Beezus sighed as she stepped onto the elevator, her eyes narrowing. She was greatly disturbed to see that the only other occupant of the lift was Brian. He indignantly crossed his arms, turning away, and peered through the glass wall, focusing his attention on the small crowd in the lobby below. Beezus rolled her eyes, punching the button for the third floor. Her plan was to get off at the third floor, and walk up the last flight of stairs to prevent another fight to break out between them. The silver box was silent, save for the soft chimes counting the stories as they passed them on their way up.
"I don't even see why you took my lyrics in the first place," he muttered, continuing to watch the people on ground level. Beezus whipped around, snapping an arm out to hit the emergancy stop button. Spinning back to him, she glared coldly at him. His eyes narrowed as he faced her, his teeth clenched. "Why the hell did you stop this elevator?"
"Because I am completely sick of your shit," she answered, her voice shaking with anger. "I don't this from anyone, especially you of all people, over something as trivial as a fucking set of song lyrics." Brian recrossed his arms over his shirt and scowled, muttering profanities under his breath. Beezus pressed another button and the lift began moving again, and as the bell sounded for the third floor, she hopped out quickly. A dark cloud hung low over her head as she climbed the stairs, her thoughts consumed with plans for Brian. Tugging open the door, she stormed down the hallway towards Max's office. She caught a glimpse of AJ at the doorway of another office, chatting with an executive. As she slipped through the door, Beezus groaned under her breath at the sight of her second least favorite person, after Brian.
"Hello, Beatrice Denise. How are you this morning?" She cringed at the sound of her full name. The only reason he used her full name was to annoy her. So far, it was working extraordinarily well. A sarcastic smile curved onto her face, and she batted her eyelashes, exaggerating the gesture.
"I'm fine, Justin Randall. I hope you're doing better than you look today," she retorted, the smile dropping from her features. An icy glare took its place, and she took a step back, towards the door leading to the practice studios. Justin's quartet of companions snickered behind him, silencing when he glared at them.
"Your uncle wants to talk to you," he sneered. "He's down the hall, in Dave's office."
"Thanks for relaying the message, ass wipe. I could have found him myself," she quipped. Max walked into the room, a folder in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee in the other. "I hear you want to speak to me, Max?" Max sighed tiredly after glancing from Beezus to Justin and back again.
"Yeah, I did," he answered, crossing thr room to his desk. "And I don't care to know know what happened before I came in." He slid into his chair, and sipped his coffee before continuing. "Run downstairs and get these files for me, would you please?" He handed her a yellow slip of paper with several names and dates scrawled on them in red ink.
"Sure thing, Max." Taking the paper, she turned on her heel and headed toward the door, sticking her tongue out at Justin on her way. He returned her action, and was promptly caught and reprimanded by Max.
The elevator was empty when Beezus arrived, much to her relief, and she hurried to get the files from the basement archives. She whistled as she returned to the office, and slapped the set of manilla folders onto the desk.
"This one had a matching name and date, so I added it," she said, "just in case."
"Somebody should have added another face for you," Justin snickered. "Just in case." Beezus sniffed at his comment, and walked into the hallway of practice studios, propping the door open slightly. She entered the last studio in the hall, and seated herself in the folding chair against the wall. Her guitar case was leaning against the opposite wall, where she had stashed it that morning. Much to her frustration, she hadn't been able to work out the tune for a chorus of the song she had been writing, and she needed some time to work on it. She tuned the instrument to her liking, then began strumming what she had written so far.
"You might want to try a bridge before that last verse and the chorus, it would help with the overall flow of the song." Beezus jumped, snapping her eyes open to see one of Justin's cohorts. "You know, something about love in the city and fading beliefs. I . . . . I could help you if you want." She set the guitar down gently, sitting up straight to face him.
"Uh, Lance, right?" she guessed, studying his face. He nodded, a slight smile grazing his face.
"Yeah, that's my name." The pleased look in his eyes suggested that he was glad to be in her presence. She immediately didn't like him; she wasn't interested in his looks or what little personality he possessed. His eyes were glazed over and too close together, giving him the appearance of a cross-eyed cow. He was somehwta shorter than she, and was in desperate need of fashion advice. The neon orange ski vest he sported over a grey t-shirt had the pitiful aura of the photo she had been studying the previous day; it seemed as though someone had handed him the outfit and he had obligued to wear it to save his job.
"That's an okay idea, but I was actually thinking that 'love in the city' is highly overrated. Maybe I should tag in a part about the pathetic, overinflated male ego, and what horrible cold-hearted bitches men are." She smiled warmly, taking secret pleasure in the way he frowned and squirmed. "Perhaps even the fate they should meet, like being poisoned like rats or run over by Mack trucks. Or . . . eaten by piranhas?"
"Yeah," he agreed nervously, swallowing. "That could work, too." She grinned, delighted by his gullible nature and the uncomfortable way he shifted his weight from one sneaker to the other.
"So, care to help me write that bridge?" she asked, taking up the guitar again. He nodded, plopping down onto the carpet and reaching for the instrument.
"Could I see that guitar? I have an idea." She carefully handed it over, reluctant to give it up, and bit her lip as he fitted his fingers over its strings. Clumsily, he strummed at it, concentrating on making a decent chord. "Something along the lines of. . ." He played a few notes, creating a light melody. "Whoa, you might want to think about getting that tuned. Or, better yet, getting a whole new guitar." Beezus grabbed it from his arms, cradling in in hers like a mother holding a newborn infant, gazing at him in horror.
"How could you even suggest a thing like that?" she asked softly, brushing a hand over the nicked wood of the body.
"Well. . .Look at it," he answered, waving a hand vaguely around it. "It's all beat up, and worn out. It's badly out of tune. And look, here, at this scratch." He pointed to the long gouge running along the side.
"Are you kidding?" she demanded. "You must be. This scratch is from Ringo Starr pushing over his drumset onto John Lennon at a concert in New York City." She flipped the guitar over, so the strings her pressed against her legs. "And here is the signiture. Genuine, from Lennon himself." Lance gulped visibly, backing away as anger built behind Beezus' words. "It is as out of tune as the Beatle's first ever preformance on the Ed Sullivan Show."
"Look, Beatrice, I'm sorry," he apologizes, scrambling to his feet. "I had no idea how much it ment to you, believe me." He backed out of the studio. "Um, who's Ringo Starr?"
"Fuck! Listen, just get out of here if you don't even know who the Beatles are, for gossake!" she yelled, pointing to the door. "Go, already!" He scurried out, and the door of the booth swung shut loudly. Sweeping a loose strand of hair from her forehead, Beezus grapped her pencil and scribbled a note about the bridge. She had little time to work on her song, and she didn't want to waste it on people who didn't know who her inspirations were. Her summer was running short as it was.