Glitter on the Web (4 page)

He rolled his eyes. Finally he turned to me and addressed me, eye to eye, for the first time in… well, pretty much ever. “Do I have any regulars coming to the show?”

I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. “I don’t know. I just got here.”

He shrugged. “You have all the information. Find some of the regulars, send them a personal invitation. Fill that front row full of chicks who know better than to touch the goods. Otherwise they’ll just eat me alive.”

My eyes narrowed as I glared at him. I couldn’t believe he was willing to push the charade that far. I knew the girls he wanted me to invite. They were the girls who waited with bated breath for any little scrap of his attention, and would return that favor a hundredfold. These were the ones who virtually gave him a career, following him around from dive bar to dive bar, paying whatever money they could on whatever merch he had to sell, in every gig that he could possibly book. Some traveled down to San Diego or up to San Francisco, even Vegas back in those early days when he was touring heavily to promote himself. These girls belonged to his street team, his most fervent and devoted fans. They wouldn’t let anyone speak ill of the man who knew how to make them feel like a million bucks at every show, where he would often toss them a bone by giving them VIP treatment, like free tickets or backstage passes for five minutes of precious one-on-one interaction.

These were the women he knew. There were the older women who came alive with the attention of a sexy young man. There were the married ladies who wanted just enough spice in their lives to keep them from cheating. There were the young, shy women who desperately needed to believe his phony message of self-empowerment. They were the ones who didn’t mind sharing him, so they weren’t possessive or jealous.

He would never have let any of the other kind of fans get any closer. There were those who had overstepped some boundaries in the past, who touched or kissed or grabbed when they shouldn’t have, but he had them bounced right out on their well-padded keisters. For most fans, there was a solid “no-touchy”—and most importantly, “no-batshit-crazy”—rule. As long as they respected the boundaries between them, that he was the rock star on stage and they were just the fans in the audience, he’d keep them around. This inner sanctum kept him safe without really asking too much from him in the process.

This was no accident.

Though they probably entertained fantasies otherwise, none of “his favorite girls” would ever get what they wanted from him. He’d always remain just out of reach by design, the perpetual carrot on a stick that would forever dangle just an inch away from their eager fingertips.

He would just never let
them
know that, of course. He would flirt, use innuendo or make them feel special, as if maybe, someday, who knew where it all might lead? He sang his suggestive lyrics to them, with smoldering glances he knew would spark them all the way down to their toes, setting them on fire with the possibilities. If they knew there was no chance in hell, they’d never jump for him whenever he snapped his entitled little finger. So he let them entertain their ideas of “eventually,” “someday,” “maybe later” even though he never had any intention to crack the wall between them.

It was the ultimate tease.

And now I was supposed to draw up some kind of VIP list, to invite these poor sad souls to one more concert where they would show up once again for cake, but settle—ultimately—for crumbs.

Yet this was my job, and I had to remind myself once again I loved it. I walked to my desk in the lobby to get started. I wrote one email and copied it to about ten of his biggest local fans, the ones he had “followed” on social media, all of whom landed on his VIP list.

By eleven o’clock, all ten had RSVP’d. Frank was so pleased he gave me another task. “I’m going to need you to go with Eli this afternoon.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“Yes, way,” he corrected. “Someone needs to coordinate it. What better person than someone who looks just like the women he sings about?”

“You calling me fat, Frank?” I teased.

He just glared at me over his glasses, keeping right on task. “I think it’s important his fans see that they have an ally in this thing.”

I smiled sweetly. “If I was truly their ally, I’d defect and join Team Rhonda and take every single one of them with me.”

“His concerts make a hell of a lot more money,” Frank shot back.

Money
, I thought to myself with a snort of derision. It always came back down to that.

It was because of money that I prepared to tag along with Eli that afternoon to help coordinate his event. I scheduled the limo to pick us up early, which turned out to be a good thing. Eli let me know before the door even closed behind him that we had to go to his place for a change of clothes.

I sucked it up as I rode silently beside him in the car, all the way to his pad in Malibu, practically biting my tongue in two to prevent myself from letting him have a piece of my mind once and for all. But I knew it was useless. He’d never hear what I had to say because he didn’t care. We sat in stoic silence as L.A. raced past in a blur, as he buried himself in his phone, ignoring me completely until we pulled through the gates to his exclusive oasis sitting right on a bluff overlooking Santa Monica Bay.

Finally he deigned to speak to me. “You might as well come in. This may take a second. You can go through some of the merch to figure out what we need to take. Some of the older stuff,” he added, bestowing that brilliant white smile that dimpled each perfect cheek. “Remind them why they fell in love.”

I very nearly vomited in my mouth, but I said nothing. The palms of my hands bore the brunt of my silent frustration as my Clem-perfect manicure cut into my tender skin. I was certain that I was going to leave bloodstains on the seat as I scooted out of the luxury car to follow Eli up to the modern, elaborate beach house he called home.

It sprawled over nearly half an acre, with its own stone fountain that flowed downward across the sloping lawn. The Pacific cradled his place like a fortress, so I could hear the beach roar behind the house as we walked to the front door, and I was allowed into Eli Blake’s lair for the first time.

The whole joint looked like some orgy clubhouse from the Studio 54 era. There was nothing subtle or conventional about it. Textured wallpaper covered the walls in an eye-crossing geometric design. Stark bronze hexagons floated in a sea of olive green, and shimmered under the recessed lighting in the hall leading downstairs towards the sunken living room.

Upholstered leather furniture provided much of the seating, which was designed to accommodate large parties rather than casual living. Some lambskin throw pillows were scattered around a gold satin ottoman, which was conveniently situated near the large, red grand piano. Clearly the focal point of the room, it faced the large windows for a breathtaking ocean view. Sensual abstract art hung on the walls, along with giant letters spelling out “Trust in Your Dream.”

As he rounded the bar separating the kitchen and the living room, a sixteen-pound Maine coon cat with long hair and a throaty voice hopped up on the counter to say hello. He had the black and gray stripes of a tabby, with white on his chin like an old man’s beard. Mr. Beau Jangles, the alleged murderer of one Rosie Blue, was as happy to see Eli as Eli was to see him.

“Hey, buddy,” Eli greeted, affectionately scratching the old cat’s ears. He smiled warmly as he bent to ‘boop’ Beau Jangles’ head softly with his own forehead, which Beau really seemed to like. He rubbed against Eli’s face to show his appreciation.

Honestly the interaction sort of took me aback. I always assumed that Eli Blake was a heartless, opportunistic douche nozzle. In that moment, when it was just him and his cat, I saw a different side. A tender side. A human side.

And I didn’t like it.

As if to remind me how much of a
bastardo
he could still be, he looked up with a start, as if he had forgotten I had accompanied him at all. The instant recognition wasn’t favorable, as per the norm. He stood straighter. “I’ll show you where I keep my stuff.”

I kept my snicker to myself as I followed him towards the downstairs master bedroom with an attached office, which was where he directed me once we entered the room.

Like the living room, both the office and the master had ocean views, with direct access to a private terrace. Of course it had its very own hot tub, because why not? The whole place was designed to seduce. The ceilings in the master were vaulted, with wood detailing that made this part of the house feel almost like a cabin, despite the designer wallpaper in an almost schizophrenic puce. In the office it appeared to be green, but as the light hit the bedroom, it changed into a darker purple, though it was all technically the same wallpaper.

Both of those colors mixed on the dark satin sheets of his unmade four-poster bed, still askew from the night before.

I really didn’t want to think about what he might have been doing there the night before, and he didn’t really care to tell me. He was business as usual. “Boxes are over there. Remember. Older stuff.”

My retort died on my lips as he peeled away his shirt, hopping the three steps that led to his bedroom.

I begrudgingly had to admit that his physique warranted a little respect. He worked hard to keep that body hard and fit. Despite his playing to all the outcast girls, it helped his career tremendously that he wasn’t an outcast guy.

I could only hope that when middle age set in, he’d develop a paunch and a bald spot, both the size of his current ego.

As it was, he was about 6’2 and likely weighed about one-seventy-five. His shoulders were broad and toned, and his abdomen cut down to a clean V-line towards his skin-tight jeans. I had to wonder if he’d ever have children at this rate, since it was a miracle if his boys could breathe.

He tossed his shirt onto the bed before unzipping his jeans, his naturally bronzed skin shimmering under the light. His jeans were halfway off of his ass before I realized that there was no underwear there to discard. I quickly turned towards the stacks of boxes along the opposite wall just so I wouldn’t have to watch the jerk strip.

Thanks to being in charge of his PR, I already knew every single inch of his body, courtesy of all the photos he had taken over the years. I knew about the mole on his face, a beauty mark he shared with his mother. I knew about the jagged scar near his abdomen from a motorcycle accident when he was eighteen, which had mercifully spared his face except for one spot near his eyebrow, which looked a bit like a lightning bolt zigzagging just above those near-unreal ice blue eyes.

I had seen those eyes, that face and that body in my dreams often enough, though it had never been good. Generally he had horns, cloven hooves and the blood from the innocent coming from those pouty, full lips.

That was the Eli Blake
I
knew, but it wasn’t necessarily the kind of image that sold records. So I remained on distasteful task, pulling out all those old CDs he had created independently, just to give his special fans a rare treat.

I didn’t want to admit those CDs, too, earned a modicum of respect. From the cover to the content, he had produced a really professional product on a shoe-string budget, without any real help from anyone. He could have crafted the career of his dreams if he had the patience for it. Instead he jumped on a fad and rode it like a rodeo bull. All I kept thinking as I pulled out CD after CD was what could have been.

Who was Eli Blake really? What did he have to say? These were questions he should have been asking, rather than playing up to some fantasy that was phonier than a three-dollar bill.

I was halfway through my third box when he called for me. Sorta.

“Hey, Charlie.”

And just like that, my hatred restored. My brow furrowed as I turned around to face him. He was soaking wet with only a towel around his hips. “It’s Carly,” I corrected tightly, figuring he should at least know my friggin’ name after seven months, especially since I was helping make him a star and all.

“Sorry,” he dismissed easily. His gaze swept over me, likely looking for some indication that I would be verklempt in his near-naked presence. Instead, I crossed my arms and glared at him. I could practically hear his brain click and whir from where I stood. “I was wondering if you could help me pick out something to wear.”

My eyebrow practically arched right off my head. “You’re a big boy. You can dress yourself.”

He chuckled. “You have a point.”

Just like that, he dropped the towel. My breath caught, much to my regret. Those needle dick rumors were off the mark.
Way
off. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I just thought I could use a woman’s perspective. You know, since you’re my marketing demographic.”

Again, the hatred flared. “Is that a nice way of calling me fat?” I shot back. Unlike my comment to Frank, which had been a joke, Eli’s taunt got squarely under my skin.

He remained wholly unconcerned. “Voluptuous. Zaftig. Rubenesque. You can pick the title, doesn’t matter to me.”

My fists curled into balls as he approached. Why was he trying to get a rise out of me? I gave him a wide berth as I stomped towards his bedroom, yanking open one of the doors. The steam from his hot shower rushed over me in a fog.

“That’s the bathroom,” he grinned.

“I can see that,” I snapped back, before I slammed that door and went to the next one. It opened to a massive walk-in closet, filled with all kinds of clothes.
God, he really was a vain, superficial jerk…

He was still completely naked as he leaned against the door frame. “You don’t like me, do you, Carla?”

My teeth gritted together. “What gave it away?” I sneered.

“Why not?” he asked, as if such a thing were unthinkable to him. A girl didn’t like him? Stop the presses!

I spun around to face him. “My name is Carly, for one,” I started. “But you wouldn’t know that, even though I’ve worked with you for seven long months, trying to make you a megastar.
And succeeding
, by the way,” I added with emphasis. “I don’t matter to you the same way your fans don’t matter to you. I don’t fit into a certain size, so I don’t count.”