Rock Bottom. Cate Masters
gratitude. And much less organization.
“I have a feeling Everett just revised it for me.” He’d topped her Lust Have list. But such incredible sex couldn’t all come from lust, could it? He had to have thought about her, given her more consideration than his usual dates. Maybe even pined for her, a little.
“Aw, honey. Play it cool. Let him make the next move.”
He’d forced her to, temporarily. From Philadelphia to Malibu. Talk about culture shock.
“I have no choice. He’s actively avoiding me. Of course, now he won’t have to.” She sat and opened her desk drawer, removed her digital recorder and a few notepads and pens. Whatever she forgot, she’d buy on site and charge back to the magazine.
Zinta tapped her nails against her mug. “I can’t believe he gave you that assignment. He mentioned it earlier, but I didn’t think he was serious.”
Zipping her laptop case, Billie tried to keep anxiety from her voice. “Yes, on an extended story. He must really want me gone.” Maybe things hadn’t gone as well as she’d thought.
“No.” Zinta’s whine matched her pout. “I need you here.”
“You’re the only one, apparently.” Biting her lip, Billie realized the truth of the statement. Going away might provide a better perspective on her life. And what she needed to change.
* * * *
The desk appeared too neat. Freakishly so. As if she’d never again sit at it to dash off a review or interview an up-and-coming band. To remedy that, she crumpled a sheet of paper and tossed it onto the desktop. Too staged. When she removed it, her stomach clenched. Would she never occupy this place again?
After stopping by Zinta’s desk for a hug, she went to Everett’s office and stood in the doorway. “Guess I’m off.”
“Come in. Shut the door.”
Oh no. Here it came. The final kiss-off. She did as he said, and turned to face the music.
He pinned her against the door, his body all hard warmth, his tongue already probing hers. “God, you taste good.” His lips curled against hers in a smile.
Ignoring the alarm bells screaming in her head, her body melded to his. “Why–”
“It’ll be good for us. Both of us.”
She let her fingers wander south of his belt buckle, and made her voice breathy and low. “Are you sure?”
Releasing a pent-up sigh, he groaned. “Yes.”
Damn. So much for sexual persuasion. She could only imagine how ineffectual she’d be in California.
* * * *
Through the wispy clouds, Los Angeles sprawled below and the plane tilted into its descent. If lucky, she’d spend less than an hour in the airport, and another hour trekking south to Malibu, if the traffic gods smiled upon her. Then she could collapse on whatever cot in a closet they provided.
Now she could unequivocally state she knew how Jet Trently felt when his life began its downward trajectory. “Luck, be a lady and plummet my jet from the sky to save me from this torture.”
The plane touched down with not even a bump, and Frank Sinatra crooned endlessly in her head.
No such lady. Not in California.
All for the best. Everett wouldn’t have grieved at her memorial. More likely he’d have angled for solace in the arms of someone else. Someone younger. Less available. Despite his lust-filled goodbye, his eagerness for her departure shone through, leaving her more confused than ever.
After collecting her suitcase from the carousel, she wheeled it toward the exit. At least the promised heat had allowed her to pack light. A few basic black essentials she could dress up with accessories. Hope sprung eternal Everett would cut her stay short.
Outside, the sun sizzled up from the sidewalk. Even sunglasses couldn’t cut the glare. The dark suit jacket had to come off. Everywhere she looked, sun, sun and more sun. Could people go mad from too much sunlight? Might be a good angle. Would account for a lot, actually.
Hailing a cab, she gave the driver the address provided by Jet’s manager and spent the drive with closed eyes hidden by sunglasses. When he slowed, she cleared the haze from her brain to take in Malibu. Getting to the beachfront house required the driver to meander through a high-end neighborhood. They pulled up outside a mustard-colored plaster wall with a wrought-iron gate. The driver pressed the intercom button. A woman answered, asked them to wait while she checked for Billie’s name on the list. The gate swung open.
The immense house echoed the honey-colored wall, but its Spanish-Mediterranean architecture set it apart from the other homes. A mixture of funk and class, not at all the soulless sleek beach home she’d imagined.
The driver set her luggage from the taxi’s trunk on the sidewalk. “Will that be all?”
She caught the look as his gaze sidled up her thighs and rear. “Yes, definitely all.” A thought struck her. “Hold on. I do need something else.” Switching on the cell camera, she handed it to him. “Take a quick pic. Get as much of the house in there as possible.” She waved her middle finger.
He held it at eye level, clicked, surveyed his handiwork and gave it back. “Nice.”
“It’ll do.” All the proof she needed of her landing on the West Coast. Adding two words, I’m here, she forwarded it to Everett, though she still had trouble believing it herself.
Malibu. The Bu, to locals. Twenty-one miles of sand and surf and vacuous, self-absorbed celebrities like Jet Trently, looking for a Baywatch babe to even out the beauty quotient for photo ops.
On the upside, the stunning views would enhance her stay. The branches of the tall cypress trees behind the sprawling two-story house swayed in the breeze off the Pacific. The home’s architecture invited closer inspection, though its honey-mustard plaster she could live without. Still, it would be easy to spot coming back from long walks on the beach… Yes, she might get used to coastal life.
Maybe the L.A. Times needed a good reporter. Hey, she could do entertainment news as well as anyone. Isn’t that why you’re here? Silencing the snide voice in her head, she shouldered her carryon bag and wheeled the other. Everett would pay for this.
She hoped it wouldn’t take long to get situated. She needed to study her map and learn the lay of the land.
That brought a chuckle. She was about to meet him, wasn’t she?
Well, one of them, at least.
* * * *
The guitar strings vibrated, rich with the chord Jet Trently strummed. God, he loved playing. If George Harrison made his guitar gently weep, Jet could make it scream with pleasure, sigh or talk badass. Probably why his name frequently listed with Eric Clapton and Eddie Van Halen as the world’s best.
“Jet?” his manager called. “It’s time.”
Shit. Already? One of the dangers of playing. Music carried him to a beautiful place devoid of time where no stress existed. No reality.
And definitely no reality TV. Why the hell had he signed on for another season of torture? He was no actor. Yeah, so reality TV didn’t require him to be, but dealing with those crazy women they lined up definitely did. He didn’t know if he could muster the necessary enthusiasm for another few months. At the end of the last season, he’d been so relieved he could’ve gone on a real binge.
But no, he wasn’t going there again. Jeff had taught him that much. He owed his brother for saving him twice: once from the crappy New Jersey town they’d grown up in, and from becoming a total cliché, living the supposed rock star high life. At thirty-five, he wanted more than a quick lay. Was he expecting to find it in any of the season two beauties? Hell no. This gig gave him a steady paycheck and put his