Chocolate Read online

  Still, I didn’t answer right away. Instead I looked him up and down, hopefully making him sweat by my hesitation. But finally I said, “Hmm, okay, fine,” like I was doing him a favor even though he was really doing me one by giving me a chance to finish the interview. Plus, to be honest, I felt more at ease in a bar than in a conference room too, and everyone's a little chattier after they’ve had a cocktail. Or two. Yeah, this would work.

  “Great, see you then,” he said. He flashed me a boyish grin before he turned around and strode back toward the elevators. I was left standing alone in the lobby, unable to wrap my head around what had just happened. Without a doubt, that was the most memorable interview I’d ever conducted, and the interview itself hadn’t really even started yet. Was it weird that now I was kind of looking forward to it? I felt like I’d just gotten the tiniest glimpse at what was underneath Luke Davies’ brooding facade, and I was suddenly eager to see the rest.

  I rolled my eyes at myself. You’ve got issues, I scolded. Then, still reeling from the most bizarre forty five minutes of my life, I shook my head and pushed my way back out into the blustery autumn afternoon.

  Blood

  I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, deliberating my wardrobe choice. It had been a long day at the end of a long week with a really odd afternoon thrown in for good measure, so I’d decided to shower and start fresh before I met up with Luke. I’d also gone for a quick run after work, which had made showering mandatory anyway. Let’s see. If I wear these jeans, I can pair them with that sweater, but if I want to wear the t-shirt, then I need my jeans with the darker wash. I wasn’t usually this indecisive when it came to clothes, but for some reason I was really trying to look good tonight. After weighing footwear options with a level of concentration normally reserved for open heart surgery, I felt confident in my pick of skinny jeans with a dark gray t-shirt and high-heeled ankle boots.

  I’d never been to the Tonic Room before – or heard of it for that matter – so I’d had to look it up online. It turned out it was kind of a dive bar/lounge type of place with live music almost every night. Consummate situational dresser that I was, I wanted my outfit to embody that theme and I was pretty sure I’d nailed it.

  Next was hair and makeup. I wasn’t particularly good at styling my hair, so I did what I always do, and just let my dirty blond locks air dry and fall in loose waves down my back. I was aware that a lot of women spent a crazy amount of time and money trying to achieve the effortlessly messy style that my hair conformed to naturally, so I considered myself lucky and moved on to other things. Like makeup. For as little as I cared about hair, I was a makeup enthusiast. I was naturally a pretty attractive person – not make-men-stop-and-stare-in-the-streets attractive, but definitely make-men-buy-me-drinks-in-bars attractive. Even so, there were still about a million little things on my face that I either wanted to highlight or hide. Enter my cosmetics collection. Tonight I went with a darker version of my usual daytime look. A smoky eggplant color on my eyes coupled with black eyeliner and mascara, a nice pink cheek, and a deep tinted lip balm. I think the color was called “fig.”

  I gave myself one last look in my bathroom mirror and decided that I was reasonably pleased with what I saw. Then I used my phone to request a cab as I grabbed my keys, bag, and a leather jacket – because when you’re getting drinks with a musician, you’ve got to go Full Monty – and I was out the door.

  It was only about a ten minute ride from my apartment to the bar. As I pulled up, Luke was just walking up to the door. “Good timing,” I said, stepping onto the curb.

  “Actually I’ve been pacing up and down the sidewalk for half an hour so it’d look like it was good timing,” he smiled and I laughed. So he’s funny, this Luke Davies. Then he grabbed the door handle and gestured me inside.

  The Tonic Room was a warm, dimly lit place with a long bar. The live music act of the night was a lone guitarist playing acoustic covers, so it wasn’t very crowded or loud. We grabbed a table for two in the corner and I watched Luke slip off his military jacket to reveal a black t-shirt underneath. It was amusing to me to think about how much his deliberation over what to wear had probably differed from my own. “Alright, I wore the white t-shirt today, so I’ll wear the black t-shirt tonight. Done.” Boys were so simple.

  I slid onto my chair while Luke did the same. Now that we were sitting face-to-face again, I felt my nerves from earlier today creep back up. I didn’t know why, but I really cared about whether or not this went well. More than I usually cared about an interview. Thankfully, a waitress appeared almost immediately to take our drink order. I needed a little something to knock off the edge. Luke raised his eyebrows, indicating that I should go first. “Jameson on the rocks, please,” I said. I was a fan of all whiskey, but the light, sweet notes of Jameson made it my favorite.

  I heard Luke order a beer while I reached into my bag for my notebook and voice recorder. When I looked back up at him, he was grinning at me. “Whiskey, huh?” he asked. “I thought for sure you’d be one of those girls who orders frilly vodka drinks. I’m very impressed, Ms. Lyons.”

  “Well, I’m very impressive, Mr. Davies,” I quipped. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

  “Whoa, okay. We’re not wasting any time, I see.”

  “It’s just that I don’t know how long I have before you turn on me and start calling my reporting bush league again.” I was kind of joking, but also kind of not. I still hadn’t completely forgiven him for the events of this afternoon.

  He pressed his lips together. “I really do feel bad about that,” he said sincerely. “And something tells me you’re never going to let me live it down, are you?”

  “Probably not, no,” I said deadpan.

  “Alright then, fire away. I shall strive to redeem myself for my earlier transgressions.”

  I smiled at that, deciding that I liked the way he could carry on a conversation when he wanted to. Maybe this afternoon really had been an anomaly. “Okay, so, like I told you, the article is mostly going to be about your new album that’s coming out after the first of the year. But seeing as it’s been a while since your last album, I thought it’d be good to start there and talk about the journey that it took to get to this point.” I’d revised my interview approach a little bit during my cab ride here.

  “That sounds good.”

  “So, debut album, half a million copies sold, critically acclaimed, singles featured in TV shows, commercials, movie trailers. That’s impressive for your first record out of the gate,” I started.

  “Thank you, yeah,” he said. “It was called a debut album, and I suppose it technically was since it was the first one that I personally released, but I’d been writing songs for almost fifteen years and selling them for at least eight or nine by the time it came out. That was pretty much the only way I could eat and keep a roof over my head while still playing music. But I finally got to a point where I felt, I don’t know, I guess I liked my songs too much to let anyone else have them, as conceited as that probably sounds. So I got together with the rest of the band, who were some studio players that I’d gotten to know and respect over the years, and we laid down the tracks and there it was.”

  “I’ll say,” I said. “Now, walk me through the next couple of months after the album dropped.”

  “Ha, I think ‘dropped’ is for rappers, not alt. rock singers who play the guitar. But regardless, after the album ‘dropped’ things got crazy almost immediately. Suddenly there were people who wanted to interview me, I was getting approached by, like, legitimate agents and managers, I performed on SNL and a few other late night shows. It was wild. To put things in perspective, the largest group of people I’d ever performed in front of up to that point was maybe a hundred or so, in places like this one. And then, just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “I’m on national television. Even for someone like me, who was almost thirty at the time and had been in the business for a while, it was unbelievable.”

  “And ther
e was a tour too?”

  “Yeah. For the next six months we were all over the U.S., Canada, Europe, and we even went down to Australia for a few weeks. It was cool because I’d never really traveled like that before. I mean, living on a tour bus got old pretty quickly, but hearing thousands of people night after night singing along to the songs that I’d written made it all worth it. It was surreal.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I said.

  “Yeah, it was great.”

  “So, it’s been over three years since the tour ended, and over two years since we first heard that you were working on your second album. And you’re just now getting around to releasing it.”

  “Yep.”

  I was nervous to ask my next question because this was where things had really gone off the rails this afternoon. “I guess…ahem,” I paused cowardly to clear my throat. Just ask him the damn question. “I guess the question on everyone’s mind is…why has it taken until now?”

  Luke squinted his eyes, as if he was sizing me up. Uh oh, I thought anxiously. Is he going to lose it again? Feeling uncomfortable under his intense stare, I reached for a sip of whiskey.

  “Shut that thing off for a second, would you?” he asked, pointing to my recorder. I did. “This is off the record,” he said meaningfully. All of a sudden, it seemed like he was the one who was nervous.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  He sighed. “The answer that my label crafted and wants me to tell you is something along the lines of, ‘I wanted to take my time, experiment with my music, blah, blah, blah,’ and I guess that was part of it. The real answer is that I wanted to put out another record over a year ago, but the music I was writing was, for lack of a better word, awful. Like really bad. Nowhere near good enough to be recorded, plain and simple.” He looked down and started tearing the label off of his beer. “Call it writer’s block or whatever, but it’s true. It got to the point where I was so frustrated that I just stopped writing all together. For months and months I didn’t write a thing.”

  I was stunned by his revelation. People in the music industry didn’t really talk about writer’s block. Or, at least not to non-musicians. For the four years that I’d been a music reporter, I’d never heard anyone admit to suffering from it before. “So how did you get past it?” I asked.

  “Honestly? I didn’t. I’m not. But I’m under contract to put out another album, so unless I magically come up with an entirely new record by February, I’m just going to have to release a bunch of the terrible songs that I’ve written over the past few years.” He looked down at his bottle again. “And it’ll be garbage and I won’t be proud of it, but I’ll have to travel all over the place pretending like I am. Then of course I’ll get ripped apart by the critics and the album won’t sell and my label will probably drop me and, yeah, the whole thing is going to be a complete and utter disaster.”

  I just stared at him with wide eyes. “Yikes,” was all I could muster.

  He laughed weakly. “Yikes is right. So, anyway, this interview is probably my career’s swan song, since I doubt there’s going to be much buzz around me once people hear my new stuff,” he shrugged. “And that’s the real reason I was such a dick to you this afternoon. I’ve been in a pretty bad place I guess, and I’ve been taking it out on everyone within a ten-mile radius.”

  He looked so sad that I had to fight the urge to reach out and comfort him. Instead, I thought about what he’d just said for a second. “But then, why did your label set up the interview in the first place?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Max says that the execs are trying to get out in front of it. They figure that if people already think it’s good when they start listening, maybe they won’t notice that it’s actually not. You know, the power of suggestion.”

  “Huh,” I said. “That’s…an interesting strategy.”

  “Yeah.” We were both quiet for a moment. Finally he said, “Well, I could use another drink. How about you?”

  I shot back the rest of my whiskey. “Yes, I definitely think that deserves another.”

  He signaled for the waitress to bring us a second round and she set them down in front of us a minute later.

  “But I don’t understand,” I said while the ice started to melt in my new drink. “You’ve been writing songs for half of your life. How does that just…go away?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said, taking a long pull of his fresh beer. “You have no idea how badly I wish I knew. If you’ve listened to any of my stuff, you can probably tell that I’ve always written about my own life. An experience, a feeling, a memory. But the second my life got interesting – after the first album – I stopped being able to write about it. It’s genuinely fucked up.”

  We both took another drink while the music from the lone guitarist at the other end of the bar filled in the silence.

  “Hmm,” I finally said, feigning deep thought. “Maybe you should try, like, outrageous amounts of alcohol or chopping off your own ear. You know, pull a Hemmingway or a Van Gogh.”

  He laughed and I was proud of myself for making him do so. He had a nice smile. The kind that made you want to smile right back. “Alcohol? Yes, I’ve obviously tried that. But I haven’t gotten quite desperate enough to start removing body parts yet. I’ll keep that in mind though.”

  “I’m just saying, it’s an option.”

  The rest of the interview went pretty quickly. Given what he’d told me, it seemed silly to ask him a bunch of questions about his new album. I decided that I would change the focus of the piece to Luke Davies’ life after his first record and end with some vague details about the upcoming release. If Arthur, my editor, didn’t like it, well, then that was just too damn bad.

  I put away my notebook and recorder and then looked back up at him. “Can I ask you something?” I ventured tentatively.

  “Sure,” he nodded.

  “I was just wondering, um, why you told me all that stuff? You know, about your writer’s block?”

  It took him a few seconds to answer, like he needed time to consider the question. Finally he said, “I don’t know. I think I just like your face.”

  I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from curving into a grin. Thankfully, the bar was dark so he couldn’t see me blush. I knew it was probably just a line, but I found myself secretly hoping that it wasn’t.

  “So, Lyssa Lyons,” he said, shifting in his seat and smiling mischievously. “Now that I’ve answered all of your questions, I think it’s time for you to answer some of mine.”

  “Hmm, I think you’re confused about how this works,” I said, gesturing between us. “See, I ask you questions so that I can write about your responses and publish them for people to read. It’s a one-way transaction.”

  “Hey, I write and publish things for people to listen to,” he said. “Maybe you’ll make it into one of my songs. You never know.”

  “If your album’s going to be as bad as you say it is, then I’d prefer to not have my name associated with it, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Ha! Ouch! That was harsh, Ms. Lyons. And after I let you into the sanctum sanctorum of my emotional strife. Now come on. Fair is fair. Tell me about yourself.”

  I eyed him warily. “Uh, what do you want to know?”

  “Well, you’re a journalist. How long have you been doing that?”

  Alright, questions about my professional life were fine. It was the personal ones that made me squirm. “Since I graduated college,” I said. “So a little over six years now. Four full-time. I worked at the Chicago Tribune for two years while I was in grad school.”

  “The Trib, huh? Isn’t that pretty much the pinnacle of mainstream journalism in Chicago? You didn’t want to stay there?”

  “Um, no. I mean, it was a great experience and everything, but I was assigned to the business desk while I was there, which is not where my talents lie, to say the least. Like, I appreciate that The Fed serves an important function in our society, but I literally could not write one
more piece about changes in interest rates,” I said. “Seriously, Maria Bartiromo I am not.” That earned me a smile from Luke. “So when I got an offer from Chicago Music Mag, which was a much younger, hipper online publication, I took it.”

  “But why music?” he asked. “Do you play or sing or something?”

  “Ha, no. Not even a little bit. In fact, anyone who’s ever had the misfortune of hearing me sing will tell you that I’m borderline tone deaf. But, despite that, I’ve always been a huge music fan. All kinds, but indie or alternative rock is my favorite. I’m fascinated by how music can, I don’t know, bring about such strong emotions in people. It’s like, even though you’ve never met a certain artist, you can hear a song and totally relate to it. You can actually feel what they were feeling at the time. Or you can be in a bad mood and put on some music and instantly feel better. It’s amazing,” I said. “And I’ve always loved to write, hence the journalism degree, so becoming a music reporter seemed like a natural fit.”

  “So you like what you do?” he asked.

  “Love it. I honestly have the best job in the world,” I said.

  “Plus, a little birdie told me that you’ve won a local award or two for your work at the magazine.”

  “You Googled me?” I asked. “Well I never. I feel so violated.” I feigned outrage.

  “What? Like you didn’t research me before tonight?”

  “That’s different,” I said. And it was. Interviewers were supposed to know all about their interviewees. But why did Luke care about me?

  “So what’s next for the award-winning Lyssa Lyons?” Luke asked. “A job at Billboard? A Pulitzer? A correspondent gig on TV?”

  “Hmm. I sincerely doubt that my work will ever be Pulitzer-worthy. But I definitely want to write for something more national eventually. And as for TV, uh, never in a million years,” I said pointedly. “It’s one thing for people to read the words that I’ve had time to research and think about on my own. But to speak off the cuff in front of an audience? To have all that attention on me? I can’t think of anything more terrifying,” I said. “Anyway, for right now, I’m happy where I am.”