Post by orinocoflow on Jan 5, 2011 23:45:20 GMT -5
From Others’ Eyes
Chapter One
Chapter One
“Good morning, Sharon.”
Sharon Browne looked up at the owner of the tenor voice, a handsome 28-year-old man with sparkling blue eyes and rich brown hair expertly spiked up. If anything, the poor guy looked nervous, fidgeting and hitching his messenger bag from one shoulder to the other.
“Oh, hello, Paul,” she said warmly. “The rest of the lads are in the other room. Just put your bag down here and you can go on and join them. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Nodding, the tenor lay the bag on a nearby chair and walked down the hallway, straightening his jacket and checking his collar. Shaking her head, Sharon went back to digging up her clipboard in the chaos on her usually-organized desk.
Way too formal for rehearsals, but he’ll learn that this is completely casual, not serious, she thought to herself.
In the room he was headed for, four men were talking to each other. One was a tall blond man of about twenty years of age, his thick Irish accent making it hard to understand him. His sea-green eyes glowed with the promise of a quick wit and a natural joker, and he did not disappoint. He was dressed in a loose shirt and jeans, a guitar slung across his chest, his tan arms folded over the braided cloth strap.
The young boy on the opposite side of the room, only fourteen, was the shortest of them all, with dark-brown hair in a spike and braces in his teeth, dressed in a jersey and jeans with black Converse on his feet. Beside him stood a man not that much taller with icy blue eyes and the jet-black hair falling around them showing them even more by the stark difference. He had on a green Celtics’ shirt and faded jeans, and he seemed to be just a few years south of 30.
The last occupant of the room had on old, yet still sharp, jeans, with a tan T-shirt on top. He appeared to be somewhere between 35 and 40, with his bald head and fatherly expression, and stood 6’4”, which was a few inches above the blond.
Just then, the door opened and they saw a young man walk in, but he had not one foot in the room when his jacket caught the doorknob and he fell, the jacket twisting up and covering his face, revealing a pressed white shirt underneath above a lean waist. Struggling to right himself but failing, he was sprawled on the floor, coughing once as the material stifled him. The oldest man stepped up and pulled him easily to his feet, keeping a hold on his arm until the embarrassed newcomer nodded his thanks and took one shaky step to the side. He tugged his jacket down and smoothed it with his hands, slipping the pocket back where it belonged.
He looked around the room, assessing the other men. Unlike the rest of them, he was dressed formally with that collared white shirt, pressed black pants, and the black suit jacket that just screamed designer and definitely expensive. Polished black leather dress shoes gleamed from his feet, contrasting with the sneakers and Converse on the others’. All in all, this man knew how to dress himself well and fashionably, and he was undoubtedly a professional when it came to interviews, performing before a large audience, et cetera. His bright blue eyes also hinted at education and a razor-sharp wit, and when he met the blond’s gaze, the two seemed to have a telepathic recognition of another one of their kind.
When he met the boy’s eyes, however, the teenager started laughing, which set off the other three, but he just smiled and waited for them to stop. The blond grinned wickedly at the new man and said, “Ya better be more careful comin’ through that door nex’ time.” However, the newest addition to their company just stared at him, a small line appearing in between his brows as he digested the words.
Frowning, the blond repeated what he had said, but to no avail; the man continued to stare at him, confused. The short man with the black hair stood up from where he had been leaning on the desk and came forward, his voice soft and a little hoarse as he drawled out the words slowly, annunciating each sound.
“Do you speak English?”
At this, the man blinked and stood a little straighter. When he spoke, his cultured Dublin accent only added to the impression formed by the rest of him. “Yes, I do, but I have trouble understanding Northerners. Sorry, I’m a little slow this morning. Had a bit of a late night.” He smiled weakly, doing his best to cover up his unease, but the bald man saw through the disguise and smiled reassuringly. Then the Dubliner turned to him and said, “Thank you for helping,” and the awkward tension was gone from the air.
“No problem,” said the bald man. “My name’s George Donaldson, by the way, and the black-haired man is Ryan Kelly, the boy is Damien McGinty, and the blond is Keith Harkin,” he explained, pointing out each one as he came to them. “And here come Sharon Browne and Phil Coulter,” he explained, nodding to the door as their new manager and producer walked through it.
“Well, now that we are all here, let’s get you lads briefed on what we’re going to be doing,” opened Sharon, looking around at each one of them.
* * *