Free Jane by April Lindner Page B

others.”
    “Listened through all the others?” He massaged his temples. “You mean only once?”
    I nodded, and he looked at me oddly for a moment, as though I were a bird who had flown in through the window and he was trying to figure out how to get me back outside.
    “I believe the agency picked me for that reason,” I reminded him.
    “Oh. That’s right. I told them not to send me any more fans.” He made a snorting sound, a laugh devoid of humor, and picked up the shirt I had chosen. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of trouble it causes.” His tone was grudging. He held the shirt up in front of him. “But couldn’t you humor me for a moment? Pretend you like my work. Imagine you could be won over by something as frivolous as a tour program or a poster. Would this shirt do the trick?”
    I considered the question for a second. It would be a nice color on him; it made his gray eyes seem darker and moodier, and itbrought out the color in his lips, softening his rough features just a bit. “I think it would.”
    “I’ll put it on.” He grabbed a pair of jeans from the pile. “Don’t go anywhere.”
    A minute later, he was back, standing in front of his three-way mirror, striking a pose, holding an imaginary guitar. “So?” he asked me.
    “I’d go with that one. It’s flattering. And it’s not too formal, but it looks grown-up.”
    “Grown-up. That’s me. Earrings?”
    “Yes. You don’t want to look too much like a soccer dad.”
    “Soccer dad? Ouch.”
    “And maybe roll up your sleeves to show your tattoo.” He rolled them up, revealing the serpent that coiled through the sparse hair of his left forearm.
    “Motorcycle boots?” he asked me, and when I nodded, “Black or brown? Maybe you’ve just found yourself a new career — stylist.” He ruffled his hair, making it stand up. “Don’t go yet. You’re not done here.” And he disappeared again into the bedroom.
    When he came back out, the transformation was complete; I could half imagine what the cover of the tour program might look like. “What do you think?” he asked.
    “Perfect. I think that’s the right balance.”
    “Should I shave? I’m thinking about growing a soul patch,” he said. “You know, one of those little blobs of hair right here?” He pointed to the spot beneath his lower lip.
    “I know even less about beards than I do about men’s clothes.”
    “That’s right,” he said teasingly. “You’re a girl.”
    “Maybe you should ask your barber.”
    “I don’t want my barber’s opinion. I’m asking
because
you’re a girl. A woman, I mean.”
    I didn’t really know what to say to that.
    He surveyed himself in the mirror a moment, then turned back to me. “Do you think I can pull it off?” he asked. “Will I pass?”
    I waited for him to explain further.
    “As a sex symbol?”
    “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think men worried about things like that.”
    “They do when they’re using their face to sell CDs.” He exhaled sharply. “And when they have to shoot a fucking tour program.” Then he softened a little. “Sorry. I can see you don’t like swearing. I’ll try to rein it in. So. Passing as a sex symbol. Can I?”
    I weighed my words carefully. “You might not be movie-star handsome,” I said finally, “but you’re good-looking for a rock star.”
    Mr. Rathburn’s eyes widened. “That’s three times you’ve hurt my feelings in one conversation,” he said a bit gruffly.
    “Three times?” I really hadn’t meant to be rude.
    He counted on his fingers. “You don’t like my music. I’m a soccer dad. And I’m good-looking…
for a rock star
.”
    “A lot of women throw themselves at rock stars.”
    He surprised me by laughing, a belly laugh that went on for a while. When he laughed, his eyes crinkled, and I could see how his fans might consider him attractive, despite the scowl and his less-than-classically-handsome features. Then his laughter gave way to a sly smile. “What