The Mighty Storm (Raura Revised)

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"You have?" He turns his head looking at me surprised.

"Of course I have," I smile. "Music is my job." His face falls and instantly I know I've done it again. "But that's not the only reason," I hastily add. "I wanted to see how you were doing. And you've just achieved so much. I was really proud watching you on TV and reading the articles about your music, and when you set up your own label – I was like, 'Wow' ... and I've bought all your albums, of course. And they're really brilliant." I'm babbling. Someone stop me, please.

He's staring at me again, but there's something different in his eyes this time.

"Why didn't you get in touch with me, Laur?"

His question throws me. I stare at him confused.

Why didn't I get in touch with him? He was the one who stopped calling me. Stopped writing. Ignored my letters.

And I didn't know where he was until he became famous, and then it's not like I could get anywhere near him even if I'd wanted to.

I mean of course I wanted to but, I just couldn't.

"Um..." My mouth's gone dry. "You're not exactly easy to get in touch with – Mr Famous Rock Star." I try to come off as light-hearted, but even I can hear the edge to my voice.

"Yeah, that's me. One of the most accessible, inaccessible people on the planet." His stare is hard on me.

Have I pissed him off or something?

And now I just feel totally uncomfortable, because if anyone should be pissed off it's me. He stopped contact with me.

I feel a sudden rush of unexplained anger toward him and have the urge to yell at him. I want to ask why he never got in touch with me. He could have found me so easily.

He was the one that stopped the contact, not me, so he should have been the one to get in touch.

I want to know why he just disappeared off the face of the planet, and didn't rock back up until he was sitting in my TV.

But I don't ask any of those things. Fear is keeping my mouth shut. I have half-an-hour max with him and the last thing I want to do is waste it arguing about things that happened twelve years ago, or fuck this interview up – it's way too important to Vicky, and the magazine as a whole.

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket and gets one out. He puts it between his lips, holding a lighter up, he pauses.

"Do you smoke?" he asks, cigarette still perched between his lips.

"No."

"Good," he replies.

Hypocrite, I think.

"You mind if I do?"

"No."

He lights his cigarette, dropping the pack and lighter onto the table and takes a long drag.

I watch the smoke trickle out of his mouth and billow up into the air.

He really does have nice lips.

My phone starts to sing a text in my bag. Shit, I forgot to turn it off. It's unprofessional of me to have it on in an interview.

Ross' eyes follow mine down to my bag.

"Sorry," I mumble. I get my phone, silencing it. "It might be my boss."

It's not. It's Will asking how my day is going and that he misses me, and is looking forward to seeing me tonight. He really is sweet.

"Adele?" Ross grins, inferring to the tune just playing on my phone.