What I didn’t expect was his huge body, clad in jeans and a white button-down shirt that seems to be molded to his bulk, looking so damn sexy when he opened the door. I guess I should have. I ogled his ass for an entire week to get that scoop.
For some reason, the bare head and feet made him seem casual, comfortable until he’d realized who I am. He definitely lit up then, anger flashing in his eyes, and I got a hint of the cold fire in his core.
It’s that cold fire that seems to draw me in. I don’t feel like I’m in control, but instead, we’re jockeying, wrestling for who gets to take charge.
He’s clearly doing these interviews begrudgingly, which makes his deal all the more unusual. I don’t think for one second that he wants to know a damn thing about me, some annoying reporter digging into his private life when he wants desperately to keep it private.
And so we’re in this little silent war, my body saying one thing while my professionalism says another. After all, why would he want to ask me questions?
I realize the answer. He told me as plain as day. It’s a control move. His way of showing that even in a situation beyond his control, he’s in power here. So we keep wrestling, doing our little dance and seeing who gets to be on top.
But really, is that so bad? To let him demonstrate some semblance of being the boss here, if it gets me what I want . . . him to answer my questions. Right, that’s why I’m thinking of sweaty bodies pinning each other to the floor, or a bed, or . . .
Fuck it. It’s not like I have anything to hide with my boring life, so he can fire away with his questions.
Decision made, I meet his dark eyes to see fire flashing there. So much anger . . . at me or at the situation, maybe both? Or is what I’m seeing as anger just passion?
I straighten my back, keeping the stare contest going. “Tell you what, Keith. I’ll agree to your deal . . . If you answer honestly and fully any question I ask and help me write an interesting, exciting story about you. You do that, and I’ll return the favor. Complete and full honesty to any question.”
He studies me, and I can feel him visually taking my measure as an opponent before he gets up, towering over me as he offers a hand. I shake it, noticing that his large hand engulfs mine. “Deal. Fair warning, Elise. You just made a deal with the devil for your soul.”
I grin at his dramatics, but there’s a little swarm of bees in my belly concerned that maybe there’s more truth to what he’s saying than I’m expecting. I expected Keith Perkins to be a little bit of a bumpkin, a good ol’ country boy who might be a little hostile but still stunned by the chic city girl with smooth verbal skills. Instead, he’s controlled, and he’s obviously a damn sight smarter than I’ve given him credit for . . . and that makes him all the more attractive. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.
We settle back more comfortably in our seats, and I pick up my phone, starting the voice recorder before setting it on the table in front of me as he sits back down with the grace of a tiger in his lair. He doesn’t react to my recorder, but I explain anyway, covering my ass. “I hope you don’t mind. Recording the sessions is just part of the deal, to make sure I’m correct with any quotes.” I give him a slight death glare, remembering how his label wanted a retraction and correction as if I’d been incorrect about my reporting.
He doesn’t say anything but gives me a look of tortured pain. I figure since he’s not arguing, I might as well run with it and charge ahead. “So first, let’s get the basics out of the way . . . the Wikipedia version of who Keith Perkins is. Tell me about yourself.”
He sighs, rolling his eyes, and I know it’s exactly the kind of question he’s had to answer a million times before. But I need it direct from the source for the articles, and it helps break the ice a little, gets him talking on comfortable ground.
Finally, he starts. “My name’s Keith Tiberius Perkins. I’m a musician, a singer-songwriter. I’m thirty years old, born and raised in Idaho in a tiny town nobody’s ever heard of, including some of the people who lived there. As soon as I graduated high school, I left home for Boise to play in local dive bars and clubs. I even had to use a fake ID to get in because I was underage. As far as my mom was concerned, I might as well have run off to New York City or even hell, judging by her reaction. But I learned, worked hard, and after a few years, moved to Nashville to play in hole-in-the-wall dives there with every other dreamer. Got discovered one night, signed a contract with my label, and now here I am, years later, hit songs and awards later, doing interviews I hate.”
I grin. He’d been doing so well until the end there. I do wonder, though—why leave Nashville? They’d worship him around there. What brought him to this area of the country, not exactly New York but still, not quite the center of country music?
“Sounds like you’re living the dream, huh?”
Keith smirks, then remembers where he is and grows serious again. “Yeah, I worked hard for a lot of years on my music. Still do. That’s all I want to do . . . write songs, sing them for people, and go home. Alone.”
“Damn, dude, like a dog with a bone. Let it go. I get it. I’m in your man cave that’s the size of a McMansion, but I’m really not trying to be a bitch here.”
He shoots forward in his chair, giving me a fierce look, and I realize I said that out loud, not in my head. “Excuse me?”
Shit.
Backpedaling, I try to smooth over the accidental out-loud monologue. “Sorry for saying that out loud, but not for thinking it.”
I smirk at him, virtually daring him to puff all up in anger again.
Instead, he sits back in the couch, pointing a finger at me and dropping his voice to a sexy commanding growl. “My turn. Tell me about yourself, Elise Warner.”
I smile, liking this game. If a bullet point list of all things me is what you want, I’ll give it to you, asshole. You’re not in control of things yet.
“I’m Elise Warner, twenty-six, grew up here in East Robinsville, and went to school at State where I got my journalism degree. Did some small-time reporting for the local paper before getting hired by The Daily Spot, where I write celebrity tabloid crap but get to keep my investigative skills fresh. And this interview series is a big deal for me, so don’t fuck it up. Please.”
He huffs out a surprised laugh. I don’t think he was expecting me to be so honest or so confrontational with him. By his smile, I think he likes it, too. He quickly asks the same follow-up question I did. “So, living the dream? Is this what little Elise wanted to do when she grew up?”
I shake my head, letting the ‘little’ comment slide. I’m all grown up, buddy, and you damn well know it. “No, not really. I like investigative reporting, but I wish I could do something more . . .”
Unexpectedly, I stumble for words, searching for something big enough to explain my heart while Keith looks on, interested. “Go on.”
“Just, I want something more impactful,” I admit. “Fight for the little guy, expose the bad guys, that kind of thing. But that’s a hard gig to come by, so I’m working my way up. If I was in your story, I guess I’m still in the dive bars in Boise but working on that big move to better things, chasing the dream.”
He hums, seemingly thinking about what I’ve said. I want to keep the ball rolling, to capitalize on the bit of sympathy I seem to be getting from him, so I decide to address the elephant in the room, the main reason I’m here.
“So, your professional life is golden, all you could’ve dreamed of. What about your personal life, Keith? What’s happening on the dating front? Who are you buying maxis for? Who’s the milk for, Keith?” I ask with a conspiratorial tone.