Skepticism edged Zin’s tone. “Someone new, I’m sure.”
“Must be.” This was not a date.
“Well, have fun. But be careful.”
“It’s not a social thing. It’s an interview. Careful of what?”
“The situation. Him.”
“I told you, it’s an interview.”
“Yeah. So was my interview with Jakob Dylan.”
“Oh, I envy you. How’d that go?” Had she still been in Philadelphia, she’d have fought for that one, even against Zinta.
“He plied me with tequila.”
Billie froze. She knew what tequila did to Zin. “And?”
“And now I can confirm the rumors about his sexual prowess are all true. I hope Caleb never finds out. Or maybe I do.”
“No! But you love Caleb.”
“That’s the hell of it. My point is: I never intended for it to happen. And I want you to be careful.”
“Yeah.” She wouldn’t contradict Zin when she was obviously hurt. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Her earlier sense of foreboding returned. She shook it off. Tonight, she’d get away from here, dressed in work casual clothes so he wouldn’t misunderstand.
* * * *
Quarter to nine. She’d be here any moment. Jet stood at the kitchen island and flipped through the newspaper, not registering a word of it.
What the hell was he doing? Stu reamed him out, but he could give no good excuse. Something snapped. He had to set things straight. He had to know whether he’d been wrong about her.
When she entered the backdoor, he straightened slowly and gulped hard. “Ready?”
“Yes. But are you sure this won’t rock the
Rock Bottom
boat?”
His hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the front door. “A little healthy competition will make it all the more interesting.”
“I’m not competition--”
“Come on, before they see you.” He grabbed his keys with one hand, and her with the other.
“I’m just going to interview you.”
Laughing, he pulled her along the walkway. “Don’t you ever have fun?”
“Of course, but I’m here to work.”
Swirling to a stop outside the garage, he caught her in his arms. “Work, fun--it should be the same, shouldn’t it?”
Hands at her narrow waist, her scent filled her nostrils. To his surprise, she splayed her hands against his chest.
“If you love what you do.”
“I do.” His chest expanded with a breath and he released her.
“I can tell.”
Surprise again. “Mmm.” He backed away until he reached the side of a vehicle, then opened the door.
Following, she climbed in. “A Wrangler?”
“This disappoints you?” He tugged the seat belt down and pulled it across her to fasten it.
“No, surprised is more like it.”
His hand lingered on the seat. “I like what I like. My needs are simple.” His gaze dropped to her lips. No, he’d pushed it too far already. He shut the door.
“I bet.” She chuckled.
Climbing in, he froze. “What?” Was she playing him?
“Nothing. I’m having fun, that’s all.”
Sounded genuine enough. He started the engine. “It’s about time.” Revving it, he peeled out of the garage and down the curling driveway.
She grasped her bag bouncing across her lap and giggled.
He loved the sound. Found it contagious, and he laughed.
The gates swung open, and he pulled through and stopped. Drumming on the steering wheel, he hummed a song he’d been composing.
“That would make a great reggae tune.”
Exactly what he already had in mind. To demonstrate, he sang, “I like what I like, ain’t no rhyme or reason.” Words had stumped him, until now.
She continued singing, “I do what I do, no matter what the season.”
“Hey, not bad.” Nodding his head in time, he sang on, “I like what I do, baby, because of you.” Shifting, he reached farther to nudge his knuckles into her leg. “I think we should collaborate.” That was beginning to have a nice ring to it.
She arched a brow. “If we did, would you record it?”
Clucking his tongue, he wagged his finger. “Ah-ah-ah.”
“Would you?” Her tone grew urgent. She wasn’t kidding.
Unable to commit, he shrugged. “Maybe.”
Frustration escaped in a part-groan, part-sigh. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Sometimes she pushed too hard. He set his jaw. “Why does it matter so much?”
“The question is, why doesn’t it matter to you?” She seemed to want to make him angry.
Instead, he clammed up tight, stared straight ahead and fumed silently.
Softly, she sang, “I like what I like, ain’t no rhyme or reason.”
Hiding his surprise, he glanced over. “It is pretty catchy.” And sounded better when she sang it.
“It would even be great as a hard rock song with a driving guitar sound.”
His voice gritty, he tried the new beat with the few lyrics, and nodded. “Mmm.”
She settled back in her seat, visibly relaxed. “So what band are we going to see?”
“Does it make a difference?”
Biting back a smile, she shrugged. “So tell me, Mr. Trently, which musicians influenced you most?”
Shaking his head, he looked away. “You can’t just relax? It must suck to be you.”
“The Beatles? Stones? Hendrix?”
“All of the above. Everyone from Donovan to Dylan to U2.”
Her smile faded, and she gazed away into the night. “So how would you categorize your music? Who would you say it’s a mix of?”
He hated this question. “Why does it have to be a mix of anyone else? Can’t it be my own?”
“Absolutely. And I’ve heard people describe other bands as sounding like yours. But I’ve also heard definite influences of other musicians in your songs.”
Ouch. He took pride in crafting original music. “Such as?”
“Springsteen’s slice-of-life scenes, his searing lyrics that spoke counter to the hard-driving rhythms. Like your early hit,
Nobody Home
. I remember people singing along to that like a rebel anthem when really it spoke of the disappearance of small town America, the loss of downtown businesses contributing to the growth of Walmarts and urban sprawl.” She glanced over.
Mouth agape, he stared.
She tensed. “What? Am I completely wrong on that one?”
“That’s exactly it. Most people miss it.” Turning away, his mood sobered.
After a moment, she asked, “Are you able to get away from the show often?”
“No.” Downshifting, he steered into a parking lot and found a space.
“What about last season? How many times did you leave the cameras behind?” Her hand paused on the door handle.
Pursing his lips, he stared ahead. “Never.” Why hadn’t he? No wonder he’d been so miserable.
“Never?”
Did she never let anything go? “Do you want to go in?” He leaned close and eased closer. Another few inches, and…
“Yes, let’s go.” She scrambled out and walked.
Slowly, he stepped out and followed. At the door, she waited for him to catch up. The bouncer nodded at Jet, and his palm on the small of her back guided her in. The music shook the walls.
When he put his mouth to her ear, his hand slid around her waist. “Where do you want to sit?” If he was lucky, she’d say the Wrangler. Now that he had hold of her, he didn’t want to let go.
* * * *
Intoxicated by the moment, Billie closed her eyes, then took a steadying breath. “Anywhere’s fine.” Her lips brushed his hair, softer than she’d imagined. It made her want to twine her fingers in it. Smooth it from his cheek. Afraid of the crazy thoughts coursing through her mind, she turned away.
Scanning the room, he nodded toward an empty booth, his hand sliding higher up her side, making her tense and flush warm.
A few heads turned as they passed, women and men sizing Billie up. Most people ignored celebrities, but all it would take would be one cell phone shot, one digital camera, and their faces would be splashed all over the entertainment news.
Sliding into the booth first, she had to keep moving over when he followed close behind.
He nudged her. “A little more. We’ll have a better view of the band.”
She inched over, and his shoulder bumped hers as he settled. “Yeah, there.”
“Would you rather sit here?” Not wanting to trust her messenger bag so close to the outside, she hugged it to her.
“No, this is good. Don’t you think?” He grinned, glanced down and grabbed her bag. “Let me take that.”
“No, I’ll--”
“It’ll be safe beside me, don’t worry.” His eyes glittered in the darkness with a youthful wildness.
“But I--” How could she interview him without her recorder? Or at least a notepad?
A blonde in a low-cut tank top smiled at Jet.
Jet touched Billie’s arm. “Margarita?”
Not after Zin’s fateful tequila episode. “Riesling?” she asked.
The blonde nodded and leaned over the table as Jet ordered a beer.
Over the loud music, she asked, “What time is the band starting?”
He tilted his head toward her as she spoke. “Uh… soon?” His mouth shrugged down, but his eyes twinkled with mischief.
Had there even been a band scheduled to play? Why drag her out here then? “Who is it again?”
The waitress returned with their drinks, and he dug his wallet from his back pocket.
Sipping, she tamped down the paranoia setting in. Zin’s words haunted her. If he wanted an excuse to get away, wouldn’t he have gone with one of the Bimbo Brigade? At least it would have made fodder for the show.
The piped-in music faded, and a man bound onto the small platform where a drum kit sat behind a few microphones. As the announcer welcomed the crowd, she glanced at Jet. He strained to see, and excitement erased decades from his face. Engrossed in him, she forgot to listen for the name of the band. They took the stage and slammed into a driving song that had Jet banging his head, bouncing his knee.
With a wicked grin, he asked, “Aren’t they great?”
She had to admit they were good. Worthy of a blog post. Maybe she could talk to them afterward, get a few photos.
The group launched into a rousing song, and Billie couldn’t help tapping her fingers, nodding her head in time. If she had come with anyone else, she’d be out in the writhing crowd, letting the music move her to its rhythm.
Jet nudged her. “Let’s go.”
Confused, she glanced back. “What?”
“We have to dance. This song’s too good to sit still to.”
“But my bag--”
He slid it beneath the table. “No one will touch it. Come on.”
When he pressed close on the dance floor, she felt his energy. Contagious--and dangerous. The music got to her, and she let it slide through her limbs. His fluid movements got to her even more. Matching his moves came easily. Naturally.
Rather than making her tense, his intense focus loosened her tight muscles. Or maybe it was the wine. Bodies swayed all around them. Here, they could be anonymous. Just two people dancing. One incredibly sexy guy dancing with her.
Raising her arms, she let the slow, heavy music command her. Its rhythm mesmerized her.
Jet’s legs grazed hers. His hands slid along her waist and back.
When the song ended abruptly, her breath hitched in her chest, and her heart pounded. They stood, Jet’s gaze locked on hers.
It felt like waking up from a dream. A really good dream. Or the morning after. When Zinta’s warning echoed in her mind, she blocked it.
“Should we…” She gestured to the table.
The singer announced the next song dedicated to his girl.
“No.” Jet entwined his fingers in hers and pulled her close, swaying.
Closing her eyes, she gave herself over to the searing guitar. She tried to ignore how well her body fit against his, how his hips circled invitingly, how his mouth brushed her neck as he nuzzled into her.
Don’t be stupid,
Willamina
.
She broke away, broke whatever spell she’d been under. “I should be going.”
Furrowing his brow, he searched her face, his embrace firm. “Now?”
Now or never.
She nodded. “You could stay. I could take a cab.”
“No, I don’t want to stay if you’re leaving.”
“Oh, right. You’d be alone.” Not for long, she bet.
Shut up before he thinks you’re a complete idiot.
She pushed through the crowd to the table and grabbed her bag.
“It’s fine. We can go. If you really want to.”
“Yes, I should.” Even if he now thought her behavior irrational, rushing away like the place was on fire.
No, not the club. Just me.
Walking to the car, a warm breeze did little to cool her down.
She glanced over. “Thanks for bringing me. Good band.”
“Yeah. Thanks for going with me.” Sarcasm edged his voice. Or confusion. He pointed the clicker at the Jeep and the doors unlocked.
“Does this top come down?”
In the dim light, his eyes sparkled with a devilish light. “You want to go topless?”
Ugh. The Jet she knew and disliked had returned.
Thank you.
“It’s such a nice night.”
“I’d have suggested it, but I knew it would mess up your hair.”
Digging in her bag, she held up a scrunchy hair tie. “No problem.”
“Give me one minute.” Opening the door, he unsnapped the levers and grunted as he worked.
“Can I help? I didn’t realize the process was so involved.”
“Nope. Got it.” Pushing the soft top back, he secured it in place, then got behind the wheel and shifted into first. “Much better.”
“The wind’s a bit loud. I mean, for an interview.”
He pressed his lips together. “I know where we could go.” In minutes, he turned off onto an overlook and parked. “Nice, huh?”
Below, the ocean swelled toward shore, light pooling in a trail from the rising moon.
“It’s spectacular.”
“Yeah.” His chuckle faded as he studied her.
“What?” She eased closer to the door.
Smirking, he leaned his elbow against the window frame. “Nothing.” Moonlight made his features even more striking. Dangerously sexy, the way those blue shadows made him seem mysterious.
Talk. About anything.
“What does your family think of the show?”
With a shrug, he gazed off across the Pacific. “They probably don’t watch it.”
Right. Steer away from family questions. “Do you?”