Page 7 of A World Apart (Between Worlds #1)

“ A nother day, another groupie-fashion choice.” Becka laughed at me as I met her at the kitchen counter.

“Oh hush,” I countered, “I literally moved to America with one duffel bag, I’m doing the best I can.” I said this defensively but knowing her jibe was in jest. I thought I looked cute today in my artfully ripped black jeans, hi-top black Vans, a dark grey t-shirt and my black leather jacket.

Cute, if a little monotone, I supposed.

“Yes, very student-chic,” she joked, sliding her sunglasses on top of her wavy, blonde hair.

“I was literally a student less than a year ago. The transition has been a struggle,” I said dramatically, picking up my travel mug and my rucksack.

“No more lecture-naps,” Becka sighed.

“No more student discounts,” I lamented.

“No more one-dollar shots.” She held the door open for me.

“Or one-pound shots.” I corrected, walking past her into the corridor.

“Which one is more expensive?”

I took a moment to think as we descended the stairs .

“British shots. You yanks get more bang for your buck.”

“Depends how many shots you take,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at me before sliding her sunglasses down over her eyes as we pushed open the door to the street, emerging into the bright sunlight of a typical, spring morning in LA.

“No Uber this morning?” Becka asked, hopefully looking up and down the already congested streets.

“Not unless you got a raise I don’t know about,” I said as I began walking down the street.

“Hey!” she called, easily catching up to me.

She had several inches on me since her legs were longer.

“Some people might consider yesterday’s lunchtime favour an incentive to reciprocate with comfortable travel.

” She grinned at me, but my only response was to sling my arm around her and begin propelling her down the street.

“I’m going to smell like a gas station,” Becka whinged as I pushed her forcefully towards the bus stop.

“Better than surviving off crackers and twice-used tea-bags,” I pointed out.

Becka groaned loud enough that the people already waiting at the bus stop turned to look.

08:50

Jeremy heaved a soul-deep sigh the moment I raised my hand to knock on his door.

“I could have been anyone, you know. I could have been Trevor Kyle, or Scarlett Johannson,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

Jeremy didn’t even look up; he just pointed his pen at the clock on the wall behind his desk.

“Punctuality is not a crime,” I pointed out.

“Nope, but you and I must have fucked up in a past life to get the brunt of it this week.” He said, throwing his pen down on his desk and dragging both hands down his face.

“Boss, it is way too early to be this cheerful, you need to calm down.” I joked, earning me the drollest of droll looks.

“I got an email this morning at fucking 5 o’clock to say that Tech are striking and won’t be in. Indefinitely. ”

“Oh, bugger,” I stated. He huffed.

“Yeah, ‘bugger’.” His approximation of my British accent was poor, but given the givens, I’d allow it.

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked.

“Let’s just hope you really enjoyed your day fucking around with shit from storage yesterday.” He dead-panned.

My fingers twitched in remembered pain at the memory.

Half an hour later and I was headed back up to the studios with another box. This one was filled with boxes and cases of microphones and their various heads and pop shields.

The second floor corridor was quiet and dark. There were no external windows on this level and with the lighting being sensor activated, it could be quite spooky wandering around here on your own.

The only light on in the corridor currently came from the small lamp that hung over the sound deck in Studio 2, where I was headed with this box of mics and where I’d already moved to the sides all the boxes I’d moved up here yesterday.

I pushed the partially-open door further open with my shoulder, humming happily to myself, already thinking about my next coffee.

I’d just dumped the box on the floor when the massive producer’s chair swung around ?

“Oh, fuck!” I exclaimed loudly, clutching my chest in fright.

“Sorry, sorry!” Insisted a voice I knew so well and yet was still brand new to me.

Jihoon jumped up out of the chair so quickly that it pushed back against the producer’s sound deck, making the whole thing shudder.

He held out both hands in a placating manner and looked so contrite that I couldn’t help but smile, even though my heart still thudded against my ribs like an Acme cartoon character’s.

“It’s cool, no worries.” I tried to wave away his apologies, still rubbing my chest.

“You just took me by surprise. I didn’t see you there.” I ran a hand through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes.

“It is very dark in here,” he agreed .

“Do you need anything?” I asked, poking my head out into the corridor. No sign of anyone.

“Ah, no,” He admitted, fiddling with the phone in his hands. “It was quiet here. I was taking some time. It’s very busy in the studio.” He looked embarrassed, for some reason. I think I understood.

“Have you been recording all morning?” I asked, giving him what I hoped was a sympathetic look.

He grimaced and nodded. “Yes,” he said.

‘I should not do this’ was the thought I immediately steamrolled as I then said, “Would you like to hide in here for a while? I mean, if you don’t mind me working in here, but I won’t get in your way or anything.

I’ll just be here, quietly, sorting a bunch of stuff out…

” I trailed off, thoroughly self-conscious of my inability to filter my words on the journey from brain to mouth.

I bit my lip as my face heated to fever levels. Thankfully, it was dark in here.

“Is it okay that I’m here?” he asked quietly, putting his phone in his trouser pocket.

I fiddled with the edge of my shirt. “It’s okay with me,” I said, shrugging. “Won’t someone come to find you? Your manager, or… ?-”

“No,” he said firmly. “I said I needed time. He’ll let me be alone.” Jihoon looked down for a moment and huffed a little laugh, “For a while.”

I guess even international superstars have a short leash.