“You proved me wrong.” If allowing him victory would get her back in his good graces, she’d concede.
To Danny, Jet said, “She thinks I’m a loser.”
The urge to straighten out his twisted opinion propelled her from her seat. “I never said--”
“She thinks you’re all vampires too. Should I worry about that? Start wearing a garlic necklace?”
Their laughter held an edge of discomfort. So did their glances.
Time to wrap it up. She had enough material. And she had no intention of inserting herself in the mix. Ducking her head in embarrassment, she headed for the door.
Jet called, “I hope I didn’t insult you.”
Pausing, she turned. “Likewise. But honestly, if that’s the kind of catalyst you needed to break out of your slump, I’m glad I could be of assistance.”
Instead of appeasing him as she hoped, his mouth hardened, and his eyes shone with anger. “Everyone hits a slump now and then. Even music journalists, I hear.”
She bristled.
He went on. “For someone who despises others seeking fame by using another person, she seems to have overlooked herself. Ironic, isn’t it? Your byline’s featured prominently above those opening paragraphs beating me down.”
Her jaw dropped only for a moment. “Excuse me.” Her heels pounded against the stone walk. His words seared into her flesh like a branding iron.
Inside the cottage, she threw her handbag on the ottoman with a furious groan. She cursed and paced, paced and cursed. Then dragging out her laptop, her fingers flew across the keyboard, spewing venom.
Far too long for a blog entry. She read it back aloud to get a better handle on it. Pure crap. She’d lost her objectivity.
With a deep breath, she stood. Of course. That’s exactly what he’d meant to happen. Engage her in the whole bloody mess so she couldn’t write worth a damn.
If she lost this assignment, it would be like flunking kindergarten. Well, screw him. She’d keep her head--and everything else--out of his reach. Stay at a distance and report the truth, whether he cared to hear it or not.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, poised her fingers over the keyboard and cleared her head. From her past swirled a rush of feelings: excitement over Jet’s latest single, singing along in the car, feeling as if his music documented her life. A spark of that earlier flame came through in his jam session. Too bad he expelled it playing the same old songs, performing as if by rote.
Reviewers once likened his earlier music to the honest optimism of Lennon, the searing intense guitar of Hendrix. Those artists no longer had the chance to compose new songs. Jet should respect his fans--and trust them--but more importantly, she wrote, trust himself. He still had that power within him to excite his fans. Why not give them what they really wanted: something new?
Reading it over, it felt right. She’d captured what she really wanted to say from a place of truth, not vengeance. Her prose had its own sparkle, connected to the music. The whole reason she’d become a music journalist.
Too good for the blog, but she couldn’t allow Everett to edit this one. She posted it, then settled back against the pillow.
Next thing she knew, daylight streamed through the window. Voices sounded outside.
With a groan, she sat up. She hadn’t even closed the blinds. Shielding her bleary eyes, she went to the window and caught Danny edging to the back patio, videocam at his shoulder. The girls swimming already? She glanced at the clock. Almost nine. Time to get moving.
After a quick shower, she checked her email. As expected, a message from Everett.
Your blog read more like an article. You posted before approval. Next time you post anything substantive, schedule it to post a few hours ahead and shoot me a text to review beforehand, like I asked. Nice work, though.
Gee, thanks. Nice roundabout way of getting to the compliment. So personalized too. He must really miss her.
Funny, she hadn’t thought about Everett in a while.
It felt good.
* * * *
The next morning seemed eerily quiet except for the rain dripping down the window. Rain always made Jet restless. Laughter sounded from downstairs. The girls wouldn’t risk ruining their makeup by venturing out in this weather. The house grew too small very fast.
Hunched against the misty rain, he strode past the cottage.
Billie sat on the sofa in tank top and shorts with her laptop.
Damn.
Wish I hadn’t seen her.
Dressed down, she looked better than the others dressed to the nines.
Ducking his head, he continued to the studio. Once inside, the silence magnified his loneliness. He played a few songs, but his restlessness grew.
Around noon, Cindy called. “We’re making a Chinese food run. Need anything?”
“Did Ms. Prescott order anything?”
“Yes, moo shoo pork and some iced tea.”
“I’ll have the same.” Hanging up, he knew what he’d do.
* * * *
When Cindy offered to order Chinese, Billie could have kissed her. Last night’s dinner left her wanting more than yogurt for brunch.
Thank God Cindy understood. Whether the others realized it or not,
Strung Out
kept their ratings on the rise.
Not much on the agenda today, so Billie could research. Reading over the contestants’ biographies made her chuckle. Whoever crafted this spin deserved an award. Each might have been the hometown sweetheart according to the report.
At a knock on the door, she rose from the sofa. Probably Cindy with the takeout.
Still reading, she opened the door. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver…” The words trailed from her open mouth.
Jet stood there, raindrops streaking his face. His gaze crept down her bare legs, and his chest swelled, nostrils flared.
“What are you doing…up so early?”
What a ridiculous thing to say.
“I didn’t get much sleep. Here.” He held up a paper bag.
“You brought my food?”
Careful, Billie, he’ll think you’re a Mensa member.
“It’s getting wet.”
“So are you.” And damn, wet looked good on him. His blue tee shirt clung to his contours, echoed the color of his eyes.
“Can I come in then? I’d like to talk to you.”
“Sure.” She moved back.
As he stepped inside, his rain-slicked arm brushed hers. She could have sworn she felt steam rising from the spot, but she couldn’t take her focus from him.
He set the bag near the coffeemaker and turned, his jaw cocked. “I’ve been reading the blog.”
“Oh.” Nodding, she racked her brain to recall what she’d written. A glass of wine tended to loosen not only her tongue but her fingers at the keyboard.
“I don’t understand.” Frowning, he approached.
“What?” Whatever it was, it made him unhappy. Tense.
Words stumbled from his mouth. “You…” Gazing away, he shook his head, extended his arm as if grasping for the right thing to say. “You didn’t seem so two-faced when you arrived.”
“Me? That’s a laugh--”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m wondering, though.” He stepped toward her, the hard gleam in his eyes made her uncomfortable.
Moving backward, she gulped. “Wondering what?”
“Is it because you’re jealous?” He sure knew how to ratchet up the heat. His eyes blazed with intensity as he leaned toward her.
Steeling herself, she straightened her shoulders. “I’d have to be interested to be jealous. My interest in you extends as far as my employer defines. Not one millimeter beyond.” To admit any fascination with him would fuel his ego to wildfire strength. She couldn’t be responsible for California spontaneously combusting. Or the coiling of her insides when his gaze pierced hers, stripped her naked. Like now.
“I see the way you look at me when I’m with them.” He tilted his head toward the house.
A breathy chuckle burbled forth. “You mistake pity for interest then.”
“Pity? Are you sure?” His voice husky, he drew nearer. “Are you sure you don’t wish my hands were sliding along your back instead?”
At his touch, her breath caught in her throat. His fingers left a trail of sparks down her spine, igniting into high heat the lower they traveled.
Her nipples sprang to attention, straining against the cotton tank top. “I wish--” Her words came out in a breath, melting from her mouth as her insides seemed to be melting. “--you would keep your hands to yourself.” Not very convincing. She really wished he’d just kiss her so she could know what the fuss was all about.
His steps matched hers until she’d backed against the wall. His arms framed her, his chest brushed against hers, tantalizing enough to make her want to wrap herself around him.
“Are you sure? Your body language says the opposite.”
His breath warmed her face, and sparked a chain reaction of warmth through her. Such amazing eyes--so crystal blue, rimmed with full, dark lashes. A floating sensation came over her, made her want to dive in, let that blue wash over and over her. The heat of his body made her hungry for more.
Don’t go there! You already know how this story ends.
She’d sung that sorry love song before.
“Are these your best moves? They’re as stale as your music.” Her words caught in her throat, but managed to hit their mark.
His features hardened. Searching her face, he froze, then eased away.
With a shuddering exhale, she steadied herself against the wall. Funny, she’d never been prone to vertigo before. But when he’d pulled away from her, he seemed to take some of her along.
He strode to the door. He touched the knob, hesitated a moment, then yanked it open and slammed it behind him.
Wow, she didn’t know she could be such a bitch.
Pure self-defense. I can’t afford to play his games.
Or be another one of his playmates. He had enough already lined up for the sacrifice. Thinking about him spending time with them made her so angry. But after tonight, there would be one less.
Holding a hand to her belly, she took a moment to shake off the haze. Somehow, the moo shoo pork didn’t seem as appetizing now.
* * * *
As if on cue, the rain subsided for the evening’s taping. Thank God. If he’d been trapped inside one more hour, he might’ve been tempted to smash something. Instead, he did pushups and sit-ups until he ached.
Stale moves. He’d show her.
Stu’s voice echoed up the stairwell. “Ready, Jet?”
“Coming.” He jogged down, brushed past Stu who babbled about the schedule, and kept going until he hit the patio. A quick huddle with Stu and the producer, and Jet was ready.
He averted his gaze from the crew, knowing Billie would linger behind.
The producer called, “On three.”
The speakers blared one of Jet’s ballads. When it faded, the camera panned along the girls’ faces, the epitome of hope and anguish. All but Cat. Her wickedly arched brow and smug smile conveyed her self-confidence. She’d stay. The perfect rocker girl, always wearing the skimpiest, clingiest outfits to show off her whiplash curves, set off by spiked heels. Plumped lips glistening, Cat waited third in line. She all but oozed sex.
Jet didn’t relish the job ahead. “Brianna.”
The girl squared her shoulders, tucked her chin and sauntered forth like a runway model.
He took her hands, pecked at her cheek. “We’ve had a good week.”
A little more enthusiasm would sound more convincing.
Brianna beamed. “Yes, we have.” Her arms stiffened, and her grip tightened.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know more about you.”
With a high-pitched sigh, she bounced to tiptoe. “Likewise, Jet.” Her smile could have filled the room.
Winking, he leaned in. Before his lips touched her cheek, he glanced at Billie. He got the reaction he wanted.
She gasped, and her eyes blazed with fuming heat. Crossing her arms, she blanked her expression.
No beer could have given more of a lift. “Ashley,” he crooned.
The second contestant sidled toward him, all but drooling.
He slid his hands into hers. “You’ve been so good to me this week.”
“I tried.” Batting her lashes, she swished her hips.
“Keep trying, darlin’.”
Ashley swung her arms around his neck, her voluminous blonde hair obstructing his view.
Laughing, he pushed her shoulders back. “All right. Nice enthusiasm, Ashley. Mmm.” His thumb and forefinger traced his mouth. “Terry.”
Her smile tight, she approached with the nervousness of a first-time beauty pageant contestant.
Jet reached for both her hands. “You’re a sweet girl, but I think we both know there’s no connection. No spark.” Not that he could claim to have one with any of them.
Terry jerked her head in what he assumed to be a nod.
“I appreciate you coming here, and wish you all the best in life.”
“Goodbye.” She leaned forward, kissed his cheek and then hurried through the French doors, making him wonder if her packed bags waited by the front entrance.
With the aim of a heat-seeking missile, Cat slunk toward him and draped an arm across his shoulder.
He hadn’t even called her name. “Well, hello.”
Cat silenced his greeting by pressing against him, her hips sliding in concert with her lips.
A gasp of shock, maybe frustration, came from the remaining women. Jet angled to see one cameraman cut to Ashley, standing openmouthed. Another camera zoomed close on the couple. He firmed his grip to ease her away, but Cat’s locked arms signaled she intended to hold fast.
Why not?
He had no reason not to enjoy this. He relaxed, and the barracuda in his arms renewed her attack.
When it grew a little hot for prime-time television, he broke away. “Easy now.” His forced smile faded when he saw Billie retreat down the walkway.
Probably to slice him open on the blog again. She had no other reason to leave.
The thought sent a pang of regret through him.
* * * *
Ocean waves crashed against the bluff behind the house, sending sprays of water into the air. With pink, gold and orange streaking the sky, the water lit up like a light show.
Billie phoned Zinta. “I miss Philly.”
“It’s fifty and raining. Stop whining.”
“Trade places with you,” she offered. Its gritty gloom was part of Philly’s signature charm.