Free I Love the 80s by Megan Crane

taxi careened to the side of the road and discharged her in front of what looked, at a first and traumatized glance, to be a very fancy boutique hotel.
    ‘Especially Tommy,’ Duncan told her as she went to close the door, leaning across the seat so she could see how serious he was, up close and personal. ‘I especially want to know what Tommy’s doing and saying, do you understand me?’
    ‘Of course,’ Jenna squeaked, and fled.

7
    The hotel was not, it turned out, a boutique hotel. Or any kind of hotel at all. It was instead a four-storey town house on a quiet side street in the West Village, which was impressive enough. It was equipped with a state-of-the-art recording studio, numerous well-appointed guest rooms, a kitchen complete with gourmet cook, a backyard that was more like a garden paradise and included a jacuzzi, and a full service staff including the very imposing butler who had admitted Jenna to the house only after an intensive round of questions better suited to weeding out potential terrorists from airports.
    But she soon forgot the indignity of what amounted to an entrance exam, because the butler/bouncer stepped aside and let Jenna in to the marble foyer, where her eye was immediately drawn to a stunning arrangement of lilies in an almost equally beautiful vase, blue and white and nearly taller than she was. Each room of the town house was prettier than the one before – all gilt edges,perfect furnishings, and a riot of art on the walls. Jenna didn’t have to know very much about furniture, antiques, or art to recognize the fact that she was looking at extremely good taste supported by excessive wealth. It certainly didn’t suck to be a rock star.
    Jenna followed the butler’s rigid, black-clad back down a set of stairs. He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, and indicated the door in front of him with a stiff sort of bow, making her wonder for a moment if she was expected to do something like perform a curtsy in return. Luckily, the man backed away before she could commit one way or the other.
    Pushing open the door, Jenna stepped into what she’d expected to be the recording studio, but was instead an open-plan living and lounging room that ran the length of the house and opened up to the garden beyond. It took her a moment to get her bearings. The room featured high beams along high ceilings, as if it wasn’t in the basement of the building at all, long couches arranged around a fireplace on one end and a movie projector on the other, and was completely empty except for Tommy Seer.
    Jenna’s heart jumped in her chest at the sight of him, and then started beating wildly. She wanted to massage the thump of it with her hand, because she had the sudden, hysterical notion that its crazy beat was visible beneath her shirt, but kept herself from doing it at the last moment.
    Tommy, meanwhile, continued to pick absently at the electric guitar he held across his lap like a lover. The notes he played sounded tinny and distant, since the guitarwasn’t plugged into any amp. If he’d looked up when Jenna entered, she hadn’t seen it, but somehow she knew he was perfectly well aware that she was there.
    Jenna worried her lower lip with her teeth, surprised to feel the nerves dancing through her limbs. She forced herself to walk closer, and sank down on to the couch facing him. It was so soft and comfortable that she was tempted to sink back into it, relax and put her feet up maybe, but some awareness made her sit up straighter instead.
    He still didn’t look up, much less at her. She felt the dance of nerves turn into more of a jangle and ran her palms along the tops of her legs, trying to stave off that jittery feeling.
    ‘You were right,’ she said suddenly, jumping in, because the silence between them stretched out and she couldn’t stand it. ‘He wants me to spy on you.’
    Tommy used a dark brown guitar pick to pluck out a series of notes. He bent over the guitar, and his hair, released now