After hesitating, she pulled the chair up, her resistance against his cheerful mood fading.
He leaned an arm around the back of her seat. “Let me see what you wrote.” Lifting her notepad, he read, then smiled. “Yes!”
Unable to recall the little bit she’d written, she scanned it.
Jet
Trently
obviously lives to make music
, she’d scrawled. Her only note for the entire night.
“You understand.” He refilled their glasses and slurped. “But they are the future. My music’s the past.” He slugged down another glass and leaned back.
“Don’t say that.”
He slurred, “Come on, Billie. You said it yourself. My songs are stale. I’m a has-been.”
“The audience went crazy when you appeared. They love you. They want more of you.” She wished she could say she didn’t want the same. But with his face so close, she could smell the champagne--wanted to taste it--her steely resolve wavered.
“Everyone does. But I don’t have enough to give them anymore.” Sadness filled his face.
“Yes, you do. I heard those songs. They’re great. You just have to get them out there for other people to hear. They’ll love them too.” Too late, she realized she’d grabbed his wrist.
Hovering close, he glanced down, gave a slow blink and met her gaze. “We should go.” Standing, the chair tipped behind him as his shoulder hit the doorway.
She scrambled to gather her things. “Wait.” Afraid he might fall, she hooked her arm in his. When he weaved into her, she grabbed his waist and chest going down the stairs. Thankfully the steps were few. The hostess called for the car and held the door as Billie helped him in.
* * * *
Forlorn, Jet slumped against the seat. Everything he wanted, all around him yet so fucking far out of reach.
Billie sat beside him. “Are you feeling all right?”
“No.” He slid down the seat and laid his head in her lap.
“Jet, this isn’t--”
He stared at the limo ceiling. “They sounded a hundred times better than me.” If they imitated him, how could they outdo him?
“Hey, they’re a cheap imitation. If they do sound like you, then it’s a great tribute. It’s the highest compliment anyone could pay you. Who knows how many other musicians your music has inspired?”
“No. The best compliment would be for people to buy my records. But clearly, they’re making better music.” Of course she couldn’t imagine having someone copy his life’s work and make a profit. Still, he gave her a slow smile.
A hard gleam came into her eyes. “Your new songs would blow them out of the water.”
“Those are…” He shrugged, then lifted an arm above his head, clasping her elbow, wanting to connect with her every way possible. Somehow each time their limbs entwined, it felt so natural. “Those are nothing.” Mainly because he had so much trouble finishing them. They could be amazing.
She stroked his hair. “Bull. I heard them. They have real potential.”
“No. Stu says people wouldn’t respond.” Talking to her like this was better than sex. Almost.
Indignance plain in her tone, she said, “That’s bull too. I say they would.”
“Stu says they expect me to stick with my brand. The tried and true. That’s what drives sales.” He repeated the words lifelessly. Why had he listened to Stu for so long?
She clutched Jet’s head. “Forget Stu. What do you want?”
He met her gaze, grateful she cared enough not to let him wallow in his own self-pity. Eventually he’d drown. “Same as always. To make great music.”
“Then do what you love.”
Was that an invitation? He’d love to take her, right here. So beautiful, the way she looked at him with such intense frustration. It made him afraid to move for fear she’d try to bolt again.
“Look, it’s like Dylan in reverse.”
“Huh?” Blinking, he focused on her.
“Dylan started out a folk singer. But then he went electric, and it pissed people off. But it also brought him an entirely new audience, a bigger audience. So you changing your music would be--”
“--like Dylan in reverse. Except I’d just lose a lot of fans.” Maybe Stu was right.
“Or make a lot of new ones,” she countered.
In his dreams. If he could take her certainty to the bank, he’d be set.
“It’s the mark of a true artist to experiment.”
He couldn’t ignore the challenge. More fierce than he intended, he said, “I do. I just don’t put it out there.”
She relaxed, seeming pleased with his reaction. “Well, until you do, you’ll never know. It could change everything.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He settled against her lap. “Why are you in this business?”
“The same reason as you. The music.”
Searching her face, he asked, “What makes you fall in love with a song?” Maybe if he knew, he could write it.
Her brows arched and for a moment she seemed lost in thought. “A great song has huge emotional impact. It reaches inside me, lifts me up off the floor, dances my soul in the air, sometimes slams me back down. I connect life events with songs. Songs can define a moment.”
The truth of what she said blazed in his mind. Exactly what he needed to hear. “What moment?” He caressed her elbow to forearm.
“Anything. A date--”
“Like your prom?” he teased.
She neatly ignored the comment. “Or it can evoke a whole new moment.”
“Like what?” He gave her his full attention.
Shaking her head, she narrowed her eyes. “A sunrise. The beginning of U2’s
A Street with No Name
always makes me imagine a beautiful sunrise, orange and pink clouds spreading across the sky, bursting to life with sunlight. As the music swells stronger, the sunrise glows brighter.” She gave a laugh. “I actually described it that way in a review and the editor winced, and asked me to change it. But every time I hear that song, the same sunrise bursts vividly to life in my head.”
He could almost see it in her eyes. “That’s beautiful.” He ran his hand up her arm. “Why are you here?”
“What?” Confusion faded her smile.
“You should be out at concerts, hearing new bands. Why are you writing about this stupid show?” If he were her, he’d hate every part of
Rock Bottom
.
With a sigh, she said, “Good question.”
“Everett’s an ass.” Underutilizing a great reporter like Billie. “He should be printing more about the music, not covering other media.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, baby.”
It sounded so right for her to call him baby, though he knew she teased. “It’s absurd. The media covering the media. It’s some conspiracy to muddy our brains with nonsense instead of real news.”
She pressed her lips together. “Right--the morning TV anchors promoting the late night TV hosts. It
is
absurd.”
Finally, someone else noticed too. “You do get it.”
“Absolutely. It’s ridiculous. We’re journalists, professionals who can sway public opinion.”
“Then tell Everett.”
“I have. He says the readers drive the stories. They respond to this crap more than music reviews.”
He squeezed her arm. “But they like hearing about new bands.”
Something registered in her face, some realization. Maybe she felt his energy return. She sobered. “Sometimes.” She glanced out the window.
He had to put her at ease again. Searching her face, his thumbs caressed her arm. “When you write about the band we saw tonight, readers will respond. New groups need the exposure. It’s too hard these days to get a band going.”
“Maybe.” She pressed her knees together.
A signal for him to get up. No way. He shifted his head but kept it in her lap. “You’re a good writer. You can help them.”
“Why do you want them to succeed?”
Good, he’d drawn her back in. Back from whatever argument she had with herself about keeping him on the outside. “It’s only right. Other bands gave me a shot at the start. You have to keep the positive flow going, Billie.”
“But what if they...” She winced, as if wanting to spare him pain.
He chuckled. “What if they displace my band? Eclipse us into oblivion?”
She scowled. “That won’t happen.”
“If it does, it’s the laws of nature. Survival of the fittest, right? The newest? The best?”
“Your music’s better than theirs.”
He loved her enthusiasm, but didn’t agree. “In its day, maybe it was.”
Anger surged in her voice. “Stop saying that as if you don’t have anything new to offer.”
“It’s not what the fans want.”
“Screw the fans. Oops, sorry. You probably already have.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re letting Stu hold you back.”
“Like Everett’s holding you back,” he countered, baiting her. He understood their employee-employer situations were reversed, but it was no excuse for her to capitulate.
“Don’t change the subject. You’re afraid to put those songs out there.”
She had him there. “Maybe.”
“Why? They’re amazing.”
He grinned. “Why do I feel as if you’re trying to set me up?”
Her voice thick with angst, she said, “The longer you talk, your excuses only get worse.”
The limo pulled up to the house.
She reached for the door handle. “Let me up. Get one of your bouncers to help you inside. Or a bimbo. Hell, make it two.”
No fucking way was he losing her now. They were so close.
He flipped over and shut the door. “No.” When he tapped on the shield behind the driver, it lowered. “Henry, drive--anywhere. Just keep going until I tell you to stop.” The window raised and the limo peeled ahead.
* * * *
With a gasp, she clutched the seat as they roared away. “What do you think you’re doing? Let me out, you asshole.”
He knelt in front of her and slid his hands up her thighs. “You called me ‘baby’.”
She hoped he’d missed that. He definitely seemed too clear-eyed now.
Through clenched teeth, her voice shook. “It’s an expression. I am not one of the Bimbo Brigade.”
Clasping her neck, he drew her close. “Thank God.” His lips brushed hers.
Anger melted into confusion, surged with passion. “Stop,” she whispered.
“I can’t.” He leaned between her legs, gripped her ass and slid her against him. Tender yet fierce, his lips sought hers, his tongue probed.
White static filled her brain. How could he feel so good when he was all wrong?
“No.” She broke away.
He sank onto his feet, the deepest yearning in his eyes. “Billie.” His urgent whisper sounded like a fervent prayer.
His plea awakened something fierce and tender within her. “Dammit.” Her urgent whisper matched his.
His face lit with hope.
“Jet.” An overwhelming urge hijacked her reasoning. She fought to regain it but lost ground.
He drew a ragged breath and touched her cheek.
“Don’t.” She couldn’t finish her thought.
Don’t toy with me. Don’t break my heart.
“Shh.” His finger traced her lips. He eased in slowly.
Although she had every opportunity to stop him, instead she clutched his shirt. “You won’t remember this tomorrow, anyway.” She pressed her lips to his, wrapped her legs behind his.
His embrace engulfed her as he pulled her to the floor. “Oh yes, I will.” With soft, purposeful kisses, he kept his eyes open, watching as if to imprint her in his memory.
Yes, he’d remember.
And so would she. Dammit.
* * * *
“Hey, why’s Everett squawking about you?” Zinta’s voice grated through the cell the next morning.
Billie held a hand to her forehead. “Who knows? Why does he ever--” She gasped. “Oh, damn. I never filed my story.”
“Which? About the concert?”
“Yes.” The air left her lungs surely as if she’d entered a vacuum.
“Are you sick?”
Billie whimpered. “You might say that.” Mental illness counted, didn’t it? She could come up with no other plausible explanation for last night.
“Tell me.”
“I…” What euphemism might fit the situation?
“Sweetie, no. Please tell me you didn’t.”
Tired of hiding her feelings from her best friend, she closed her eyes. “Zin, I couldn’t help it. He’s amazing.”
Zinta’s gasp extended for seconds. “I’m coming to get you.”
“Stop. I’m fine. Feet firmly on the ground.” All too well, she knew the challenges she faced.
“You’ve got him out of your system now, right? No more foolishness?”
Her voice cracked. “Yeah.”
Way to sound convincing.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“Neither do I, believe me.” But it seemed inevitable now.
“Remind yourself: He’s just the rebound guy. And call me if you feel a sin coming on.”
Despite herself, she grinned. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“The laugh. And understanding.”
“All too well, as you know.”
Maybe, Billie thought. But Zin’s indiscretion had been one night. Billie knew if Jet came to her again, she wouldn’t hesitate to let him in.
* * * *
The view from the office blew him away. How had Jet not appreciated it before?
Today, he saw everything with new eyes. He’d awakened excited to start the day. Man, that hadn’t happened in probably a decade.
All because of Billie. Last night more than fulfilled his fantasies about her. It made him yearn for more. He couldn’t think of anything else. It had nearly killed him to leave her at the guest house. Though he’d lain awake most of the night, he could run a marathon. Jazzed. Wired. Call it whatever, he had it bad.
Stu shuffled in. “What’s with the shit-eating grin?”
His cynicism made Jet grin all the more. “It’s a beautiful day, Stu. Open your eyes. We’re in fucking Malibu.”
Disgust tinged his expression. “And you’re just realizing this now?” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you diddling with that reporter?”
Jet rolled off the couch with laughter. “Diddling?”
“You stupid ass. You are. What did I tell you? She’s trouble with a capital
T
.”
And that rhymes with me.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
His manager squared off in front of him. “Look. The producer’s up my ass day in and day out. I’m not going to fend him off so you can screw around with…her. You had six women to choose from. Six. Gorgeous. Women.”