Stepping backward, she wished she could see inside. Hear him play. An image floated into her mind of Jet serenading her, and her alone. One of his songs sounded from near the house, so she followed it to the back of the pool house. One of the two guys from the previous day--the tall, wiry guy, kinda cute, she’d noted yesterday--entered the equipment-loaded workroom, and the door closed, muting the music.
“Ms. Prescott.” Arms pumping, Stu Gilbert walked her way. “I’m glad I caught up with you.”
“Hi, Mr. Gilbert.” Thank goodness she’d worn sunglasses. The lime shirt he wore glowed in the sun like neon.
“Call me Stu.”
His heavy-lidded gaze and ever-present grin grated her nerves. “Stu. I wondered if I might be able to get a look inside the editing room.”
“Great idea. They’re pre-editing the show now. Come in. I’ll introduce you.”
“Pre-editing?” What the hell could that mean? Hopefully repeating his lingo would entice an explanation.
She followed him inside. The cabana appeared deceptively smaller from the outside. Half had been partitioned off to allow an impromptu editing room complete with extra-wide flat screen monitors connected to the Macintosh computer.
“Danny, Justin, meet Billie Prescott. She’s on board to follow the episodes for
Strung Out
.”
The two men glanced back, mumbled hello. Justin’s glance lingered longer, his brow arched as his gaze lowered.
Stu ran through the projected schedule for the day, then touched Billie’s arm. “You do understand how critical it is for you to stay behind the cameras’ line of vision, correct?”
“Oh yes--”
“Because I reviewed it repeatedly with Everett, and he assured me you’d be on board.”
Affecting a serious expression, she nodded. “Completely.”
As if she hadn’t spoken, Stu continued. “Because Justin and Danny work very hard at shooting from the best possible angle and…”
Tuning him out, Billie folded her arms and struggled to keep her face a mask of seriousness as he droned on about maintaining the integrity of the videography.
Integrity! As if
Rock Bottom
might win an award of excellence.
“These two only get one chance at a shot--isn’t that right, boys?” He winked at the cameramen.
The two grunted in bored acknowledgment.
Stu clasped his hands. “Wonderful. The girls are changing into their bikinis now.”
The swimsuit competition? Billie fought to keep a straight face. “Their bikinis?”
“Yes, they’ll be poolside when Jet arrives at two thirty.”
His gaze wandered across her as if in comparison, and she stifled a shudder.
“Great photo op.” Justin glanced back with a grin.
At Stu’s throaty chuckling, Billie clenched her teeth.
After reminding them everything needed to be in place well in advance of two thirty, Stu exited.
The video onscreen caught Billie’s attention. Jet and his band on some outdoor stage. “What’s this?”
Danny’s nasal reply came through the fist propped against his chin. “One of Jet’s concerts a few years ago.”
Before the show began then. “Where?”
Justin shrugged. “Lollapalooza? Farm Aid? Some days-long event.” He winced at an off note, his puckered lips exaggerated for effect.
The camera panned to the audience--a huge crowd, but every woman was riveted to the stage. Jet played with little effort. Very little. If ever she’d seen a rote performance, she viewed one now. The women in the audience didn’t seem to mind.
Danny increased the volume so they might have been in the audience themselves.
“Ugh. This used to be my favorite song.” Years ago, but lately it stood out as one of the few she could still stand to listen to. No more.
“Yeah, kinda kills it for me too.” Justin turned back to the computer, murmured something to Danny.
When he blocked her view, she angled closer. “Are you using that video in the show?”
Danny said, “Only a few seconds of it to splice into the opening collage.”
At an off-key chord made worse by the out-of-synch keyboards and drums, Billie clenched her teeth. “Maybe Jet should work on tightening his sound instead of his abs.”
Glancing back, Justin’s eyes rounded, his face blanked.
Behind her the door slammed.
Billie whirled. “Who was that?”
Working the mouse, Danny said, “Jet must not have appreciated the joke.”
Frozen, she wrestled with whether to go after him. He must be angry, and she couldn’t blame him. Still, if she waited, explaining would be more difficult. She pushed open the door, but the walkway was deserted.
Justin laughed too emphatically. “Relax. I’m sure he’s heard that before.”
“More than he’d like,” Danny deadpanned.
She sighed, wondering how she might make up for the insult to Jet. “Does Jet normally come in while you’re working?”
Justin shrugged. “Once in a while.”
She wished she’d known that earlier. “Does he have any editorial control?”
Danny maneuvered the mouse. “Nah, he just comes in to hang out mostly.”
“He’s cool about it. Lets us do our work, no hassles.” Justin inclined his head. “I think he likes to get away from them.”
“The contestants? Or his manager and assistant?”
They exchanged knowing glances, and Justin said, “All of the above.”
“It must be exhausting, having people glomming onto him every waking moment.” Filming his every move. Vying for his attention. Snatching little bits of him away, slowly. She no longer wondered how he’d lost himself, but wondered how he managed to retain any semblance of himself at all.
Snickering, Justin fiddled with the boom mic. “If he hated attention, he wouldn’t have signed up for season two.” Bitterness edged his tone.
Did Billie sound so acidic when her jaded side surfaced? “I’d better get back. Nice to meet you.”
“See you soon,” Justin crooned.
Back in the cottage, she drafted an initial blog post touching on Jet’s pathetic concert performance as well as sympathy for his unenviable position. Having fallen from the heady heights of success, now vampires surrounded him, though he had precious little blood to spare. The Jet of today might appear fit and robust, but his music was neither. Both, she wrote, lacked the vibrant soul from their humble beginnings.
Re-reading it, she realized the post seemed overly harsh. Saving it as a draft on the blog site, she’d soften it later.
Damn. If she’d known he’d snuck in the editing room, she’d have curbed her comments. He’d gone out of his way yesterday to tend to her needs. Still, the magazine paid her to air the truth as she saw it. No matter how nice, Jet couldn’t be an exception. If his band hadn’t been so great in the beginning, their performance might not have seemed so terrible by contrast. And if he hadn’t heard her say it here, he’d have read it elsewhere. No matter how much she wanted to, she could not hold back to spare his feelings.
Still, she wanted the blog to be more than a dig. Jet could be a great musician if he’d focus on his craft instead of other nonsense. Like reality television. Dare she write that? Maybe it would get her sent home in a hurry… No, she wouldn’t taint her writing with any ulterior motive. If it inspired Jet, helped him realize his full potential, all the better.
With that thought, her burden of guilt lightened. She’d corner him later and apologize.
* * * *
After two hours of lurking on the fringes of the camera’s view, Billie felt as persecuted as a soul in purgatory. And every bit as overheated. Even in the shade, her dark top and pants seemed to absorb sunlight. If the cameras weren’t rolling, she’d love to dive in the pool.
Listening to the excited babble and chatter of the six contestants brought back torturous memories of high school: the girls’ bathroom where the popular ones debated boys, fashion and makeup. The gym locker where cheerleaders rapturously described dates with jocks. At least then she could walk away when it grew too nauseating. Now, she had to stay. Worse, she had to regurgitate their babble in some coherent way.
Billie scanned the show’s outline. Today, the contestants officially met Jet, though he’d greeted them earlier inside. To put them at ease, Stu explained to Billie--off the record, of course. The public had no need to know, he said. Billie conceded. She’d pick her battles.
When Jet finally put in an appearance just before three, Billie again flashed back to high school. Her stomach clenched, her senses pricked to alert at his every movement. She tensed, waiting for him to look her way, smile, speak to her.
He strode in scowling, head ducked purposefully, as if he were on his way to somewhere else. Or wanted to be.
One glance. As he approached the back patio, that’s all he gave her. One piercing glance. It burned into her, the second expanding into infinity, throwing all time out of synch.
The producer swiveled at his approach, called, “Jet, good. Let’s run through some notes before we start.”
Staring into hers, something deadened in Jet’s eyes, and then his frown intensified, his stride hastened.
Despite the heat, she shuddered with the unexpected chill. If only everyone else would take a break, leave them alone long enough so she could explain her earlier comment. Above all else, she wanted Jet to view her as a professional. Her opinions didn’t play into her writing, but curbing her tongue wasn’t her strong suit.
Still scowling, Jet scanned through the pages, the producer and Stu murmuring to him.
The producer stepped out of the camera’s frame. “Ready?”
“In a minute.” The pages fluttered as he flipped one, then another.
“Something wrong?” Stu asked.
“I can’t find anything about the gig.”
His sharp tone silenced the tittering women, snapped everyone’s attention to him. Especially Billie’s.
Only Stu seemed unaffected, and spoke with his usual snake oil smoothness. “It’s not in this outline.”
“When will it be?” Jet spoke more softly, but sounded no less threatening.
Riveted, Billie watched, hugging herself.
Obviously, Jet had been promised things. When would he realize: the show parodied real life. It didn’t enrich it.
Stepping near, Stu murmured something inaudible, something sounding like an urging. Or a warning.
Jet threw down the pages. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” He shot a sharp glance at Billie.
She slunk behind the nearest cameraman. Why focus on her? An innocent bystander? A neutral observer?
Well, not so neutral. Not after her remark.
A few minutes later, the producer said they couldn’t hold up shooting any longer, and counted down from ten. Jet paced, his expression blanking more with each step. By the count of one, he smiled rather stiffly in the direction of the pool.
Season two had begun.
* * * *
All morning, Jet had given himself pep talks. It would just be another performance. A very long performance.
It has nothing to do with my music, no matter what Stu says.
He’d have to work it in somehow. And stick it out until the contract ran out. But after this, no more.
The alarm on his cell went off. Ah, hell. Time to get on set. Ironic how claustrophobic he’d become in such a big house. Literally nowhere to hide that the cameras couldn’t follow, starting today. Already it chafed his nerves. Bad enough he had to endure the microscopic attention of the cameras, but now
her
too. Worse than a video, Billie Prescott would interpret. Opine. Slant. Her audience would listen--the very people who mattered. The ones who loved music.
At least he’d found out her true nature. Walking into the editing room at precisely the wrong--no, right--moment. He might not have believed she could be so cruel otherwise. Until he’d read the blog. Yeah, if anything drove home that she was just another leech, the blog post did it. Funny how she separated herself from those sucking his blood dry when she made her living from it.
He glanced over and the sting came back fresh. He had to remind himself again: just one more bitch to deal with. But one who had no stakes in any of this. His career rode on it.
“All right. Let’s do this.” He tossed the script aside and let the producer position him. On with the farce.
He plastered on a smile. The six contestants had endured a lot to get here, and they deserved his consideration. None appeared well-to-do, and he pegged all as high-maintenance, but each looked upon him with true excitement, eager to get a turn with him alone. Oh yeah, and a shot at a hundred grand.
They waited together, and their competitive electricity permeated the air. Competitive beauty. That brought a chuckle, and he relaxed as he called the first girl.
“Hello, Cat.”
The mocha-skinned beauty whose father hailed from Cuba and mother from Malaysia. No age provided on the spec sheet, and impossible to tell from studying her. Tall and lithe, she walked with the grace of Cleopatra, dark almond-shaped eyes focused on Jet as she approached. She slunk toward him like her feline nickname, her sexual confidence sizzling. Sliding her arms around his neck, she drew him to her in a kiss much longer than any introduction.
Holding her waist, he gently moved her away with a grin. “Save some for next time.” Might have to change the rating on the show for this one. A glance at Billie heightened his attention. Arms folded, her nauseated expression appeared tainted with something more. Jealousy?
Couldn’t be. She must want to get back in his good graces. Too bad.
Relieved when Cat sidled away, he turned to the waiting group. “Ashley.”
The only blonde, surprisingly. Her pale blue eyes brightened when she approached, beaming. In her late twenties, the report said, but brittle hair and laugh lines made her appear older. Jet wondered what hard life she’d led. Sensing her fragility, Jet spoke softly as he welcomed her, but sent her off quickly too.
Next, he called Brianna, who might have been Ashley’s brunette alter ego. Brianna mimicked Ashley’s movements, her appearance, everything but her high-voltage eagerness. Oh, she smiled at Jet, but without the giggly exuberance. Or desperation.
Terry, another exotic beauty, had a full mouth graced with wide lips. Her smile filled her face. Dark brows arched into a peak above dark eyes. Like the others, long hair cascaded down her back.