Rock Bottom

Can success trap you at Rock Bottom?

For rocker Jet Trently, success means playing the same platinum-selling hits ad nauseum. Philly rock journalist Billie Prescott thrives on covering the latest music releases. When her editor sends her to Malibu to cover Jet’s reality dating show, Rock Bottom, her blog’s success keeps her trapped there. Her life’s at Rock Bottom too, until she hears Jet’s new songs. They touch her heart as his music did when she was fifteen. When Jet touches her heart as well, will the reality show ruin the real thing?

Content Warning: No graphic love scenes, some adult language.

Billie affected a sharp business tone. “Already did. I’m Billie Prescott from
Strung Out
. My editor spoke with Mr. Gilbert about covering the show?”

Jet’s eyes widened. “
You’re
Billie Prescott?”

Billie had a feeling she’d just made Jet’s Lust Have list, though she had no doubt the list, if printed, would require reams of paper. If he licked his lips, she’d be out of there before he could retract his tongue. “You’re expecting me, aren’t you?”

“Billie Prescott, yes. You--no.” His appreciative gaze wandered the length of her.

The trio chuckled in unison.

Like she didn’t get that same response every freakin’ time. Biting back a snide reply, she forced out, “Do you have an information packet for me? Something that will help me catch up on where season one ended?”

Stu glanced at Jet. “Cindy can put something together.”

Jet tilted his head. “Not a fan, eh?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d think he appeared pleased.

Wrinkling her nose, she grinned. Let that be answer enough.

“Pity you weren’t a contestant.” He arched a brow and turned to the third man. “Now there’s an idea.”

Rock Bottom
9781616502829
Copyright © 2011, Cate Masters
Edited by Christy Phillippe
Book design by Lyrical Press, Inc.
Cover Art by Renee Rocco
First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: June, 2011

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

To Jerry, who showed us all how to aim for excellence. Rock that heavenly choir!

As always, I’m indebted to my wonderful critique partners for your thoughtful and caring guidance and expertise.

To my hubby, Gary, I’d be lost without you. Blue skies ahead, babe.

The laptop screen cast a pale blue-white light across the keyboard, enough to navigate the web. Billie Prescott clicked through the pages. “How perfect.”

From the bedroom sounded a creak, then footsteps padded up. Strong arms encircled her waist, and a deep voice rumbled in her ear. “Porn surfing? Without me?”

Giggling, she leaned into him. “This is porn to me.”

“Tree houses?” He rested his chin on her shoulder and then nudged his shirt away from her neck to nuzzle.

“For adults. Aren’t they amazing?” Since reading
Robinson Crusoe
as a little girl, she’d harbored a dream to live in a life-sized house in the trees.

“Come back to bed. You’re wrinkling my shirt.”

His sexy growl trembled along her skin, made her yearn for what it promised. “But these are--”

He cupped her breast and squeezed.

Instinctively, she slid her hand up into his hair. “You’re right. I can look at them some other time.” Two years she’d waited for him. Two long years of flirting and innuendo, and a date here and there in various states of undress before finally landing him in her bed. As much as it had delighted her to awaken and see Everett sleeping beside her, she had difficulty imagining him in her dream house.

Still, she took his hand and let him lead her to the bedroom. He may or may not be her soul mate, but only a thorough investigation would reveal the truth. A long, deep, intensive investigation.

Everett excelled at intensive. For short intervals, at least.

* * * *

Billie bumped open the conference room door, dribbling coffee down her pant leg. “Ach.” One reason her wardrobe consisted of black and chocolate: stains didn’t show as well. Besides, her long dark hair and fair complexion never fit the summery light tones.

Around the small circular table, the staff of
Strung Out
, Philly’s struggling music magazine, halted conversations to send haughty glares in her direction. Billie liked to joke
Strung Out
wanted to be
Rolling Stone
when it grew up. In her five years there, they’d lost a few staffers to the better-known and respected national competitor. More would follow if they could, if only to escape these cramped quarters and this grimy city to trendier New York, Chicago or LA. Not Billie. She liked staying closer to home. And Everett. Especially now that things had begun to get interesting.

Sliding onto a seat, she dabbed at the coffee spot. When her gaze landed on Zinta, Billie smiled and said hello. “Hey, I want to hear about that Incubus concert later. Next time they play in town, they’re mine.”

“Yeah. Later.” Zinta’s shoulder-length blond hair glinted in the morning sun, and she arched a brow. Not a good sign. Others found her a hard read, probably because of her striking features--rosebud mouth in ever-present rose-red lipstick, dark brows framing green eyes rimmed with thick lashes. But Billie picked up her friend’s subtle cues: a lifted brow-flicked glance combo could spell real trouble.

Everett’s glare hardened. “As I was saying…”

Billie would have to be on her best behavior. “Sorry. What’d I miss?”

He pursed his lips. “The assignments.” His exaggerated diction left no doubt of his disapproval.

A knot formed in her stomach. Her editor had warned her about arriving late. Zinta had warned her about sleeping with her editor. She hadn’t paid attention to either. Zin claimed his pointed dark eyebrows, onyx eyes and black hair set off by an impeccably trimmed goatee gave him a devilish appearance deserving of his reputation. Billie thought he could pass for Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell in trendy business casual dress.

Rocking back in his chair, steepling his fingers to his lips, no one here would be able to guess those lips had explored every inch of her all weekend. She’d tell him later how brilliant he’d acted. Better yet, she’d demonstrate her awe. Lack of sleep may have diminished her looks, but not Everett’s.

“All of the assignments?” she ventured.

“All but one.” Sipping his coffee, he concentrated on his cup.

“Please tell me it’s half-decent. My fact-checking call kept me, or I swear I’d have been on time.” She grinned. “This time.” Hopefully she could sweet-talk her way out of trouble and back into his good graces.

He drummed his fingers against the entertainment magazines strewn near his portfolio.

The top cover caught her eye. “Oh, geez. Look at him. How pathetic.” She lifted it to study it.

Jet Trently, muscled arms crossed over his smooth, chiseled chest. A red bandanna wrapped across his unruly layers of sandy blond hair, the only clothing in view with the photo cropped at his hips. Scantily clad girls draped across his arms and shoulders, glistening pink lips parted as if panting.

Fifteen years ago, she’d have given anything to have been one of them. Then twenty, Jet had been one of the hottest guys on the planet. His rock ballads ruled the airwaves--and her CD player. The songs wound their way into her mind, her soul. She’d awakened singing them and fallen asleep humming them. But now, after hearing the same songs repeated ad nauseum on the radio, they grated her nerves. Though he continued to generate titillated energy among females wherever he went, Jet’s attempt at a musical comeback fell flat until he’d agreed to star in a reality show tracking his revived attempt--and his love life, of all things.

Tilting the magazine to get a better view, she gave a
tsk
. “
Rock Bottom
--such an appropriate title. He needs a catapult to help him back from the depths. So is this the latest round of fawning women?” How could such an obviously popular guy have trouble finding love? He must get offers everywhere he traveled, but something about his cocky stance suggested little interest in the women pawing him. Her reporter’s instincts went into overdrive as she wondered what sort of female might appeal to him, if not the contestants.

Zinta clicked her bloodred nails. A sign of nervousness. Possibly a warning sign. “They’re last season’s bevy of beauties.”

Something about Zin’s steadfast gaze unnerved Billie. She’d have to confer with her after the meeting to find out what was up. And to catch her up on the weekend. An entire weekend this time. A first for Everett. Things definitely had heated up between them. Well, until this morning.

Jet’s clear blue eyes captured her attention again. “Panting over him? Or the spotlight?” Sure he looked great, but had they no self-respect? Over the years, stories of his bad boy behavior had overshadowed his music. Trashing hotel rooms, showing up late for concerts, bitter arguments with his band.

Everett leaned back, his signature cool in deep play. Very convincing how he avoided her gaze and affected a stern boss persona. “They’re after both, probably.”

“Ugh. When will he give up? Or at least ditch the nineties persona.” The hair style, at minimum.

“When he finds true love, apparently.” Wide-eyed, Zinta glanced at Everett.

Something definitely must be up. “Yeah, right.” Her confidence waned.

Ryan Watts yawned. “Or another record deal. He’s already gone through two wives, hasn’t he?”

Francisco Perez sat forward. “One, actually, and two fiancées. And God knows how many supermodels.” A tabloid addict, Frank updated the gossip blog daily, though he tended to post on trendier people than Jet.

Billie could care less about gossip, or a musician’s celebrity. She lived for the music alone. “And he hasn’t found true love? Shock. But no hit record for what, five years?” She let the magazine fall to the tabletop. “So all the covers--market research?”

Standing, Everett touched his fingertips to the tabletop. “And your new assignment.”

“No.” Fresh bands. Exciting concerts. She lived to share those with readers. Not recycled rock.

Stacking the magazines, he set them atop her blank notepad. “Yes.” His emphasis lent sibilance to his response. A hiss of warning he’d stand firm in his decision.

A softer tactic seemed required. If only the others would leave, she could sway him. In more ways than one. “Please no. The guy’s music sounded passable at best then, but now it’s intolerable.” Listening to it nonstop would be akin to music hell.

The rest of the staff made excuses about the time, their workload, anything apparently, to vacate the room. Zinta’s look of pity as she exited did little to ease Billie’s impending sense of doom.

Everett held the portfolio to his charcoal cotton shirt. “Anyone can write compelling stories about great music. Only you can infuse some life into this story.”

As she stood, she flipped the magazine over so she wouldn’t have to see Jet Trently’s smug smile. “I don’t think--”

“Look, Billie, I can’t give you every good assignment. Besides--” He turned, his voice softening. “--if you truly despise his songs that much, this will provide just the challenge you’ve needed.”

Challenge?
“What do you mean?” She spoke slowly to convey the depth of her dismay. To dismiss her offhand posed one insult. Attacking her writing stretched the truth beyond believable.

Pausing, he tilted his head. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but your writing’s been a little stale lately.”

“Never.” Squaring her shoulders, her earlier sentimental feelings for him fell away. “I put my heart and soul into every article. Every paragraph and sentence.”

His mouth turned down, the warmth faded from his eyes. His expression read:
bullshit
. Okay, so occasionally she rushed through an article to finish. Only because the magazine wouldn’t hire any more staff, and Everett overloaded each reporter, trying to keep up with
Rolling Stone
.

Her mind raced. “But this is a TV series.”