"So when you layer the guitar and keyboards together, it sounds like this." Daniel pressed the play button on his recorder, causing "The Animal Song" to fill my ears through the headphones.
"Awesome!"
Daniel shot up a dark blond eyebrow. "Awesome? That's not the usual reaction I get from reporters when they hear samples of my work."
I giggled. "I'm sorry. Am I supposed to remain indifferent? I'm kind of new at this." I really was. I had just received my first assignment as a writer for International Guitar magazine; to interview Daniel Jones of Savage Garden about their second album and how its sound evolved from their debut. Meeting Daniel surprised me; I had expected someone quiet and moody, and at first he was, but as time went on, he turned out to be quite witty and charming, continuously dazzling me with that smile of his.
"Nah. I like when our fans are enthusiastic. But you're supposed to be a reporter."
"A reporter who happens to be a big fan of yours." Ouch. Unprofessional mistake number two. Daniel, however, barely noticed.
"This is a very different reaction from the press," he said, both of us laughing.
"This is a very different interview." I shut off my own recorder, lest Daniel think anything personal would be in the article. His brows shot up again as he saw me press the off button.
"Are we officially off the record now?" he asked.
"We are. So feel free to tell my anything you like about your sordid past."
"Ah, I'm afraid there's nothing to tell, Natasha. Except for that wife and three kids I left behind in Perth." He cracked up at my astonished look. "I'm kidding. Why don't you tell me something about you?"
"Me? I'm not very interesting."
"Sure you are. Just because you're not famous doesn't mean you're not interesting. Not that it really means anything; I mean, look at my life." We both laughted again as I pondered what I could possibly tell him.
"Well," I began, "This is my first assignment for an actual magazine, as opposed to all the freelance work I've done."
"What's the difference?"
"I actually know I'm going to get published and paid. Big difference. Not that I haven't had some interesting topics to write about."
"Such as what?" Daniel was genuinely intrigued by what I had to say.
"I just finished a piece for Penthouse about sadomasochistic lifestyles. I shouldn't have been too surprised when they rejected it," I sighed, fishing out a cigarette from my pack of Marlboro Lights.
Daniel, ever the gentleman that he was, leaned over to light it before I could even reach for the matches. "Why would Penthouse reject an article with a topic like that? Very strange."
"Not when you compare what they wanted with what I wrote. Such as the base of sadomasochism isn't so much whips and chains as the mindset behind it."
"The mindset?" Daniel grinned, increasingly curious.
"Did you know?" I leaned in, "that a dominant can put fear in a submissive with just a light touch?"
Daniel softly put his hand on my wrist. "Like this?"
"Exactly like that." Casual conversation, off the record. So why did my breathing turn up a notch? "And I believe that consenting adults can do whatever they wish. There's a lot more people practicing S&M than you would think."
"Really," Daniel said, with what I thought could be an evil gleam in his eye. Or maybe it was the two White Russians I had. "Are you panting, Natasha?"
I regained my composure. "No." I straightened myself out, but I doubt Daniel was fooled. "Should we get back to our interview?" I reached for my recorder, my index finger ready to press play.
"Actually, I wanted to show you the setup I'm using to record the album. It's upstairs."
"Wouldn't you be in a studio for that?"
"Yes, and that's where the full setup is, but this is a small version of it. Could you give me a few minutes?"
"Ummm..sure," I stammered. A small flicker of suspicion grew within me, then fluttered away just as fast. Of course Daniel was trustworthy, wasn't he? Worst case scenario, I did have mace on my keychain. I took a final drag on my cigarette before snuffing it out. "Just a few minutes?"
"Just a few minutes," he confirmed. "Hang here." He slid a ten-dollar bill on the table. "Buy yourself whatever you like." Then he was gone.
I gave a signal to the waiter to bring me another White Russian. Once the drink was in front of me, I took careful sips, lit another cigarette, and immersed myself in thought.
My article was about Daniel and his guitar techniques. Professional. Then why the glimmer of excitement when I mentioned my Penthouse piece? What about the look in his eyes? A sparkle, a look of familiarity, what?
"Maybe it's just too much vodka," I said to myself, startled when I found the waiter standing there.
"A message from Mr. Jones," he said, handing me a note.
"Thank you." I tipped him two dollars, then opened up the slip of paper. Just a simple message telling me he was ready, and a room number. I straightened out my black babydoll dress and headed toward the elevators.