Rock Bottom. Cate Masters
The indefinable quality that grabbed listeners and wouldn’t let go.
Every time he thought he almost had it, the melody eluded him again. He could practically hear his muse laughing. Like she’d taken off for Tijuana on a drunken binge and he couldn’t bribe her to come back.
“Jet.”
“Coming.” Reluctantly, he propped his guitar against the sofa, stretched up to a standing position and closed his eyes. You can do this. A few more months, then you’re home free.
Man, how good did that sound?
Descending the steps, he steeled himself. There’s no such thing.
* * * *
Wheeling her luggage up the flagstone walkway, Billie halted at the glass-enclosed foyer and pressed the doorbell.
The grapevine wreath on the leaded glass front door didn’t exactly scream rock star’s house. Odd, since the long drive and walled property would discourage drive-bys and paparazzi. Anyone wanting to spy would first need to clear the spike-topped iron fence.
A short, frumpish figure appeared through the thick glass, and the door opened. A woman, probably close to Billie’s age, peered through black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, blond hair pulled back in a barrette. “Yes?” Her mouth puckered tight, the only indication of impatience on her otherwise blank face.
“Hi, I’m Billie Prescott from Strung Out. Here to see Stu Gilbert.” According to Everett, the manager’s goofball persona hid a shrewd businessman. Don’t anger Stu, he’d warned. He’ll cut you loose before you know what’s happened. She’d sworn she’d be on her best behavior. If Stu cut her loose, Everett might be tempted to do the same. If he hadn’t already.
“Right. He’s expecting you. Follow me.” Spinning on her heel, she glided noiselessly across the Spanish tile foyer. A feat, given the unevenness of the golden-red flooring, which continued into the hallway.
Hauling her case inside, she set it beside the golden wall, which had a mottled parchment-like finish. A faded gold chandelier hung regally over the wide space that opened to a spacious living room on the left and a large dining room to the right. In the center of the hall, a blond-wood staircase invited her gaze to the second floor landing, generously lit by the same floor-to-ceiling windows the first floor had. The embossed copper ceiling caught her eye as she walked. The house had character, if no one living in it did.
“I’ll have someone move your luggage when we know where they’re putting you. I’m Cindy, by the way. Stu’s assistant. Check with me if you need anything. Your timing’s good–Stu and Jet are meeting with the producer in the office. Go on in.” She nodded toward a closed door at the end of the hall opposite a narrow desk where she took a seat.
Maybe she’d needed to come west after all, if only to adjust her timing. “Thanks.”
The office–if it could be called one–continued the golden color scheme, highlighted by the same stunning copper ceiling. A white stone fireplace dominated the opposite wall, with a quilted English sofa to one side and a matching quilted daybed on the other, separated by twin coffee tables. Behind the daybed stood double French doors topped with arched windows to the ceiling and framed by billowing white floor-length curtains. The doors stood open to a view of the rocky bluff. Beyond, the endless Pacific Ocean glittered in the late-afternoon sun.
After slipping inside, she approached the cluster of men standing at its center.
Dressed in tight jeans and a snug black t-shirt, Jet Trently laughed as he spoke, his too-white teeth flashing. His presence injected an undeniable energy into the room. It sizzled along her nerve endings when he looked her way, electrified by his crystal blue eyes.
A man turned at her approach. “Miss, we’re having a meeting. Check in with my executive assistant.” Stu Gilbert. More like one of the Three Stooges with his wiry hair and bulbous nose. A disco version with two gold chains revealed by his half-unbuttoned shirt, heavy man-rings decorating his pudgy fingers.
Impatience had edged his tone. He thought her an intruder.
Billie affected a sharp business tone. “Already did. I’m Billie Prescott from Strung Out. My editor spoke with Mr. Gilbert about covering the show?”
Jet’s eyes widened. “You’re Billie Prescott?”
Billie had a feeling she’d just made Jet’s Lust Have list, though she had no doubt the list, if printed, would require reams of paper. If he licked his lips, she’d be out of there before he could retract his tongue. “You’re expecting me, aren’t you?”
“Billie Prescott, yes. You–no.” His appreciative gaze wandered the length of her.
The trio chuckled in unison.
Like she didn’t get that same response every freakin’ time. Biting back a snide reply, she forced out, “Do you have an information packet for me? Something that will help me catch up on where season one ended?”
Stu glanced at Jet. “Cindy can put something together.”
Jet tilted his head. “Not a fan, eh?”
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he appeared pleased.
Wrinkling her nose, she grinned. Let that be answer enough.
“Pity you weren’t a contestant.” He arched a brow and turned to the third man. “Now there’s an idea.”
Shaking his head, the man winced. “No.” He slid his hands in the back pockets of his khaki Dockers, wrinkled like his faded denim shirt. The producer, had to be.
“What?” She’d missed something.
“It’s perfect–an insider’s perspective.” Again Jet’s gaze meandered across her. “I could make it worth the magazine’s while.”
Ugh. Now she understood. “No. I’m a journalist, not a reality show contestant.”
He hunched his shoulders, not quite a shrug. “It’s a fresh angle.”
“Not if I can’t stay objective. Journalists can never allow ourselves to become part of the story. I’ll get a much better, um, perspective from staying neutral.”
Jet’s grin widened. “Neutral’s no fun.”
Time to move this conversation along to a new topic. “It gives me the big picture, which is what I’m after.” All I’m after, she stopped herself from adding. No way would she ever join a pack of feral females to compete for one guy. Especially a shallow has-been like Jet Trently. She had zero respect for an artist who let his talents go to waste.
Though he did have amazing eyes. She’d give him that. And an incendiary presence. He’d toned up since she’d last seen him in concert six years ago when he’d sported the beginnings of a paunch. It had gone along with the DUI charge or two, plus busting up a few hotel rooms. Had he checked into rehab after? She’d have to research it.
“So? What’d I miss?” The phrase would be her epitaph if she weren’t careful. At least she’d caught them during their meeting.
Stu reached for a folder on the table and thrust it in her direction. “Here’s a schedule. We start shooting tomorrow at one.”
Jet groaned. “Couldn’t we make it three? Or four?”
Adopting the condescending tone of a parent, Stu asked, “You don’t have a concert tonight, do you?”
Hugging his arms to his chest, Jet widened his stance. The stubborn child. “No but–”
The third man heaved a sigh. “Your contract states–”
“My contract states the show’s about me. And I’m not at my best at one.” Though Jet smiled, the tone of authority in his voice warned against trifling with him.
Hmm. Maybe the