Billie held a hand to her head. “I think I already have.”
Showering, she couldn’t help but wonder whether he still slept. Had he slept with any of the
Rock Bottom
girls? An image flashed in her mind of Jet, dripping with rain. Of her sliding her hands beneath his clinging tee shirt, pushing it up over his head. His arms tugging her close, wet skin sliding along hers.
As always, lines of appropriate songs crept into her head:
Better keep your head, little girl.
If this job had taught her anything, she knew better than to become starstruck. A rookie mistake taught her not to let the job--or the rockers--seduce her.
But she couldn’t claim to be starstruck. Jet’s fame had nothing to do with the deep feelings churning inside. When she’d danced with him, she’d felt more herself than she had in a long time. Free, as if she could reveal her true self and he’d accept her. A heady feeling.
Coffee would help. Wrapped in a towel, she went to the cabinet and scowled into the half full bag of grounds. They wouldn’t have dared taint it. Would they? She dropped it into the waste can. Better not tempt fate. Her laptop had survived. She wanted to too.
Untying the bottom of the dry cleaning bag, she slipped out a silky purple sundress and slipped it on. The neckline plunged low, and the hemline skimmed past her thighs, showing her absurdly white legs. “Not bad otherwise.”
Shouldering her bag, she headed for the patio and through the backdoor.
Standing at the kitchen sink, washing his cup, stood Jet. Wet with sweat, his tee shirt and shorts clung to his contours.
Her heart fluttered against her ribs as she approached.
Glancing over, he set the cup in the sink and dried his hands on the kitchen towel. “Morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, very.” No point telling him otherwise. But why did he seem disappointed at her answer? “You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a run. Thought some coffee would revive me.”
“My thought exactly.”
He pulled a cup from the cabinet and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She poured, acutely aware he stood within inches.
“I kept thinking of things I should have said last night.” At her surprised glance, he added, “Clarified. I don’t want any misunderstanding.”
Any hopes he’d raised, he’d quashed with that announcement. “When I get my notes together, I’d be happy to go over them with you.
Strung Out
takes pride in accuracy.” If he wished to be formal today, she’d be every bit the professional.
He gave a lazy shrug. “Or we could talk some more.”
The expectancy in his face took her aback. “All right, sure. I don’t have my recorder with me, but I could resort to pen and paper if you have any.”
Julie strolled in. “Hi.”
Billie clutched her cup. “Hi.”
“Morning.” Jet moved to the French doors. “I’ll be outside for a while. Billie’s interviewing me, so if you could tell the others not to interrupt…”
Julie tilted her head. “I thought you did the interview last night?”
“We started it.” Billie’s neck prickled with warmth. How could she explain dancing took precedence over the interview?
Jet opened the door. “Yeah, but it got cut short. And with all the confusion last night…” He gestured her through.
Billie glanced at Julie. “Right. I need to get my notes straight. Don’t forget that pen and pad,” she reminded Jet.
“Yes--thanks. I meant to get that for you.” He rummaged in a kitchen drawer and drew out a pencil and rumpled sheets, grabbed his sunglasses from the countertop, then hurried to the door. Putting on his sunglasses, he gave a tight smile and steered her to the shaded table and chairs. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She had to face the Bimbo Brigade at some point. Sitting, she set down her cup.
The wicker chair scraped as Jet pulled it closer to hers, then placed the paper and pencil on the table.
Smoothing the paper did little. She shot him a smile. “Guess it’ll do. So what did you want to add?”
He drew in an audible breath. “I feel terrible about what happened.”
“Not at all. It’s fine.” Yes, that should reassure him. Fine.
His aviator sunglasses hid his beautiful eyes as he stared at her.
If only she could see his face, she might have a clue what he thought. “I don’t understand. Did you want me to ask more questions, or did you want to add something to what you said last night…”
He propped his elbow on the chair arm, his chin resting between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s important you understand how seriously I take my music.”
She blinked back her disappointment. “You made that clear last night.”
“Did I?”
“Look, if you have any question about the facts you gave me, I’m happy to clear them up, but--”
“No, not the facts.”
“Then what?”
“You’re wrong about me. I’m not…” He leaned back with a frustrated sigh. “See, I can’t say the things I want to say to you because then you’ll print them.” Leaning close, he grabbed her chair. “I need to know you won’t print them.”
“So this isn’t an interview?” What did he want then?
“Give me some slack, Billie.”
Afraid to voice the question, she remained silent. She wanted to rip those glasses away to see his eyes. Maybe then she might have a clue what he was up to.
Still as a jaguar ready to pounce, he hovered close. His tone softened. “What about you? What do you want?”
“Me? Nothing,” she lied. Yeah, her life was perfect.
He turned away. “Never mind then.”
“What?” Now it was her turn for her stare to bore into him.
“It can’t be all one way. You can’t expect me to bare my soul to you when you reveal nothing.” In a rush, he pushed himself up, his sandals scraping the pavers as he headed to the house.
Why did it matter to him? And it must, or he wouldn’t act so disappointed. She blurted the first thing that popped into her head. “Poetry.”
Halting, he turned. “Really? Since when?”
“Always.” She’d never revealed that to anyone.
Strolling back, he sat. “Why not pursue it?”
“I made a half-assed attempt in high school. A teacher actually discouraged me.” The sting of his criticism came back vividly.
“A teacher? How?”
“He read it in class, tore it to pieces, called it crap. I’ve never wanted to die so badly.” Except for now.
“And you let him shame you without ripping his head off?” He sounded incredulous, yet teasing too.
A sharp breath escaped her. So that was what this was about? To level the playing field between them somehow?
“No, I’m serious. Why didn’t you fight back?”
“I was a kid. He was a teacher.”
“Probably had a thing for you.”
“Does everything have to come down to that? No.”
“I know how guys think. They see a hot chick--”
“I am not a hot chick. And I certainly wasn’t at sixteen.”
More slowly, he repeated, “They see a hot chick, and will use any means available to get closer.”
She pursed her lips. “So embarrassing me in front of the class was supposed to…do what exactly?”
“Make you come to him for guidance. A shoulder to cry on. But really, I’m surprised at you. You let him get to you, let his judgment prevail.”
Why
had
she surrendered so easily? She loved writing about music, but writing articles was far from lyrical.
“Did you love the poem?” he asked.
“Yes, of course, but that didn’t make it any good. In fact, in retrospect, he probably did me a favor. It probably sucked.”
“So?”
“So…it probably sucked.” How much clearer could she make it?
“Everyone sucks when they’re just starting out. But you keep at it until you don’t suck. Until you feel yourself breaking through to a new level.”
She had to turn this around. Away from her. “Is that how you feel when you create music?”
“Absolutely. It’s life-sustaining. It gives me vibrant energy having my songs resonate out in the world. That’s what it’s all about--putting yourself out there, trusting the world to accept it.”
“Or knock you on your ass.”
“Sometimes. But you keep trying. Believing in yourself. Because if you don’t believe, who else will?”
“Is that what happened? You stopped believing in yourself?”
He jerked away. “What?”
“I’m not asking as a journalist.” She pushed away the paper and pencil, unused though it was. “I’d like to know why you’re not trying any longer.”
His mouth agape in a breathless laugh, he turned away.
She had to make him understand. “You could revive that vibrancy. Put new music out there for others to catch that vibe.”
Slowly, he faced her. If only she could remove those sunglasses and reveal his eyes. Did he hate her for saying it? She obviously struck a nerve. He sat statuelike. What the hell was he thinking right now? She gripped her chair, waiting.
Leaning in, he traced a finger up her forearm.
She held very still. She shouldn’t encourage this. But she couldn’t stop it.
He opened his mouth and took a breath. “I--”
From beyond the pool, Stu’s coarse voice sounded. “Jet. There you are.” He shuffled toward them, holding a clipboard.
Billie sat back, pulled her hands onto her lap. Damn that man. He had the instinct of a tracker. Always showing up at the wrong moment.
Jet leaned back. “Jesus,” he muttered. “What is it?”
Stu peered over his sunglasses. “What’s the matter?”
“We’re in the middle of an interview.” Disgust sounded in Jet’s voice.
“Again?” Stu glanced at the blank paper atop the table. “Yes, I see how involved the interview is. But I need your approval on this.”
Billie gathered the paper, her coffee cup. “I need to get going, anyway.”
“See you.”
The sun blazed against the light stone, blinding her. She felt the weight of his stare as she walked. Felt its pull. Stumbling in the door, she slammed it.
Brianna and Ashley stared from the table.
Her quick smile only served to intensify their already cool glares.
“I’m just bringing back my cup.” As if she needed to apologize to them for her presence. They should apologize to her. One of them was guilty as hell.
Or maybe she should thank them. The incident opened a new side of Jet. Made her see the good in him. Hearing he took his music seriously excited her. He wanted to take it to the next level. She wouldn’t give up hope.
Dumping the tepid contents of her cup down the drain, she realized she hadn’t drunk any of it. Or called a cab. Pulling out her cell, she headed to the door. “Have a good day.”
Their stony faces answered.
Or not.
Following the walkway to the front, she gave the cab company the address, and halted at the Wrangler still parked out front. Her finger trailed the driver side door.
Oh,
Willamina
. Tread carefully.
* * * *
Leaning back, Jet stretched out his legs to appear relaxed. He felt anything but. He wanted Stu out of his face, but if he didn’t let his manager speak his peace now, he’d dog him until he could.
After sitting down with a heavy sigh, Stu slurped his coffee. “You and Ms. Prescott are spending a lot of time together.”
“So?”
Stu shrugged. “So you’re supposed to be spending time with the contestants. Not the reporter.”
“You’re right.” He rose.
Stu’s tone grew harsh. “Sit down, Jet.”
He paused. “Excuse me?”
“Please.” His manager flashed a thin smile.
Condescending bastard. Jet perched on the edge of the chair. He’d put up with his manager because he believed in him. At first. After Jeff died, Stu acted as a touchstone when Jet went into a tailspin. Forced him back on his feet. Unsteady feet, and Jet had drifted along through life, not caring. Until he met Billie, he didn’t realize how stagnant his life had become. So stagnant it stunk. He wanted to change that. But now Stu seemed more of an obstacle than a support system.
With a lighter air, Stu continued. “The producer isn’t happy. The girls aren’t happy. I’m not happy.”
“Neither am I.” That was the problem.
“You appear to be. So does Ms. Prescott.”
Get to the freaking point.
“What are you driving at?”
“You’re putting us in a bad place, Jet.”
Could the man never speak in anything but roundabout clichés? “I don’t see it, frankly.”
“Because you have your head up your ass. Get with the program.”
The only way to shut Stu up was to agree. “All right.”
Suspicion edged his tone. “All right?”
“Yeah. Fine. We done?”
Better say yes.
Studying him, Stu leaned back. “Yeah.”
With a grunt, Jet stood. Man, he needed to get away from here.
Shopping never appealed much to Billie. Today, using someone else’s credit card to pay for her purchases lessened the usual stress. Buying clothes more suited to California helped too. Dark colors worked in Philly where buildings blocked the sun. At the outlets, she found plenty of things she liked in creamy fabrics and colors. In the dressing room, she snapped a photo with her cell and sent it to Zin with a message saying:
The new me.
I like the old you
, Zin texted.
She wouldn’t argue. Instead, she called her mom. In answering her mother’s simple
How’s it going?
the conversation veered quickly south.
Her mother cut to the quick. “Get out of there, Willamina. Those women aren’t to be trusted.”
Billie needed no reminder. “It’ll be over in a few more months.” Not soon enough.
“Then will you visit?”
“As soon as I can. Love you.” Ending the call, a powerful homesickness washed over her. She hadn’t seen Mom in months, and season two didn’t end for another six weeks.
I miss you,
she texted Zin.
Her cell buzzed. “Are you all right?” Zin asked.
“So far. If the bimbos don’t go bonkers again, I might survive this craziness.”
“Don’t let it get to you. One of them will get the prize and they’ll all move on.”
“Right.” She should too. Before things with Jet went any further.
* * * *
The producer directed Jet toward the pool. “Show the audience you want to get to know these girls.”