

"See, I like you kid. Trying to leave your past behind and make it in the big city, it's fucking heartwarming to an old softy like me. Take some of this New York 'fertilizer,' and go ride that magic carpet right on to your dreams. And I can come see you someday when you're a success, and know I helped you get there, see?" this time he doesn't even let me finish opening my mouth. "See you kid. Good luck." I barely blink and the psycho disappears into the crowd. And somehow, I ended up with a bag of stuff my mother would kill me for having. I consider trashing it, but then I reconsider. I mean, I'm not gonna smoke it; I may be green, but I'm not stupid. There is no way I'd risk my future getting high, not when I'm so close to getting somewhere. 'Sides, my mom would have my hide.

The thoughts make me miss home. Things were a little weird when I left. Her and dad were practically pushing me out the door, and, I mean, I appreciate the support, but I feel like maybe there's something else going on, something they don't want me around for. I'm probably just being paranoid.

Back to the pot. I already decided I'm not gonna smoke it, but do I really want to trash it? I mean, what's the harm in holding on to it. I could pretend I do it; up my street cred, or, I don't know, use it to bribe my way out of trouble? I just feel like it might come I handy some day, and, I mean, it seems like such a waste to just junk it. So, I figure I'll hang onto it for a little bit.

I pass a few more creeps, but this time, I know to keep walking. Finally, I reach that big building. I head for the elevator. The place has a doorman, and he nods at me as if to say 'you and me are the same, not like these rich city types.' I just smile and head on past him.

The elevator takes me up, and I get out, heading for the reception desk. I don't see that girl from earlier. Not that I expected her to be around after office hours, but I gotta admit, I'm kind of disappointed.

I give the receptionist a smile that she doesn't return. She's kind of scary looking, clearly wearing way too much makeup.

"Hi-"

"Office hours ended. Come back tomorrow."

What is it with New Yorkers and interrupting?

"I just-"

"I said office hours are over."

"If you'd just listen-"

"Office hours ended. No amount of listening will change that."

I clench my teeth, frustrated. I'm trying really hard to be charming, but this lady is a bitch if I ever saw one.

"Please, I -"

"Young man, the offices are closed. Everybody has gone home. Nobody can see you."

"But, see, I don't need anybody, I just -"

"And I'm certainly not letting some boy go poking around in the back."

"Well, I'm a potential client actually -"

"I wouldn't let an actual client do that, unless otherwise instructed, so I'm certainly not going to let you poke around back there."

"Look, I was here earlier, okay? And I left somethin'-"

"Sorry, no visitors or musicians after hours without an appointment."

I open my mouth, trying to think of some other argument, when I hear a voice behind me say, "He's with me."

I turn around to see the mystery girl from earlier standing there like she owns the place. She's shorter than I would have guessed, but she's fiery.

"Well," the receptionist says, huffing and rolling her eyes, "you really shouldn't let him wander off then. You're lucky I didn't call security." She gives the girl the chastising sort of look a babysitter would give to the kid if he disobeyed, but she stands her ground. Finally, the lady presses a button and the gate swings open, "check your friends in next time." The girl just scoffs and walks right on by like that woman is the gum beneath her shoe or something. Who is this girl?

I realize she stopped walking, and that she's bending down to pick up a bunch of papers. Watching her, I stutter out a thanks. She nods, but doesn't look up. I'm still stunned, but I try to get a grip of myself. I figure I should help her with those papers she's picking up. It's the gentlemanly thing to do. Aside from that, I kind of owe her, "Let me help you with that." I say as I start grabbing up some of the papers.

"Thanks, but you don't have to-"

"It's the least I could do." I say, cutting her off. Guess this whole interrupting New Yorker thing is contagious. When we get up, I hand her the papers, and she smiles gratefully. I don't know why I'm so sweaty. I look up at her, our eyes lock, and for a second. I can't breath. Then she turns away. She's so beautiful, I find myself just staring at her. Then she asks me something, which snaps me out of my bizarre, kind of pathetic trance, "What?"

"You said you left something-"

"Oh, that. Yeah. It's, uh, my wallet." Get it together Kinsella. You'd think I never talked to a pretty girl before.

She just says "Oh" dismissively and turns back to what she was doing like she just lost all interest.

"What?"

"It seemed like it was a bigger deal than that."

"What d'ya mean?" I ask, and you will never believe her answer.

"Well, it's just a wallet."

Just a wallet. Just a wallet! She may be some spoiled princess who can afford to lose money, but I'm not and I can't.

"It's got $400 in it. Which, for the record, is all I got." I say.

She looks at me like I just told her I know how to travel between dimensions or something, "You mean, like, all you have spending cash, or …?"

God! How spoiled is this girl? Where I come from, four hundred bucks isn't exactly chump change. But I guess she'd have no problem walking around with exactly that much, "No, I mean like all I got. And I had to clean a lot of tables to get it. Took a while to save it up." I don't know whether I'm more pissed off or embarrassed. You know what, no, I do know. I am pissed. What right does she have to judge my income? It's not like I live on the street with just five bucks to my name.

She bites her lip awkwardly and I try not to think it's cute, because this girl may be nice to look at, but she's a spoiled little bitch, and I don't need that kind of drama. Besides, if four hundred bucks is her idea of spending money, she is clearly out of my league. Not that I care. I don't. Honest.

"But, I mean, when you go back to … Bluebird?"

"Bluebell."

"Right. Well, when you get back there, your parents can help you out, right?"

Naïve, spoiled, stupid, why did I find this girl interesting again? Annoying yes, but interesting? I must have been out of my mind earlier, "You think if they could afford to give me that much, I would have spent seven months waiting tables at a dive bar?"

"I didn't know you did. And I thought minors can't-"

"Serve alcohol. You can still work at a bar." I roll my eyes.

"What about child labor laws?" I just shrug, "So you really only have four hundred bucks? And you think that that's a lot of money?"

I just stand there, seething. I don't know what to say to that, but I know I need to get away from this girl before I say or do something I regret. I look for a men's room. Bingo. So long snobby mystery girl. She's way too prudish and naïve to venture into a guy's bathroom.

I've been here before. I went this morning and … you know, I think this might be where I dropped my wallet. I start checking beneath the stalls when I hear the door creek, "Hello."

Guess I was wrong. I'm still kind of miffed, but, I'll admit, I'm also a little impressed.

"You shouldn't be in here." I say, not bothering to stop my search and look at her, "Not unless you're hidin' a penis under that pretty little skirt of yours."

I see her drop down beside me. I suppress a smirk. She's trying to be cool, but I can tell she's disgusted. I won't lie; it's kind of cute. And it's definitely what she deserves, or needs or whatever, a spoiled girl like her.

"I'm guessing you lost your wallet in here?"

I suppress an eye roll. Talk about stating the obvious. I answer with a simple, "Yep."

"And here I thought you were just trying to get away from me."

"I didn't say I wasn't."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay. It's just … unusual for me."

"Yeah, I'll bet. So, what, you're some rich princess from some snooty family who only rub elbows with each other and pretend like the rest of us don't exist?" I ask bitterly.

"As far as nicknames go, I think I preferred Mystery Girl." Me too.

I can tell she's trying to be funny, lighten the mood or whatever, but I'm still pissed off, and I want her to know it. Maybe it's more than that though. This little princess is trying to ease her conscience, helping out the poor kid. It's embarrassing. The fact that she's pretty doesn't help. The last thing I want is some pretty girl pitying me.

"I really didn't mean to insult you." She says, all angelic-like, "At least let me help you look for-"

"I'm not some charity case!" I yell. I am so sick of this chick and her superior attitude and her pitying looks. And it has nothing to do with her kissable lips and long soft hair, or the fact that I now know I'd never have a shot at a rich princess like her. Because I could care less about that. Really. I mean, she's not even that attractive. Her chest leaves a lot to be desired. Still, she kind of makes up for it with those smooth looking legs of hers.

She says something and walks off. I might be crazy, but she almost sounded … hurt? No, what would a girl like her care about getting the cold shoulder from a guy who only had four hundred bucks to his name.

I keep looking, going over the conversation in my head. Okay, so maybe I was being a little less than grateful. She did get me in here after all, and she did come in here and get down on her hands and knees to help me look.

But she was still a spoiled little thing, and I hated girls like that. I knew a few back home, and everything seemed worse in New York. Who was I kidding; I didn't even belong here. I should be back in Alabama.

No. I'm not doing that. I'm talking myself out of having a future just because of a few random doubts. No way. This was happening.

I saw my wallet peaking out from under one of the sinks. It was a little gross, so I did my best to clean it off and got out of the bathroom.

When I got out of the bathroom, I see that the mystery princess is still there. She's stapling some papers together, banging down hard each time. Her jaw is set and I can see the anger in her eyes. I start to feel a little guilty. Maybe I hurt her more than I thought. And she did help me. Plus, she is really pretty, and if I have enough effect on her for her to attack papers with a stapler like that, maybe I'm underestimating my chances.

"Hey." I say cautiously. No answer, "I, uh, I found it."

"Good for you." She grumbles angrily.

"Well, uh, thanks again for, you know, lettin' me in." I try. She keeps on with what she's doing, barely giving me a nod of acknowledgement. I let out a sigh. Guess it's time to man up and be the bigger person, "Listen, I'm sorry, okay. The money thing, it's a … it's a sore point with me."

"Well, how am I to know that?"

"You're not." I say with a sigh. I feel a little shitty now; I clearly hurt her feelings, though why a princess like her would care what I think is beyond me. "I was just … overly sensitive." I try. No luck; she looks as hurt and pissed off as before, "Look, let me make it up to you."

"How?"

Here goes nothing. Sure, it's a long shot, but she cares what I think of her; that's gotta mean something, right.

"Let me take you out. Tomorrow night. I'll, uh, use the money in my wallet." I feel nervous as hell and I hope it doesn't show. I shoot her a signature Wade Kinsella smirk, except my nerves seem to short-circuit it a little. Because, for some strange reason, I really, really want her to say yes.

"You've got to be kidding me. Are you serious?"

Ouch. Okay, not exactly a ringing endorsement. But then I realize, it's not a no. Not technically anyway. I still have a shot here. I just have to make my case and be charming and hope for the best.

"Come on. It'll be fun, I promise." I say trying to encourage her.

"In your dreams, cowboy."

"I'd enjoy that." I don't know why I don't just give up and walk away, but I just can't. There's something about this mystery girl. We keep on talking, and I make her laugh making me wish I had a tape recorder so I could a) have proof that I got her to laugh, and b) listen to the sound over and over. God, that's a nauseating thought. It's all gooey and romantic.

I keep trying to make my case, and I get eye-rolls and sarcastic comments, but that just makes me want to try harder.

She starts to head off, without so much as throwing a goodbye over her shoulder I might add, when I notice her heels catch on something. For some reason, I sprint toward her and catch her before she can crash. Not that it would have been tragic or anything, just a little slip. Still, it felt like the thing to do. She could have hurt herself. And, I mean, who wears heels that high? No wonder she tripped.

She feels so soft and light in my arms, and when she looks up at me, my breath catches. God, she's beautiful. Like, goddess beautiful. And her eyes are … there aren't even words. And as our eyes lock I feel this, I don't know, connection. It's like nothing I've ever felt before, with anyone. It's like there's this pull, like she's some mythical creature freezing me with her gaze, and I can't even bring myself to mind. It's like a moment that last forever, and at the same time, is far to short. And she feels it too; I can see it in or eyes. Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?

She steps out of my grasp, and I miss the contact instantly. She mumbles a thank you, and I nod because I can't seem to speak. I just keep watching her, this girl who made me feel more for her in mere seconds than I have for girls I've spent hours of even days with.

I notice her shiver a little, "You cold?" I ask, offering her my jacket. I feel this bizarre need to protect her. I can't explain it. I can't explain any of it. Everything stopped making sense the second I got hypnotized by those big, beautiful, somewhat sad eyes.

Then, she turns to thank me, and she's so close I can hear her breathing. And then, and don't ask me why I do it, but I feel myself lean down to kiss her. I can't not, she's standing there so perfect and so close, looking so kissable and smelling so good, and I just have to go for it.

"Zoe."

She jumps back, startling me, and I jump too. Zoe. Hm, so that's her name. Interesting.

For some reason, she gets all weird and nervous. She hands me back the jacket, thanking me, and I don't really know what to do or what just happened. I can't believe I almost kissed her. I can't believe she almost let me. Maybe I have more of a shot than I thought.

"Zoe. Where were you?" The PR lady asks her.

She turns, puts her hands on her hips, and responds, "I was here. Where were you?" in the most adorable sassy manner I have ever heard.

"I … had to step out."

"Yeah, well, I guess while you were 'stepping out,' I came back."

"Who is this?"

Well, she doesn't remember me. That's not a great sign. But maybe I can get my face in her head again now. Awkward circumstances, but still. "Wade Kinsella, ma'am." I say, giving her my best classic Kinsella smile and trying to sound charming. "I, well, my band played for you earlier today."

"Right. Well, we'll be in touch. Why are you still here?"

"He left something important here by accident. I let him in." Mystery Girl, that is, Zoe, says.

They start talking about sandwiches, and she continues to be kind of a bitch and sassy, which for some reason I find sexy as hell. Then, the PR lady leaves, and turns back to me. "You should probably get going."

"Tryin' to get rid of me?" I ask, stalling. I don't want to leave. I didn't get the impression that the PR lady gave a shit about me or the band, meaning I probably won't be back, meaning I may never see this sassy, mysterious, Zoe girl again. And for some reason, that doesn't sit right with me. I don't want to never see her again. I'm in no way okay with it. Especially since I never even got to kiss her. I need to know that I at least have a shot of seeing her again, but New York isn't like Bluebell, and once I walk out that door, the odds we'll run into each other again are slim to none. Suddenly, I get an idea. It may be stupid, but it's all I got. I just hope she goes for it. "Listen, how 'bout I make you a deal? New York is a big place, right? There are so many people, the odds of two strangers like us randomly runnin' into each aren't huge. So, I figure, if, after I leave here today, you and I see each other again, we call it a sign, and then you go out with me."

"I don't know that you can call that a sign. I mean, one is just a point, two is a line, three is a pattern."

I have no clue what that means, but I'm not gonna let it stop me. I'm a man on a mission. "Fine, three then. If, within the next month, you and I randomly run into each other three times, you'll let me take you out."

"You don't give up, do you?" She asks, the most adorable smirk on her face. She's teasing me a little, but something about the way she says it makes it sound almost like it might be a compliment. It's like she's amused, but also kind of impressed by my persistence. Well, if persistence is what she goes for, she ain't seen nothing yet, because I sure as hell am not going to leave my odds up to fate. If she agrees to this, I'm going to make damn sure we run into each other again, nothing accidental about it.

"What can I say, I got a feelin' 'bout this. 'Sides, I know you want to go out as much as I do."

"Do not."

I can't help but smirk at her immature answer. A subtle blush hits her cheeks, "Say what you want, but I saw your face just now."

"Just when?"

"When we were standin' close. I almost kissed you and, you uh, you almost let me."

"I did not!"

"Really? You sure you want to stick with that story?" I ask. I can prove her wrong. I know I can. If I get close to her again, I know she'll feel what I felt. She has to; it's too strong for just one person to being feeling it. Besides, it's fun to see her flustered. Start to get closer to her, and she jumps back like I have a contagious disease or something. I'll admit, it hurts a little, but it does sort of prove my point. She must have felt something, even if the thought of feeling it again is so deplorable to her that she has to jump back. "Why you backin' away?" I ask, trying to enjoy seeing her squirm so I don't let on that it hurt, "Scared of bein' proved wrong?"

"Maybe I just don't want you breathing all over me."

"That is the lamest excuse I have ever heard." I say. God, I want to kiss her again. If I could get close enough, I know she'd let me. But she's not going to let me close. That much is plain. Still, as I said, it's fun to see her squirm, so I make a couple 'attempts' just to see how she reacts. She's enjoying it; I can tell. She doesn't want to let on, but she's having fun with this little game. When she finally starts to giggle, I feel like I won the lottery. I don't know if it's because of how adorable she is when she giggles, or because I got her to giggle, to have fun. I think it's probably both. She looks like she could do with some fun in her life. And I am the definition of fun; ask anyone.

"Zoe!" The PR lady screams. Geez, what a slave driver. She can't survive without her intern or whatever Zoe is for five minutes?

"I have to-" she says, indicating she has to leave. She almost looks sorry to say goodbye. Not as sorry as I am though.

"So, what do ya say?"

"About what?"

"My proposition."

She doesn't answer at first, and I'm sure she's going to say no, but then she doesn't. She agrees. I feel like pumping my first in the air and cheering. I don't though. That would be embarrassing.

"All right, well, I'll see you around, Zoe."