Читать книгу Rock Bottom - Cate Masters - Страница 7

Chapter 3

Not even his guitar distracted Jet. He’d played for hours last night, into this morning, after leaving the cottage. Striking a hard chord, he stilled the strings with his palm and set down the guitar. Standing, he strolled to the window.

You’re outta your head. It had been months since Carrie. She should have been enough to teach him he couldn’t find love on a reality dating show. Ah, hell. He never expected to find The One. Not really. Stu set this up for the publicity. So far, so good. Except he’d rather play concerts, and now those presented a conflict.

Quite a predicament. Held back from doing the thing he loved most because he had to market himself.

The one woman who interested him for the first time in a long time held the key. He heard his brother saying Tread very carefully. If he fell through this thin ice, he might never be able to resurface.

It’s the jitters, nothing more. Something about this new round of contestants put him on edge. Their video interviews either left him cold or grated his nerves. How the hell was he supposed to deal with that for months on end?

The response rang through his head in Stu’s voice: Like a pro, bro.

Yes. If anything, he was a professional. He’d be careful around them all, but especially Ms. Prescott. The one who might pry open the door he’d closed long ago within himself–and then prop it open for the world to see.

No way could he let that happen. Music was the only thing he could depend on in life, and he had to protect it.

* * * *

Outside the cottage, Billie paused only moments. To stay in the sun any longer would invite heat stroke in these dark colors. Instead of heading left to the rear patio, she strolled the opposite way and followed the winding offshoot path veering off the main walkway where the edge of another outbuilding came in view. Surrounded by overgrown bushes, Billie guessed it might be Jet’s studio. Silent now. Of course. Jet wouldn’t be there at this time of day.

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.

If Jet had to describe Amber, he’d be hard pressed. Nothing set her apart from the others.

Of all the contestants, Julie baffled Jet the most. Fresh-faced and pretty, she appeared younger than twenty-four. Something about the way she carried herself suggested a better upbringing. When Jet spoke her name, she went to him without undue haste or excitement, as if the line had been for a restaurant table. What the hell was she doing here at all?

No matter. None of them interested him. To be fair, he’d try to dig beneath the surface of too much makeup, generous doses of perfume and hair product. Maybe a real person lurked, for one at least.

And he’d get a kick out of teasing Billie with the act. The way she fanned herself, his taunts already got to her, adding a little extra interest to this season. The best way to rid himself of leeches was to burn them.

* * * *

Watching Jet fawn over each woman, kiss her cheek as she said hello, grew more nauseating each moment. Billie scanned the handout, but it gave sparse biographical details for all the women. Intentionally glossing over their pasts? Or did no juicy details exist to fill in the blanks? Billie bet the former.

During the introductions, Billie fanned herself, wrote some notes, wondered how long she’d have to endure this crap. Wandering down the walkway, she texted Zin: Rescue me.

Zinta replied, That bad, huh?

The pits. If only the series would be cancelled. Slight chance if the ratings slipped any farther. How’s everything there?

Oh fine, Zin messaged.

Right. And I’m Mick Jagger’s love child. No, but she could have been his lover for an hour or two. Another mega-ego she’d neatly ignored. Scar tissue made for a strong protective barrier.

Billie hated texting, and called Zin. “Spill.”

“You won’t like it.” Zin’s voice cracked, and not from the bad connection.

“I thought Everett loved the blog?”

Airily, she said, “Oh, he did. It’s difficult to elaborate at the moment.”

“He’s nearby?” Damn him. Always in the right spot at the wrong time.

“Exactly. It’s along the lines of Jet’s old song Don’t Know Where You Been.”

Racking her brain, Billie ran through the lyrics in her head, but came up with sparse lines. “I remember the video better. One of Jet’s best.” Shot in black and white in a small club, the video showed Jet sidling up to the microphone. He shone with a mercurial glow in the spotlight, lips curled as his voice growled and grinded against the sexy backbeat of the drums. He stroked his guitar like a lover, and no one heard the lyrics.

Zin bubbled with curious enthusiasm. “Yeah, what’s he like? Is he as hot in person?”

“As hot as a nearing-middle-age guy can be. Yeah, he’s cute. But clueless.”

“How so?”

Her frustration funneled into a rant on Jet’s musical ambition. Or lack thereof. “He seems to think this show is really to showcase his musical talent. How thick can he be? The show’s titled Rock Bottom. Did that escape his notice? Does he not get that they’re setting him up for a full-on persecution?” The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She glanced over.

Jet stood a few feet away, mouth set in a grim line, narrowed eyes directed at her.

Surprise prickled her skin. Damn. She never meant for him to hear that, either, yet here she stood, foot squarely in her mouth again. She straightened. “Will do. Thanks for the info.”

“Uh-oh. Within hearing range?”

“It’s the way of it lately. Talk to you soon.” She flipped shut the cell, pulled out her notepad and wrote nonsensical notations, willing the warmth crawling up her neck to disappear. Explaining one misspoken remark would have been hard enough, but how could she explain two?

In her peripheral vision, Jet stood still as a statue. The weight of his stare grew heavier each moment.

Around them, the sounds of the set echoed. Only the two of them remained unmoving, isolated within the bustle.

Finally his voice bridged the distance. “When the world doesn’t give you opportunities, you take them.”

“Pardon?” So he knew the real premise of the show? To stake him to the TV screen and let viewers rip him to shreds?

He moved closer, the gleam in his eyes sharpening. “Do you have to put other people down to feel good about yourself?”

“Of course not. I’m a professional.” At the moment, she felt anything but. Her job didn’t include unintentionally skewering people, and she obviously had.

“You write like a snotty high school girl. ‘Jet doesn’t want to acknowledge the series is a joke–that the network’s made him the butt of it–because his music is laughable.’”

Heat pricked her cheeks. “How did you…” Realization struck. “Oh my God. The blog.” She hadn’t posted it accidently, had she? Of course he’d have read it sooner or later. She’d have preferred later. After she’d revised it, softened the edges so they weren’t quite so cutting.

“Yeah. The blog.”

“How did you read it?”

His furrowed brows intensified his gaze, hard and beautiful as ice blue diamonds. “Like everyone else. Online.”

“I didn’t… it wasn’t…” Stick to writing, Billie. Speaking is not your forte. “I hadn’t finished it.”

With an incredulous chuckle, he sounded as if the wind had been knocked from him. “Oh, you had more? Wait.” He patted his chest, his sides, then craned his neck to look behind him. “Oh yeah–here it is. The one place you didn’t twist the knife.”

Damn. He was taking this really hard. “You don’t understand–”

“Obviously, I never will.” He strode off down the walkway toward his studio.

The hurt in his voice stung her equally hard.

Halfheartedly, she said, “Jet.” As much as she wanted to follow, she didn’t. Couldn’t. Until she came up with a plausible explanation, he’d never listen, anyway.

* * * *

Anger propelled him down the path. Other days, he’d smile at the sunshine, revel in his fortune at living the life he loved. Rock Bottom was an inconvenience, but one that would help him get his music noticed again. Eyes on the prize, as Stu said. Until yesterday, he was okay with that. Why did it now feel like not enough?

He hadn’t met Billie Prescott before yesterday.

Bitch didn’t describe her fully enough. She sure had him fooled. At first, she’d been a little cold, sure, but he’d chalked that up to professionalism and jet lag.

Yesterday the show hadn’t begun.

Today, apparently, all bets were off. His opinion of her changed as radically as her attitude. “Work on my music instead of my abs. Clueless reporter.”

The key word. He had to remember her purpose here. Cover the show, report to fans. If he didn’t want to alienate those fans, he’d have to walk a thin line. Set his emotions aside.

Every time he spoke to her, the line blurred. Her warmth and caring–were those an act too? Turned on when she needed them, and off as easily?

From the patio, Stu called, “Jet.”

He kept walking.

Huffing, his manager caught up to him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m taking five.”

“We just started.”

We. It rattled him how Stu insinuated himself into every aspect of Jet’s work. His manager had put forth no effort today but wanted to take credit.

“I need to clear my head. Play some music.”

“The girls are waiting.”

“Fuck the girls.”

“I’m hoping you will. Ratings will skyrocket.”

He whirled to face Stu. “What about my music? When do we get some real gigs? You promised–”

“I said after the show.”

He wanted to swipe that sickly grin off Stu’s face. “You said you’d work at least one into the show. At least one. It’s not too much to ask, Stu.”

“I think–”

“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to promote me. Get me a gig, Stu. Or so help me, I’ll walk.” Jet’s voice shook. He dragged a hand across his mouth and reeled in his anger.

“All right, all right. I’ll get on it. In the meantime, I’ll coordinate with the producer to film a studio session.”

Jet blinked hard, wanting to swipe Stu from his sight. His mealy-mouthed arguments, disguised in soothing tones, used to convince Jet his manager had everything under control. Now he had to wonder whether it was himself he controlled. “A studio session would be good. But a concert is what I need.” Not playing to a live audience made him jittery.

Stu raised his hands near Jet’s chest, but didn’t make contact. “For now, I need you to go back on set. All right? Stay focused, man. We all have obligations. This isn’t forever.”

“Good thing. Or I’d take the express to visit Cobain and Hendrix.”

Stu inclined his head toward the patio. “They’re waiting.”

A sharp inhale fortified him. With a nod, he followed Stu. When Billie was nowhere in sight, relief washed over him. He couldn’t take any more from her right now.

* * * *

Over the next week and a half, Billie did her best to remain invisible. While her blog posts enjoyed insane popularity with the public, no one in the compound shared the sentiment. Except Justin. Every morning, he’d say, “Excellent post,” even if all she’d done was upload photos–a practice that seemed safest. In her cottage at night, she closed the blinds and bolted the door.

Jet appeared to actively avoid her. The few times their glances met by accident, he immediately frowned, as if the experience pained him, as if the reminder reopened the gash made by her cutting remarks. Shame burned deep, but she couldn’t approach him.

Everett ignored her complaints, downplayed her worries about revenge. “You only imagine they’re angry. They exist for drama, babe. Without the blog, the show might have tanked by now.”

Her hopes sank as dread filled her. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Then she’d been perpetuating her own purgatory. Time to get back into real writing. “Maybe we should focus on articles instead. From Philly.”

“No way. You have a huge following. You’re hot.”

How many times she’d longed to hear him exclaim those words with such enthusiasm, but face-to-face. “I don’t want to be hot.” Never had she imagined uttering those words. “I want to come home.”

Issuing a noise meant to indicate he was thinking when all the while she knew he intended her to stay indefinitely, he said, finally, “Not yet.”

“Where are my other assignments?” Concentrating solely on this bunch of loonies could prove contagious.

“For now, focus on Rock Bottom.” Tapping noises. He must be either drumming his fingers, or his pen. Which meant his patience had nearly run out.

Well, so was hers. “You promised–”

“Gotta go, babe. Keep up the great work.” Then silence.

Groaning, she flipped shut her cell. “Damn jerk.”

“Whoa, careful. My ears.”

Glancing up, she realized she’d wandered to the side of the pool house. Justin smiled as he stepped outside.

“Sorry.” She held her head and blew through her teeth.

“Have you never heard sarcasm before?” Cocking his head, he arched a brow. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, my stupid boss.” With a wave, she turned. No need to elaborate.

“Yeah, bosses can be a drag.”

“I’m beginning to feel as if I checked into the Hotel California.” Like the Eagles song, she’d checked in, apparently for good.

Bending to adjust a boom mic pole, Justin grinned up at her. “This place can get a little small.”

“I really need to get out of here.” She thought out loud. “Does any place rent scooters? Maybe I’ll just call a cab.”

“If you can wait until later, I’ll take you.”

Her heart leapt. She stepped closer. “Where?”

“Where do you want to go?”

His tantalizing tone inspired giddiness, made her feel lighter. She could escape this prison tonight. “Ooo. The Getty Villa’s supposed to have wonderful ancient artifacts. Or Malibu Wines…”

Wincing, Justin clucked his tongue. “I’m talking late late. Like after midnight. We usually keep filming until then.”

Her light feeling deflated. “Oh.”

“You need to stop getting up so early. Stay up with the night owls.”

No thanks. Their screeching kept her up some nights. “I’m hoping I’ll be pulled from this assignment soon.”

Disappointment showed in his frown. “Oh no. We’d miss you.”

“You’d be the only one.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “Hey, cheer up. The big day will be here soon.”

“For?”

“One of them gets the ax.” He mimed slitting his throat.

“One less bimbo.” More than one would suit her. The quicker they went, the quicker she could leave.