A Song for Julia

door closed, I stepped close and looked her in the eyes.
    “I need a kiss. From you. For luck. Now.”
    Her eyes widened, and she flushed a little. That was all the permission I needed. I pulled her close and leaned in, our lips touching, just lightly. Her tongue brushed against my teeth, and then our whole bodies were touching, and I felt alive, drunk with sensation.
    The elevator bell rang, and I stepped back. Her eyes were dilated, her face flushed, and I desperately wanted her back in my arms. But the doors opened, and we stepped out of the elevator, and there were the glass doors with the logo for White Dog Records painted on the door.
    I had to stop for a second and just breathe. My throat was tightening up. I was about to walk into the offices of one of the hottest record studios in the country. And meet with Allen Roark, who was one of my freaking heroes. Not to mention the head of the studio. My heart was thumping, and I had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. Most of the last five years I spent hanging out in the Pit, couch surfing, flipping burgers. And playing guitar until the tips of my fingers sometimes bled. I’d played in bars and clubs; I’d played in abandoned houses and warehouses. One time, we played in a freaking barn, and it was so cold my strings kept busting and going out of tune, and my fingers were too stiff to do any solos.
    I could do this.
    “Come on,” Julia said. I think she realized what was going through my head right then, but she took my arm and pulled me forward. So we walked in the door, and she introduced herself to the receptionist, and we sat down and waited while I looked around.
    The office was smaller than I would have expected. But on the walls around us were some of the bands I pretty much idolized. Album covers, autographed photos, an entire wall covered in awards. It was taking everything I had to not be intimidated. We didn’t have to wait long. About three minutes after we arrived, a guy came out of the back. He was obese, probably three hundred pounds, his suit sagging as if he’d once been quite a bit larger. His hair was thinning, face red, as if he drank too much. I’d seen that look on plenty of people over the years.
    Julia leaned close to me and spoke, her voice a whisper. “That’s Boris Dombrovski, he’s the president of the label. Come on.”
    She stood, and I did too, my knees feeling weak.
    Julia gave him a broad, professional looking smile. “Mr. Dombrovski? I’m Julia Thompson, and this is Crank Wilson. We’re from Morbid Obesity.”
    Boris smiled, then held out a hand and took hers. “Miss Thompson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And … Crank? Really? Call me Boris. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Come on to the back. I’ve been brainstorming with Allen, we didn’t realize you had arrived.”
    I shook Boris’s hand and felt my heart beating, too fast. He was in back, brainstorming with Allen. With Allen Roark. Only the most successful alt-rock singer songwriter I knew of. Holy shit. I was really doing this.
    I kept my mouth shut and followed Boris and Julia into the back.
    Boris had a large corner office. In the distance, I could see the Hollywood sign up in the hills. The office was cluttered, his desk piled high with papers. A couch faced two chairs across a low coffee table closer to the door, and industry mags were scattered across the coffee table.
    Allen Roark was sitting on one of the chairs. He stood up and grinned. In person and off stage, he was shorter than I expected, his long hair tied into a ponytail. He wore a sleeveless black t-shirt, both arms completely covered in tattoos. He stepped out from the coffee table and approached me, hand out.
    “You Crank Wilson? My son Mitch played your song for me yesterday. Pure genius, man, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    I swallowed and shook his hand, and spoke, my voice cracking a little because my throat was so dry, “It’s a real honor to meet you, Mr. Roark.”
    He laughed. “Holy Christ, it’s Allen. Please don’t call me Mr. Roark. Seriously. Don’t.”
    I grinned. “Fair enough.”
    Boris said, “Have a seat. You guys want some coffee? You came right from the airport?”
    “Yes, coffee would be great,” Julia said. “Cream and sugar?”
    Boris picked up his phone and spoke into it, then waved us to the coffee table. Julia and I sat next to each other on the couch, and Boris and Allen sat down opposite us.
    “All right,” Boris said. “I’ll