His eyes gleamed in the low-lit room. Even amidst the smoke, he exuded an energy I couldn't deny. Years of sun had weathered his skin and a collage of ink covered his left arm. His strong jawline and slightly crooked smile sent my heart soaring. Why an old rocker with a delectably raspy voice and tight pants would have this affect on me, I wasn't certain. But I had to keep my composure.
"Would you like another drink?" he curved his lips seductively.
"Sure, what's one more?" I answered in a surprisingly flirtatious tone.
"Hey Joe! Give this lady a strong one will ya? This watered-down shit is beneath her," he laughed.
"Shall we get started?" I asked.
"Ah yes, that subject again." He forcibly set his drink on the counter and stared straight ahead.
"You know what I hate about reporters?"
"Excuse me?" I interjected.
"Every single one of ya is the same. You're all cut from the same cloth. You're cocky, you walk around with a 10-foot-pole shoved up your ass and you're obsessed with ruining my life."
"Oh I'm sure you're nice. Probably just got out of journalism school and thought you'd write a nobel-worthy piece on this washed-up has-been. I was a legacy, an inspiration to youth, a pioneer in my field...blah, blah."
The stars in my eyes were quickly fading with every assaulting word.
"But you never get to know me," he continued. "The real me—the real Tyler Shadows.
The bartender handed me a drink.
"So do you intend to get me drunk so I completely bomb the interview?" I asked.
"I intend to do nothing. Zilch. Nada. Off the record. All of it."
What a jerk. I thought. What a beautiful jerk with that crooked Johnny Depp smile.
Keep it together!
"What if I said I could give a damn about a nobel-worthy story?" I countered. "That I chose you as a subject on purpose because I admired you? I'm sorry to say now that I was gravely wrong. I refuse to be verbally assaulted at this bar. Good day Mr. Shadows." I spoke through my teeth. I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. I promptly got up and began to walk away. Tyler continued swirling his bourbon, not willing to acknowledge my statement or my exit. I reached the door and heard him say,
"Wait miss reporter."
A smile crept up my face before I turned around.
"I can see now that you're not like the others," His voice was quaking with fake humility. "You're a feisty thing and I like it. Maybe we could start this thing over."
I gave him my most flirtatious grin.
"I'm sorry Mr. Shadows but I have a long list and a short window. I'm sure someone else would be ecstatic to be contacted by Rock Magazine. I must be going. Ciao." I waved sarcastically. Then I turned and walked out without looking back.
Shelley's Inkwell blog is where non-fiction and fiction collide. It's a place for my life reflections and a place to escape into some really good stories.