The Fifteenth Minute Read Free Page B

is that I’m better when I’m holding a script.
    For several minutes I sit still, as if enthralled by the complexities of the Jets-who-don’t-play-football. DJ stays where he is, and so do I. There aren’t any seats open near me, though. So if I want to talk to him, I’m going to have to make my own luck.
    Rising, I dig a couple of quarters out of my pocket. I don’t head over to DJ, because I’m not that brave. Instead I make a beeline for the jukebox in the corner. I put in my quarters and then I check out the selection. The last time someone updated this puppy looks to be during the 1990s. And it’s a problem, because I need to play something that reflects the girl I wish I was—easygoing, casual, a little bit hip.
    Hard to do that when I’m staring down at choices like Madonna’s “Vogue” (a perfectly good song, but not exactly cutting edge) or “Achy Breaky Heart.”
    Then my heart kicks into a higher gear, because I feel him approaching. I’m desperate to turn and look, but I make myself pick a song instead. I’m proud to say I don’t spare him a glance until I’ve tapped in the code for the track of my choice.
    Only then do I stand tall and turn to him. And, whoa—my memory hasn’t even done him justice. I’d remembered the thick brown hair and the dimple that’s darkened by his five o’clock shadow. But his eyelashes are darker and more devastating than I remember, and was his mouth always so full and sinful-looking?
    And now I’m staring, damn it!
    “Hey there,” he says, parking one hip against the scarred wooden paneling. “Remember me?”
    “DJ, right?” It comes out as a croak. Because I’m cool like that.
    God help me—his smile is slow and sexy. “That’s right. I’m surprised you remember, though.”
    I clear my throat and try again. “Are you saying that because we only met once? Or because I got senior-prom drunk that night?” I never went to a prom, but I heard another actress say that once and it sounded cute.
    He rewards me with an even bigger smile. “You said it, not me.” His eyes drop to the jukebox. “Pick out something good?”
    “It wasn’t easy.”
    “Right? I love this old thing, though.” He rubs the gleaming surface of the jukebox, and I am suddenly fixated on his wide, masculine hand. I wish I could pick it up and compare the size of it with mine. I want to know if his skin is rough or smooth…
    That’s when I notice the abomination coming from the jukebox. An electro-beat that I’d never choose, and some ridiculously high male voices…
    “Interesting pick,” DJ says, and the corners of his mouth are twitching.
    “Hell!” I bend over the box, peering at the song codes again. “How is this possible? I was trying to play MC Hammer’s ‘Can’t Touch This.’”
    DJ chuckles. “And instead you got…”
    The chorus from the long-forgotten Color Me Badd kicks in, singing “I Wanna Sex You Up.”
    Nooooo! Either my subconscious has betrayed me or the machine is miscoded. It’s probably fruitless, but I have to at least try to distance myself from this error. “You should know that I would never willingly play a song by somebody who can’t spell ‘bad.’”
    “Really?” He grins. “Yet you went for some Hammertime. And that dude spells ‘mother’ with a ‘u’ and an ‘a.’”
    Argh . If my daggers from the DragonFire game were real, I might turn one on myself. “DJ, your grasp of nineties hits is…”
    “Impressive?” His smile is cocky, and I have to restrain myself from reaching up to measure it with my fingertips.
    “I was going to say thorough , if useless.”
    He puts one of those strapping hands on his chest. “Woman, bite your tongue. I get paid cash money for knowing my nineties hits. It’s the best job ever.”
    “Oh. The hockey rink gig, right? That’s why they call you DJ.” It’s coming back to me now. For the hundredth time I curse myself for getting sloshed the night I met DJ. But I’d been so immediately