"There, now you’re perfect.”

September tucked the dregs of an eyeliner pencil into his sleeve and rocked back on his heels. His bare feet were blackened by soft earth, his beloved shearling-lined jacket spread out on the grass. Jasper wouldn’t thank him for bringing half the field back into the van with him, but it wasn’t like there was anywhere to shower.

Krissy gave him a tight smile. Wise Krissy, all black cashmere and Satré and snark, who smelled like oranges even when the rest of them looked and felt like a bag of stale tortilla chips. Krissy, who had no business sharing page space with the word “corn,” whose camera could tell a better story in two clicks than he could in 20 pages.

“It’s just bulls**t. The deal was if I deferred the Chicago job, the EP cover was mine. Now I’m in a flyover town, hoping some silk robe-wearing Jagger impersonator who can’t see further than the end of a rolled-up $50 bill will either pay my invoice or cut me loose. Blowing me kisses in the green room like I’m some kind of grou- ”

She didn’t finish the word, but the silence held its shape. September absently concluded that Kris Caper would make a pretty good critic if she ever got bored of taking pictures.

"Sorry kid.” Kris softened. “You did a great job on my eyeshadow.” She squeezed his shoulder as she stalked away.

“Don’t go crying again or you’ll smudge the magic!” Sep shot back.

She had a point though. As much as he tried to convince himself he was a vital part of the ecosystem, this wasn’t the goal when he’d begged and borrowed his way across the Atlantic. Yes, he loved the long drives and the late nights, but there’s a big difference between earning respect and orbiting it.

When was the last time he’d even picked up a pen? The night he’d headed out to cover Maiden Mouth’s album launch maybe?

Not for the first time in the last few weeks, the incomparable, incandescent September Jones wondered if this was the story he wanted future biographers to tell.

Gauzy white curtains floated at the bay windows, the round bed was trimmed in azure taffeta, and butter yellow pillows were strewn across the floor. Cumulatively, the decor had the startling effect of convincing someone they’d just woken up in heaven, or in the middle of a giant cupcake.

September stretched luxuriously. It wasn’t rock and roll, but whenever Cadie returned to the Bay Area for her famous cabarets, he shopped a profile piece around before he even knew what he was doing. Half out of friendship, and half because she only accepted the best accommodation for residencies. She was preening at the vanity, a waterfall of ruffles obscuring her frame, a perfect pin-up right down to the single golden curl escaping from her rollers. Lazily, Sep stalked over and planted a kiss at the base of her skull, making her squeal.

“You cad! What is it they say about mixing business with pleasure?”

“Mix liberally, shake well and serve over ice, I reckon.”

Her tone was mock Transatlantic, her eyebrow arched. Sep could have sworn she was about to throw a powder puff at him. To distract her, he pulled a notebook that was more tape than actual binding from his bag:

"From top to pert bottom, Kitty Kat Couture’s Bayside Cabaret was a study in opulence. Only her rendition of Diamonds Are Forever felt out of place, as the sparkle in her eye dulled every single Swarovski on her impeccably sculpted bodice.

Are diamonds forever? This gent says no! The rarest jewels of all rarely stay for as long as we desire, which is why you should snap up tickets for closing night before they vanish!”

“Too much? My editor wanted to match the shoot, but I’ll go to war if you’re unhappy.”

Cadie was scarcely listening, she was simply waiting. September saw her eyes flash lilac, watched the magic rise in her cheeks, settling on her neck like perfume.

“You should really up your day rate. I pay my esthetician more in an hour.”

“Mate’s rates doll. Besides, I’m already living the dream.”

I just have a vision of a ten-year-old September listening to this on huge headphones that kept slipping over his eyes, plugged into a thrifted record player his aunt got him for his birthday, and thinking that LA must be the most magical place in the world.

Needless to say he had some hard lessons to learn lmao, but this is still his driving song of choice.

September's been fleeing from authority ever since he was 15, and has built a life where no one gets to tell him when to go to bed, when to wake up, where to go, or what to do.

Unfortunately, his biggest flaw is that he's more likely to drop out of society than stand up and fight for a better one. It's the age-old hippie problem, there's room at his campfire for whoever needs it, but it would take a serious shake-up for him to be at the forefront of the revolution.

"There's a place up ahead, and I'm goin' Just as fast as my feet can fly Come away, come away if you're goin' Leave the sinkin' ship behind

Bring a song and a smile for the banjo Better get while the getting's good Hitch a ride to the end of the highway Where the neons turn to wood"

SEPTEMBER JONES' RULES FOR LIFE:

⭐︎ Life is for living
⭐︎ You don't need magic to change your circumstances
⭐︎ Destiny isn't real and fate can do one
⭐︎ Sure you can cast spells, but can you change a tire?
⭐︎ Keep the small bills on the outside and never get drunk on anything Apple-flavoured

"We get stuck in the dirt and we can't see where we're going We face all kinds of hurt and the friction slows us down But I won't be waiting here for the world to win me gold I'll leave your dust behind me, stranded in the road

This is your life, you can go anywhere You gotta grab the wheel and own it And drive it like you stole it Roll it, this is your life, you can be anything You gotta learn to rock and roll it You gotta put the pedal down And drive it like you stole it"

My guy's all grown up now and can usually pay to get where he needs to go or drive his beat-up purple camper van there, but he's still been known to sneak on to a freight train and pass a couple of weeks in anonymity whenever he needs to meet a deadline without distraction.

"Ventura Highway in the sunshine Where the days are longer The nights are stronger than moonshine You're gonna go I know

'Cause a free wind is blowing through your hair And the days surround your daylight there Seasons crying, no despair

//

Wishin' on a falling star Waitin' for the early train Sorry boy, but I've been hit by purple rain Aw, come on, Joe You can always change your name Thanks a lot, son, just the same"