Rock Bottom (12 page)

The strumming of a guitar captivated her. Such a gorgeous melody. Slipping into flip-flops and a shirt over her tank top, she crept outside and followed the tune to the studio, scattered solar lights along the path leading her way.

* * * *

A candle provided a warm glow. Sitting on the stoop, Jet bent over his guitar, completely lost in his song. Like he had in the earliest days, he gave himself over to the melody, played with his entire body, head keeping time with the beat, shoulders fluid as a dancer. His fingers flew along the frets, strings squeaking. With a final downward thrust, he strummed the last chord. Its harmony hung in the night air like fireflies.

The sound of scuffing caught his attention. Glancing up, he scowled. “Who’s there?”

Waiting, his chest tightened with something like hope.

“Just me.” With hesitating steps, Billie moved forward.

Delight gave way to wariness. He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you playing. It was nice.” She hastened to add, “Really good.”

“Ple--ase.” Wincing, he tuned one string, then another. Anything to divert his attention.

She moved closer. “No, I mean it.”

“You’re trying to save your ass,” he mumbled.

“What?” She froze, eyes wide.

“Your job. It won’t work. My manager’s dead set on having you sacked.” Sipping bottled water, he glanced up. His machismo faded when he saw the fear in her eyes.

“Sacked?”

“You’re counterproductive to the show, he says. To me.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Though I tend to disagree with him on that point.” Whether she meant to or not, she’d inspired him to be better. He set the guitar aside. “You were right. You have been a catalyst in a lot of ways.”

“I didn’t come here to be your friend. I’m a journalist. Not an ego massager like the rest of them.” She bit her lip.

Stretching out a leg, he taunted, “But you said it was nice. Really liked it.”

“And I meant it. You played like you used to, full of passion, putting yourself into the song. I haven’t seen you do that in a long time.” She closed the distance between them, and now stood by the stoop. The glow of the candlelight softened her fair skin, her face framed by dark hair flowing in long waves.

Studying her, he pressed his lips together. “No. Maybe not.” Pausing his fingers along the strings, he laid the guitar atop his lap.

“Is it new? I don’t remember it.”

Standing, he pulled the studio door shut. “It’s late. Tomorrow’s a busy day.” Shouldering the guitar strap, he trudged down the walkway. He had to get away from her. Get her out of his head. She drove him crazy, stirred up too many emotions at once.

She followed him down the path. “For you. For me, it could be the first day of unemployment.”

He clamped his jaw tight. She wouldn’t taunt him into an argument.

“You can’t fault me for doing my job.” Desperation edged her tone.

His open shirt riffled in the breeze as he walked. “I don’t. Like I said, Stu’s rethinking the arrangement. For a reporter, you assume an awful lot about people. Maybe you should dig a little deeper than the surface next time.”

“I can’t believe it.”

He shot her a sharp glance. Just long enough to send shockwaves down his spine. “It’s best if you go, anyway.”

Her pace increased. “Why?”

He whirled to face her. She bumped into him, and her hands flew up and landed on his chest. He stood riveted, the only movement his gaze, his quick breaths beneath her fingers.

She tensed, searching his face.

The soft solar lights enhanced the blaze in her eyes. The emotion clouding her face wasn’t fury. That much he knew.

Careful
, he told himself.
She’s a reporter.

Easing away, he softened his voice. “You’re a distraction.”

Her lips parted. He recognized something rising within her, reaching for him.

Something he wanted. With the slightest twitch in his eyes, he steeled himself. Stiffly, he stepped back. “Good night.”

Clutching the guitar strap, he turned and walked.

“Jet,” she whispered.

Her coarse tone alighted his nerves faster than a match to gasoline.

Uttering a curse, he ducked his head and strode faster, letting the darkness separate them.

* * * *

Banging startled her awake. An assistant called, “Meeting in Stu’s office in five.”

Rushing to the door, she yanked it open. “Five minutes? I’m not even dressed.”

Arching a brow, he tilted his head. “Better hurry then.” Pursing his lips, he scuffled away.

Geez, even the guys here were bitchy. Slamming the door, she stripped off her tank top as she walked to the bathroom. She groaned at her image and quickly applied some mascara and concealer to little effect. Late nights always left their mark. Sleepless nights compounded the damage. And last night she’d gotten very little sleep.

She reached in the closet and pulled out a black sundress. Might as well dress for the morbid occasion. Yep, like flunking kindergarten. Could she fail any more miserably?

Nothing to do with her hair except pull it back in a barrette. An oversized mother-of-pearl necklace would draw attention from her raccoon eyes, so she clasped it around her neck, grabbed her bag and rushed to the house.

So she’d taken ten minutes. Everyone else kept Stu waiting. Why shouldn’t she?

Holding a hand to her cell phone, Cindy nodded at the door. “Go on in.”

Nodding her thanks, she knocked once and pushed open the door.

Stu smiled, hands jammed in his khaki Dockers. “Ah, there she is.”

Jet turned. And the man next to him. Everett. Smiling at her.

Surprise pricked her alert. Struggling to comprehend, she stammered, “What are you doing here?” Had they really assembled to crucify her?

Smiling, Everett linked arms and tugged her to the others. “Billie. We were just talking about the effects of your coverage.”

Her hand splayed across her stomach to quell its flip-flops. “Effects?” So far, they’d been positive, hadn’t they? Or had Everett exaggerated to keep her here longer? All this, and no coffee yet.

Jet’s chin dropped to his chest, and he hunched his shoulders. Bracing himself.

So here it came: the public flogging. Her firing. A wonder Stu didn’t have the cameras rolling for his big triumph. And Jet couldn’t even face her.

With a clownish grin, Stu rocked back on his heels. “Yes, the show’s ratings are through the roof. All because of you.”

“Oh?” That sounded positive. Why the hell had they called Everett in?

Everett’s pleasant expression mirrored Stu’s--a scary thought. “It’s a mutual success.”

She couldn’t follow any of this. “I need coffee.”

Boisterous as a circus performer, Stu bounded to the credenza. “Will an espresso do the trick?” He poured and held out the cup.

Everett clinked his cup against hers. “Here’s to continued success.”

Her heart sank.
Continued.
“So I’m staying?” Overnight, she’d almost gotten used to the notion of being fired. It would at least have gotten her out of here.

Stu’s laughter sounded like a barking seal. “Of course you’re staying.”

A glance at Jet arrested her. He watched her with the intensity of a laser.

Her fingers ached to touch him again. She reminded herself to breathe.

Jet broke away his gaze. “I have some things to wrap up. I’ll leave you to work out the details. Everett, thanks for coming. Talk to you later,” he said to his manager.

She waited for him to acknowledge her, but he left without looking back.

Stu’s phone rang. “Excuse me.”

Glancing after Jet, Everett stepped close. “Everything all right?”

Ignoring her basic emotions--same old Everett. But she’d save that conversation for another time. “You know how it is, rock stars’ egos easily bruise. But I really hoped this would be over soon.”

He threw an arm around her shoulder and tugged her close. “We’re just getting started.”

“Everett…” Seeing him didn’t excite her the way she’d imagined. This morning, standing next to Jet, he appeared a diminished version of the man she’d left in Philadelphia.

His arm encircled her waist. “Listen, I can’t stay long or I’d take you to lunch. When you get back, maybe we could go out and celebrate.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Forcing a wan smile, she couldn’t imagine that lunch date.

“Can I look forward to a blog post today?”

“Of course.” She knew exactly what she wanted to say.

* * * *

Date night. Jet tried to muster some enthusiasm, but he couldn’t. Cat gave him the jitters, and not in a good way. Feral as a jaguar, he sensed she’d go for the jugular if given a chance.

He trudged downstairs, and his wariness shot through the roof.

Her dress, if he could call it that, skimmed her thighs, its tiny silver circles like liquid as she moved. “There you are,” she cooed.

“Yep. Here I am.” Not exactly RWA. He glanced at Stu who winked, a lascivious gleam in his eye.

Cat’s hips sent her dress in motion. When her glistening lips brushed his cheek, he subdued the urge to wipe it away. “You look amazing.”

“Don’t I always?” She tittered.

“Yes,” he lied. In truth, if he’d seen her out somewhere, he’d never have given her a second glance. Amazing? Sure, but also high-maintenance. Devious. He bet himself a beer he would have nothing in common with her. Not a single damn thing.

In the limo, she wasted no time. Her hands wandered down his buttons, and his shirt fell open.

In the seat opposite, Justin adjusted the camera lens. Zooming in, no doubt, so as not to miss a detail.

He covered her hand with his and sent her a look of warning. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

With a whine, she cozied closer. “Not now.” Her tongue circled inside his ear.

He tightened his hand over hers, and whispered in her ear. “Exactly. Not now.”

Bad enough having this captured for an audience. Somehow, he only imagined one person watching: Billie. He didn’t want her to see this. She had to understand he wasn’t some washed-up, clueless dude. He aimed for excellence, in music and in life. He hoped she’d convey that to her readers.

And realize it herself.

* * * *

In the isolated containment of the cottage, Billie nestled on the bed, laptop on a pillow.

She couldn’t deny she’d had preconceived notions about the show, about him--how could she not? His music had been part of her life for fifteen years. His constant persona made him seem as familiar as any guy she attended high school with. His face appeared everywhere: on MTV, in the trade and entertainment magazines. She’d never considered he might want more of himself too. That he’d grown tired of playing at being himself.

She had no trouble writing about how he’d tightened his sound. In the studio, his soulful renditions captivated Billie as much as the others. Ditto about how amazing he looked. To praise his appearance would not only sink her to the level of gossip columnist, but pump up his already overinflated ego.

Jet Trently, she wrote, is an artist, but also a lost soul. She painted him as someone who wanted more from himself, but perhaps didn’t know how to extract it from within. Perhaps, she wrote, he’d been discouraged from expanding his music by those around him.

Wincing, she hesitated. She had to be careful to make no blatant accusations. Something about Stu always made her cringe, and not only his balding pate, his thinning hair pulled back into a ponytail and excessive jewelry. His new pinkie ring came to mind: platinum, and a square chunk of onyx with a diamond set in the center. A self-given bonus?

Research might bear it out. Her investigative journalism skills might prove a little rusty, but something niggled at her to find out. Stu seemed to be the one pushing for the “sure thing,” who didn’t want Jet taking chances. Or ruining Stu’s good thing. Even if Jet drowned in frustration in the meantime.

Despite the fact too many years passed since Jet recorded anything new, she suspected he yearned for it most of all. If he allowed himself to open to it, he’d find it.

If she could guide him in that direction, so much the better.

In the morning, Billie cornered Stu in the kitchen. “Hey, I’d love to interview the contestants.”

“Sure. Set it up with Cindy.” Opening a Perrier, he strode toward his office.

Great, easier than she thought. The actual interview, probably not so easy. Cindy flipped through the schedule. “How about five o’clock?”

Craning to see the date, she asked, “Today?”

“Too soon?”

Cindy rivaled the Sphinx for inscrutability. Gazing up, blank-faced as ever, she might have hated Billie’s guts at that moment. More likely, she had no expression because she simply didn’t care.

“No, five is perfect. But…no cameras, right?” Just to be clear.

“Right.” Cindy promised to alert the girls.

Walking through the hallway, Billie texted Zin:
So is Everett screwing someone else?

Immediately, Zin called. “How did you know?”

Okay, so the shot in the dark was a bulls-eye. One that ricocheted to strike her in the gut. Not hard to guess when he flew across country and didn’t even take the time to pretend to miss her. The goodbye kiss he offered felt more like a peck. He always saved his best moves for the current girl. She should know--he’d left her swooning, even as she packed to leave.

“I didn’t. In spite of his warm send-off, he’s been a bit…professional since I arrived here.” Her insides churned. Of course it was why he sent her to California. The bastard!

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s my editor. Like you said, I should have known better.” Foresight seemed an unnecessary virtue at the time. Hindsight proved more damaging.

“You and dozens of others.”

“Ouch.” Her friend’s barb struck deep.

“You knew that going in, right?”

“I suppose. Hope springs eternal, and all that bull.” Though she knew, deep down, Everett wouldn’t commit. Like the Radiohead song, he admitted up-front to being an unworthy creep.

“Guys like Everett don’t change.”

“I don’t know what made me think he was the best of both worlds--rock star enough to feed my bad girl addiction, and normal enough to be boyfriend material.” Time to stop wishing on the moon. Every guy in the rock and roll business, apparently, made awful boyfriend material.