Rock Bottom (19 page)

She pressed her lips together. “My dad thought it would be a good joke. Toughen me up. He couldn’t be there to raise me, being in prison.”

Listening, Jet set his jaw. Was she serious?

“Of course, when I finally found him, I went up and introduced myself. ‘How do you do? My name is…Billie.’” She stifled a smile.

Cute. An impromptu rewrite of Johnny Cash’s
My Name Is Sue
lyrics. He couldn’t help but laugh. “Fine. Tell me some bullshit Johnny Cash story instead of the real thing.”

“Ah. A fan, are you?” She gripped the edge of the pool and grinned.

Was that what it took to impress her? He lived, breathed, ate and shat music. Mostly shat, these days. “Of course. Cash was a masterful musician. An artistic songwriter. A genius at adaptation. Just look at the Nine Inch Nails song. Pure inspiration.” He heaved a breath. “Wish I had it.” His fingers moved nimbly across the strings.

“You do. You should record these. Put out a new release.”

He hesitated, but kept his focus on the strings. “No.”

“Why not? It would be great. Fans would love--”

“I said no.”

“But why?” she persisted.

Furrowing his brows, he launched into one of his first singles.

“I’ve definitely heard that one already.”

His gaze flicked up. Was she goading him?

“You won’t even discuss it? You can’t let your guard down for two seconds? What a horrible existence you lead.” After standing, she grabbed the strap of her bag and headed for the path.

“You’re a journalist.” The retort explained everything.

Whirling, she paused. “So?”

The interior pool lights lit her face better than a stage spotlight. Outlined her figure with its stark beam. Made her seem surreal too.

He tilted the bottle to his mouth and sipped.
Careful, man. She might knock you off the proverbial wagon.
He’d been there, and didn’t ever want to go back.

Strolling in his direction, she prompted, “All you have to do is say the three magic words.”

“I love you?” he managed to croon. He hadn’t said that to a woman in many years.

She enunciated clearly. “Off the record.”

He concentrated on his guitar and said wistfully, “Not quite as magic as the other three.”

Shifting her stance, she folded her arms. “Oh, you’re such a romantic.”

“I am, actually. I believe my soul mate’s out there somewhere.” Watching her intently, he swigged his beer.

“Just one?”

Her caustic tone froze his fingers. “So jaded for one so young.”

“Being jaded keeps it real. And I’m not so young.”

He studied her, confused what to make of her.

“What?” she asked.

He set his guitar on the chaise beside his. “Is Justin treating you so badly?”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it with a look of belligerence.

He stood slowly. “Danny worked alone tonight.”

Confusion clouded her features. “Where was Justin?”

Was she kidding? “You weren’t with him?”

“I told you…never mind. I should go.” Anger replaced confusion.

“Then who was it?” Slowly, he walked toward her.

She averted her gaze. “Who was what?”

Hiding something. “Who hurt you so badly?”

“I never said--”

“Were you married?” The softness of his voice contradicted his urgency.

“No.”

“Someone you trusted, though.” He walked closer. “Your boss.”

Squeezing shut her eyes, she murmured, “Damn.”

Bingo. But something in her soft voice got to him. “It’s okay. I feel better now.”

“Why? Because you’re not the only one who’s screwed up?”

“We’re all screwed up. No, it’s a kind of leverage. Now I can relax.” He grinned. “A little.”

Her intense scrutiny made him acutely aware of every movement, every body part. “So spill. Do you really believe in true love? For a lifetime?”

He leveled his gaze at her. “Yes.”

A laugh burst forth. “I almost believed you.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“Somehow your actions don’t quite match your ideology.”

“You disappoint me.”

“Me?” Her tone signaled a challenge, as if she could say the same thing. If she had any expectations of him.

“You’ve been around this business long enough to know better.”

“Than what? This is all a put-on? A façade to protect your sensitive side?” She blew raspberries.

“I’m more interested in you.” He circled her, wishing she would match his steps, writhe against him. “What made you fall for him?” If he knew, he’d have the tools to win her.

“He’s very…attentive.”

“Mmm.” He moved behind her. Not hard to be attentive to her. Though he sensed disappointment, as if she’d lavished in the guy’s limelight, but now the anticipation seemed more delicious than the attainment.

“And sensitive. He knows what I like.”

He gave a bitter laugh, then leaned close to her ear. “Oh, well then.” Had she really been taken in so easily?

Blinking hard, she folded her arms. “Now who’s jaded?”

He backed away slowly, taking her all in. “Come on. It’s so easy for a guy to generalize and make it seem tailored to you alone.”

Throwing her head back, she gazed up at the dark, hazy sky. “That’s cruel.” Her hesitation shone through.

“It’s what I do on the show. One look at a girl tells me whether she’s into sports or indoor activities, whether she’s a mall addict or if the waters run a little deeper.”

“Really. One look.”

“Absolutely.”

Tilting her head, she taunted, “Fine. What about me?”

“You?” As hard as he’d studied her, he couldn’t say he knew her. Much as he wanted to.

“Yes, read me. Go ahead.” Hardness glittered in her eyes.

“I already have,” he lied. She was too difficult to read.

She shifted under his scrutiny. “And?”

Speaking as if from authority, he listed the things he hoped she liked. “You prefer intimate talks to groups. Discussing everything--food, movies, life.” He walked toward her as if walking across hot coals.

She rubbed her arms as if she’d caught a chill, though the night was warm.

Good. He was getting to her. “You’re in great shape, but not because you work out. Because you’re busy. You get bored lying out in the sun, doing nothing. You like to be engaged in what you’re doing.”

Her slow smile sizzled hotter than bare feet on an LA sidewalk. “Go on.”

Sidling nearer, he softened his voice. Her shirt felt like a whisper on his arm, beckoning to him. He’d put everything on the line, and tell her what he hoped she wanted. “You want to find a man who respects you equally, but can crack you open like a lobster. Break that hard shell to get to the soft flesh inside. Someone who’s not frightened of the fierce front you put up, because they know underneath you want to be held, loved as if you were the only woman in the world. Kissed as if your lips are the sustenance of life.” His gaze drifted across her lips.

Her mouth parted. “Yes,” she whispered.

His eyes half closed, he eased close.

She evaded his embrace at the last second. “Oh no. No, you don’t. You son of a bitch.”

“What?” Had he blown it? He held out his arms as if waiting to fill them with her, his entire body begging silently.

Tensing as if in restraint, she bit her lip. “You pretend to be Mr. Sincerity. But it’s all a game, isn’t it? Some reality show. Nothing’s real to you.” Her voice broke. It seemed to startle her into flight toward the cottage.

“Billie, wait.” She couldn’t be more wrong. He’d never felt anything so real.

* * * *

Hearing him say her name made her pause. Such a powerful way to ensnare her. Make a girl believe he wanted only her. She struggled against whatever he’d used to get inside her. Damn, he was good. She wouldn’t tell him that.

She could not afford this kind of mistake. “You made your point. Now leave me alone.”

In an instant, he stood beside her, holding her arm. “What’s wrong?”

Good question. She couldn’t reveal her earlier mistake. One she wouldn’t repeat, even with him.

“Nothing. I have to go.” God, she sounded like a brazen teenager. Ducking her head, she froze, afraid if she moved at all she’d throw her arms around his neck. But why had she revealed herself to him? He’d asked a question, and she willingly bared her wounds for him to sprinkle salt onto.

His grip relaxed, and his fingers trailed down her arm. “Please don’t.”

The deep timbre of his voice roiled through her head, clouding her thoughts. Searching his face, she asked, “Don’t what?” Was he asking her to stay?

A thumping beat signaled the approach of the limo down the drive.

He opened his mouth, clamped it shut. “Never mind.” Releasing her, he stepped back.

Reality slapped her to her senses. Something inside twinged, resonated along her skin. Trembling, she rubbed her arms. She couldn’t get back to the cottage fast enough.

“I’m dying out here.” Just standing by the bedroom window, Billie was engulfed by heat. It was almost eleven thirty and she couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave. The sleepless night clouded her mind more than the confusion over what had happened with Jet. She hoped the sound of Zinta’s voice would ground her again, though she couldn’t mention their strange encounter. “What’s going on in Philly? I’m missing everything, aren’t I?”

Zin’s voice sounded small, as if she were a million miles away. Or wanted to be. “Not much.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Only with people I care about.”

She gasped. That could only mean one thing. “Everett’s moved on again? To someone new? Already?”

“You are good. How did you get that from--”

“Reporter’s intuition. Who? Spill.” Now she’d have an outlet for her frustration.

“I honestly don’t know who she is. She’s very young, just graduated journalism school.”

“Oh no.” Her insides churned. He’d replaced her with a Millennium girl. Would the girl take her job too?

“He’s not interviewing, if that’s your worry.” Zin had read her mind.

“Then how did they connect?”

“Friend of a friend, I heard.” Zin yawned.

“I hate those.” Nebulous connections could prove the most difficult to sever. They had a way of resurfacing. Unexpectedly. No matter--if not the graduate, it would be someone else.

Her voice scratchy with sleep, she made no attempt to hide her disgust. “You’re not still hung up on him, are you?”

“No. Just morbid curiosity.” She’d hoped he wallowed in misery like her. Apparently no wallowing for Everett.

“Ah, Billie, my girl.” Her friend’s tone indicated her total disbelief.

“I do need to get out of here, though.”

“Maybe Jet will elope with one of them. End the series.” Zin cackled.

“No.” The protest escaped before she could stifle it.

“Why? Do you have a vested interest? Other than the story?”

“I meant…never mind. I have to go. Shooting’s about to start. See you.” Flipping shut her cell, she heaved a breath. Why did such suggestions elicit visceral reactions? Like her teenage self had taken over, raging hormones and all?

Switching on the radio, Jet’s smooth voice arrested her.
Be My Girl
, one of his first hits. The one that ignited her teenage lust for him. She sat on the bed, let the melody sink in. Let images of a younger, leaner Jet wash over her consciousness. Oh, the things she used to imagine him doing to her.

She’d imagined them again last night. All night. Only this time, the possibility seemed all too real.

“That’s it, I’m gone.” If she saw him today, she’d be all moony-eyed, and he’d think she wanted him. Some sort of mass hysteria must have set in, or beyond brainwashing, every woman’s pheromones within a ten-mile radius aligned to Jet, and all lusted after him equally. All except Cindy.

“It’s temporary insanity, that’s all. Brought on by unnatural confinement. I need perspective. New scenery. I need to get the hell out of here.” And someone to talk to besides herself.

After a shower, she powered up the laptop. Malibu wouldn’t do today. She’d expect to see Jet at every turn. No--today, she’d go to LA.

Googling the Los Angeles Convention and Visitors Bureau site, she sifted through the museum listings. The California Science Center, the Getty Center, the Autry National Center… LA had a surprising number of interesting museums. Ah! The Grammy Museum at LA Live. Absolutely first on her agenda. Perfect.

Slipping on a sundress and sandals, she packed the camera and laptop in her messenger bag. There had to be somewhere with a wireless connection. She could update the blog on the fly.

Her breath untangled in her chest. She could forget
Rock Bottom
and all its crazy celebrities and wannabes for a day. Especially Jet.

* * * *

The Grammy Museum felt like home. Billie wandered through, reliving each Grammy moment. A photo of Jet halted her. Of course. He’d won three early on. So young, he looked. And wild, his smile more of a smirk, his layered hair untamed beneath the signature red bandanna. And blonder. He kept it a little shorter now, but had abandoned the bandanna. A step in the right direction.

Two middle-aged women approached, stopping behind Billie. “Jet Trently. I just love him.”

“Me too. Alan took me to a concert in ninety-five.”

“Lucky bitch.”

The matronly woman tittered. “I threw my panties onstage.”

Billie couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Sorry. Safe to say you’re fans? Even now?”

“Oh yes,” they said in unison.

“What about his music? Do you still love his songs? Or would you like to see him put out a new CD?”

“Are you with the museum?” one asked.

“No.” Billie flashed a smile. “I’m a music journalist. Just curious.” A little too curious sometimes.

“Oh, you’re randomly polling people? Well, I have all of Jet’s CDs, but a new one would be terribly exciting. Is he recording something new?”

“I’m not sure. I’m hoping.”

The other chimed in. “Me too. That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, Barb?”

The woman clutched her arm. “I’d be first in line to buy it.”

“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.” Satisfied, Billie strolled on, then stopped. “Would you mind if I took your photo by his display? I write a blog for
Rock Bottom
and--”