"He is just sex on a stick, isn't he?"

Iris West hit Alt+Tab as fast as she could, switching windows. Linda Park howled with laughter.

"It's research," Iris muttered, face aflame.

"Uh-huh. 'Research.'" Linda made little finger quotes. "Staring at pictures of the hottest, most reclusive rock star to ever duck TMZ. Totally research."

"It really is, though." Iris brought up her email. "Look at this."

Linda leaned over her shoulder to read the email from their editor. Her brows rose. "He wants you to interview Barry freaking Allen? How many strings did he have to pull to secure that? And why you?"

"He didn't. Keep reading."

"Get the interview." Linda turned her head to peer at Iris from close range. "Just … get the interview. When he's given like, four interviews since he went solo three years ago."

"If you ask me," Iris said, "Mason wants me to fall on my face."

"Are you going to let that happen?"

"Barry freaking Allen. And he's only in town for four days. I might not have a choice."

"Please. You're the youngest features writer this dumb site has ever had, and the best."

"Aww. Linda."

Linda shrugged, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "It's true, or I wouldn't be your friend. I have certain standards to maintain."

Iris smiled at her, knowing that her friend was all bark and no - well, not very much - well, a reasonable amount of bite.

"Anyway, I bet you've already got a plan of attack, don't you?"

Iris flicked over to the backstage picture she'd been studying. "Actually, I do." The Internet had been drooling over it for a week, because of the way he lounged on the battered sofa in his red-leather rockstud getup, eyes drooping, mouth crooked up, like he was waiting for you to climb on top of him.

Iris didn't think he looked deliberately sexy so much as tired out from the show he'd just done. But she was pretty sure she was in the minority, and it didn't stop her from wanting to climb on top of him, because hey. She had hormones.

Anyway, she'd been looking at the photo long enough that she barely paused to drool before she zoomed in. There, behind his head, was a to-go coffee cup with several marks on the sides.

"Coffee," Linda said.

"A very specific coffee drink," Iris said with all the assurance of too many years foaming lattes and adding hazelnut shots to soy moccachinos. "And that may be a Starbucks cup there, but when he was in Shooting Starz, he used to talk about supporting local business all the time."

"So your plan is to, what, stake out every coffee shop in town?"

"I've gotta get the interview, don't I?"

It took three days, six coffee shops, and more lattes and cronuts than she wanted to think about, for her waistline's sake. But on the third day, as she typed away at her laptop in one of the prime seats at Jitters, her phone buzzed.

Order up

She glanced up. The barista she'd bribed gave her a significant look and nodded at the skinny, nerdy, grad-student looking boy who was studying the display of pastries with hungry interest. Then she set a cup on the counter and waited until Iris had run up before calling out, "Jay? Jay?"

Iris grabbed the cup and was almost back to her seat, biting her lip - Come on, you ridiculous nerd - before a hesitant voice said, "Miss? Um? Miss? That - that - I think that's mine?"

"Hmmm?" she asked, looking over her shoulder.

The boy stood in front of her, fidgeting from shoe to ragged shoe. "That, I think, I think you got my coffee? I'm Jay?" He had Weasley-red hair, held out of his face by his tattered baseball cap

She looked at the side. "Oh my god. This isn't my latte!"

"Yeah, no, sorry, I - "

"No, no, I'm so sorry, I guess I'm caffeine-deprived." She smiled at him as she handed it over, because he looked so sweet and grateful and really, what was he doing, lackey-ing for a selfish shit like Barry Allen? Who, support-local-business aside, seemed to be the worst example of the too-good-for-you music star that Iris had been dealing with for the past few years.

Well, everybody had to pay the bills somehow, she supposed.

His eyes widened behind his thick-framed glasses, and then he smiled back. "So, I - I'm - Jay?" It came out as a question.

"I'm Iris," she said. "Which sounds nothing like Jay, so, clearly, I'm really caffeine deprived."

"Well, hey, if you wanted it - " He started to offer it back.

"Oh no, no, no!" she cried, backing up. "I couldn't possibly. I'll just wait for mine, I'm sure it's coming soon."

"Okay." His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it, a frown crinkling up his forehead between the baseball cap and the big glasses. He looked up at her. "Okay, then. Uh. I've gotta go, so."

"It was nice meeting you, Jay," she said, smiling at him again. What were the odds that had been Barry Allen texting him? Probably yelling at him for taking too long with his sweet, sweet caffeine.

"Yeah. You too."

She watched him go, then hurled her laptop into her bag and bolted the other way, almost killing herself on a guy's crutches where he sat near the back door. "Sorry, sorry - !" She picked them up and propped them against the table, then flung herself out the back. Panting, she looked up and down the street.

The tall, skinny form was just disappearing into the park. She bolted across the road, ignoring the blaring car horns, and kept him in view. Which was a challenge, because he had ridiculously long legs and walked wickedly fast. She almost had to jog to keep up.

Damn cronuts, she thought, holding a stitch in her side.

Jay turned a corner and Iris picked up the pace, determined not to lose him. When she hustled around the corner, she almost tripped over him.

He sat on a bench in a secluded oxbow of the path, surrounded by green trees rustling in the summer breeze. He'd taken off the glasses, the baseball cap -

And the red wig.

He smirked up at her. "So. Iris West of . What can I do for you?"

"Oh my god," she said, and sat down hard.

It had never crossed her mind that Barry Allen would get his own coffee.

Her plan had been to follow Barry Allen's coffee back to whatever hotel he was staying at, probably under some dumb name like Clark Kent. She'd hoped that by "accidentally" taking the wrong cup, she would have created enough of a rapport with the Jay-the-lackey to get her up into Barry Allen's suite. Then she'd work it out from there.

Staring into the eyes that J-14 had dubbed "thunderhead grey, promising storms and passion" when he'd been nineteen, Iris realized that she seemed to have leapt over all of that.

"You're him."

The eyes widened. "You didn't know that?"

"No. Oh, my god." She composed herself. "Wow. Okay. Well. You probably know what I want."

"I'm guessing an exclusive interview."

"Since that's what I wrote on my business card, it's a fair guess."

"What card?"

"The one I stuck in the bottom of your cup?"

He lifted his cup and peered up into the bottom. He fished out the folded business card she'd wedged there, opened it, and read it. Iris had agonized over the wording. He said, "Hmm," and stuck it in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Iris couldn't stop looking at him. On stage he was all tight red leather and sultry eyes, and in his rare off-stage public appearances he wore ripped black jeans and tight black shirts, both outfits that showed off his long, lean body. And those rang her bells, really they did.

But this getup? This slouchy hoodie layered over an undone button-up and baggy t-shirt, the slightly oversized cords, the red sneakers -

Honest to god, she wanted to rip them off him right here.

She shook her head hard, ordering her hormones to pipe down. She had a job to do. "How did you know who I was, if you didn't find the card?"

"My guitar teacher texted me."

"Who?"

"Did you notice the guy in a booth toward the back? With crutches?"

"Long hair? Beard? Latino?" Kind of cute himself.

"That's Cisco. He's been in the industry since he was like fourteen. He knows everybody. Especially the music media."

"He - teaches you guitar?" Barry had been doing new and different things lately, Iris remembered. More technically challenging, less folky dreamboy strumming.

"Yeah, and writes some of my songs. He's amazing. He should be the rock star, not me. Like, he does shit with a guitar and a piano and vocals that - oh my god. But he always says he'd rather be the guy in the background who can go out and get a fuckin' latte without having to put on a disguise." Barry poked the red wig with a twisted-up smile.

The smile dissolved when he looked up at her. "Is that on record? Poor little rock star?"

"No," she said. "I'll tell you when we're on record."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely. In fact, if you're ready - " She took her notebook with the questions in it out of her bag, and the digital recorder. She held it up.

He studied it, then smiled at her. She set it down on the bench between them and clicked it on.

"So," Iris said. "You're working on a new album. Tell me about it."

"Um, it's kind of a departure for me."

"How so?"

"Definitely still pop-rocky, but I've been experimenting recently with Latin classical guitar techniques and that's influenced my playing a lot. Lucky for me, the songwriters have really encouraged that and worked it in, and I think we've got a couple of really special things."

"That is a departure. Do you worry about accusations of cultural appropriation?"

She expected something about how music belonged to everyone, and it was okay because one of his songwriters was Latino, but he rubbed the back of his neck. "A little? Yeah? I really hope that when people hear the songs, they'll understand that I'm not trying to use the techniques to exoticize or flavor them, and hopefully it comes across in a respectful way. I mean, unfortunately popular music has a really long history of just blatant appropriation, without any credit to the original sources."

"Like how 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' was actually a rewrite of a 1939 song by a South African composer."

"Right! Yes. And how the Andrews Sisters are so well-known for 'Rum and Coca Cola,' and it basically kicked off calypso in this country, but nobody knows it was Lord Invader, a Trinidadian artist, who first sang it."

"But where do you draw the line between influence and outright theft? Because that's music, right? You hear songs, you jam with people, you use what works."

"That's the tricky part, isn't it?"

As she watched him talk, Iris realized something that no interview had ever brought out, and that was that Barry Allen was the biggest music nerd on the planet.

He freely admitted that his own talents were middling, edging to good with a lot of work, but he spoke worshipfully of musicians from every genre, from metal to opera. "No, okay, but, like, the bluegrass-inflected banjo work she did on that album? I swear to you, I met her at the Grammys and it was a toss-up whether I was going to cry or piss myself. Um." He looked at the recorder.

"I won't quote that directly." She smiled at him, and he seemed to lose his train of thought.

Oh, god.

Did she fluster him?

Did Iris West, music reporter, who was conducting this interview without having checked her makeup and with hair that had gone just a little too long since its last relaxing, fluster rock star Barry Allen?

He gave her a shy look and she realized that rock star Barry Allen was nowhere near this park bench, and the person who was getting flustered was the sweet nerd who hid behind the facade.

She asked another question about the genre-pushing on his new album, and he seemed to remember that he had to promote, and answered it.

Iris occasionally referred to her pre-prepared questions, but otherwise she let the conversation flow, basking in the sunshine of his pure love of the art. It reminded her why she'd wanted to report on music in the first place. It was like a conversation with a friend, geeking out together over music.

When she checked her phone she realized that over an hour had gone by like a blink. She showed him the time, and his face fell. "I didn't realize. I've got this thing tonight."

"Yeah, this little sold-out concert," she said drily.

"Well, yeah, one of those." He laughed, and she laughed too.

"I won't keep you. Thank you so much. This has been wonderful."

"I feel like that should be my line." He beamed at her.

They went over the necessary discussions of when the interview would come out, how much heads-up he would get, et cetera, et cetera.

She pulled another business card out of her bag and scribbled something on the back, then boldly tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Her hand rested briefly on his chest before she pulled it away, curling her fingers around the warmth.

He lifted his hand to touch his pocket, looking baffled. "I already have one."

"Just in case," she said breezily, getting to her feet and strolling off around the corner. She took out her phone, because she needed to call a cab to get back to the office.

Then she needed to call Linda and squeal like a middle-schooler.

Barry had turned his phone off just after leaving the coffee shop, which was why the reminder to go to the stadium for sound checks hadn't gone off. He turned his phone on and it went nuts, text after text scrolling across the screen. He didn't bother reading them, just texted back, Pick me up at 4th and Vine.

The town car pulled up, and Barry climbed in the back, shoving aside the set of crutches propped up on the left-hand seat.

"Dude," Cisco said. "What. The fuck."

"Lay off." He said it amiably. All the texts had been from Cisco, none from Wells, so he knew his friend hadn't ratted him out at least. "I don't employ you to be my nanny."

"You employ me to be your brains because you clearly don't have any! Christ Jesus, Allen, when I text you that a reporter from is scamming you, that is not your cue to go swanning out the door into the park so she can follow you! And, may I add, leaving your long-suffering and non-ambulatory best friend hanging without his latte and scone!"

"Whatever, they brought you your order."

Cisco combed his fingers through his beard, where a few scone crumbs still lurked. "Not the point. Wells is gonna have a stroke and you know it."

"I hate giving interviews with Wells." Barry scowled at the thought of his publicist/manager, who'd been been handling his awkwardness and smoothing over his many, many social gaffes since the Shooting Starz days.

"Yeah, I know you do, but that's all that keeps the headlines from saying, 'Barry Allen has all the chill of an eighth-grader with a boner in math class.'"

Barry felt his face fall. He gave Cisco an intensely betrayed look.

"Shit, Bare, the puppy eyes? Really? Stop - don't - okay, fine, I'm being kind of a dick, but you know it's what Wells is going to say. You've got this whole cool, untouchable mystique built up, and as much as I think it's stupid, you've put a lot of work into it. Why would you jeopardize that for a reporter who was playing you from the word go?"

"Did you see her smile?"

"No."

"Then you wouldn't have to ask."

Cisco rolled his eyes. "Did you make an idiot of yourself?"

Barry held out his hand, thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Not much."

Cisco reached over and nudged them wider apart, then raised his brow. Barry shrugged and dropped his hand. Maybe he had, but she'd been so nice. Her questions had been smart and incisive, but he'd never felt like she was trying to catch him out.

"Is she at least going to give you first look? At the article?"

"Yeah, but no editorial."

Cisco hummed. Wells always, always insisted on editorial input. "So, you liked her."

"I liked her."

"What'd you talk about?"

Barry filled him in. Cisco made an impressed noise at the question about cultural appropriation, and insisted on hearing his answer. "You get her info? Or are you just going to drop by her office with a mixtape?"

"She gave me her card. Twice, actually." He fished both cards out and looked at the newer one. "Oh. Oh my god. Oh my god. Cisco."

"What?"

Barry turned the card around to show him. It was a phone number, and the words Call me sometime and we'll talk music again. :)

"Is that her cell?"

"I - think so? Oh my god. Holy shit." Barry wheezed a few times. "I should text her. Should I text her? But it's been, like, ten minutes. That's too soon, isn't it?"

Cisco began snickering.

"But if I wait until tomorrow then is that too long? I don't want to be that guy who plays games - "

"Dude, you have a concert to do tonight. I think she'll understand if you hold off even a couple of days."

"A couple of days is way too long. Oh my god! Cisco! She gave me her number!"

"How are you surprised by that? Did you forget the part where you're a rock star?" Cisco was laughing full-out now. "You're such a fucking dork, Allen, I swear to God - "

Barry reached over and snatched up his friend's phone.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

"Did you text that doctor from New York yet? The one who examined your ankle?"

Cisco turned red. "She was being nice."

"Dear - Dr. - Snow," he said in a falsetto voice, pretending to text. "You - are - beautiful. Will - you - please - have - all - my - babies - "

Cisco grabbed the phone, and checked it. Of course, Barry hadn't sent anything to the number entered as "3 3 3 Caitlin 3 3 3" Still, he shot Barry a filthy glare. "You suck, you know that?"

Barry snorted. "Please, like that's not exactly what you wanted to say ever since she yelled at you for jumping off the stage."

Cisco flipped him off. Barry laughed.

They both slouched down into the town car's soft leather. Cisco lifted his bandaged ankle, gently propping it between the two front seats. "I'll skip the lecture on being careful about dating a music reporter, here. Consider it delivered. You really gonna call her?"

Barry looked at the card in his hands and read the number again. The smiley face seemed to glow on the cardstock. He smiled back at it.

FINIS