Rock Bottom. Cate Masters
tension. But you’d better be on set, ready to go, no later than that.”
“Oh, I’ll be ready. And I live ‘on set,’ remember?” Jet glared.
Speaking of tension… Fishing out a pen, she jotted some notes, hoping to appear inconspicuous, but feeling the group tense. As the outsider, she had to be careful not to alarm them, put them on guard. Or she’d miss all the good stuff.
She slid the notepad behind her. “So nothing going on tonight? No pre-show parties?”
Jet sidled near. “There’s always a party. I’m looking forward to you joining us.”
Shoving his hand between her and Jet, Stu effectively blocked him. “We haven’t been formally introduced. Stu Gilbert, Jet’s manager. No parties tonight. Tomorrow’s the first shooting day. We want to be fresh, don’t we, Jet?”
“We certainly do. Fresh as can be.” His gaze crawled across her to punctuate the double entendre.
Billie’s skin crawled, though not uncomfortably. She could almost imagine his hands caressing her instead of his gaze. Perhaps steroids had become part of his daily regimen. If only she weren’t the sole female in the room, she’d escape his intense attention. It brought out some animal instinct against her will. As if his testosterone piqued her pheromones to life.
Shifting to relieve her discomfort, she focused on Stu. “Can I connect with any of the girls before tomorrow?”
“Not likely. Half haven’t checked in yet. They’ll arrive as a group tomorrow. Makes for a dramatic entrance.” Rubbing his hands together, Stu’s enthusiasm contrasted Jet’s disinterest.
“How many–”
Pointedly, Stu glanced at the folder. “All in the packet.” Turning, he slung his arm around Jet’s shoulder and steered him toward the door, murmuring.
Smiling, Jet glanced back and winked.
She’d almost forgotten. “Wait–where can I bunk?”
Jet broke away from Stu. “With me, if you like.”
His manager steered him to the hall. “Cindy’ll take care of you.”
Shuddering, alarm bells went off in Billie’s head in realization of her instinct to take Jet up on the offer. She had enough problems without Jet Trently adding to them. And no matter how re-energized, his libido wouldn’t impress her into sparkling reviews of praise.
Oh no. She’d developed an immunity to rock stars years ago.
Chapter 2
He couldn’t stop staring. Rude, yeah, but something about her got to him. Like the second she’d walked in. Bam, straight to his core.
“Did you know about her?” he asked Stu.
His manager tugged him along the hallway. “What about her?”
“Being female. When you said Billie Prescott, she is not what I imagined.” The best he’d hoped for was someone new, a fresh face. Someone to hang with, drink a beer, talk about music. Life. Women.
Forget that.
As they continued outside, Stu droned on about the schedule, other stuff Jet could care less about. Stu had a good head for details, but didn’t work as hard as he pretended to.
Every so often, Jet interjected a grunt or nod so his manager would think he listened. Or gave a shit.
With Jeff gone, he hadn’t talked to anyone about things that mattered. Issues. Opinions. He knew better than to bring his new songs to the band. They’d grown so lazy, they were fine with being pigeonholed as Jet, the once-great band.
No one gave him an honest opinion, anyway.
Stu’s elbow connected with Jet’s side. “Why the long face?”
“Ah. You know. All this.”
“What, you’re depressed because you’ll have gorgeous girls hanging on your every word again?” He gave a false wince. “Come on.”
“Yeah, it’s great. Really. But it would be nice, just once, to find someone–” He shrugged. “–to talk to, all right? For once, it would be nice to feel the passion in my lyrics for a girl who’s beautiful and intelligent.”
“You want the package deal, eh? Forget it. You don’t want someone who understands you. She’d blow your whole mystique.”
He blew raspberries. “I’m just a guy, Stu. It’s not impossible–look at McCartney. He’s miserable without Linda. Or…” He cast about for another example of a successful long-term marriage.
“The public loves Jet Trently–rock star. Not Jerry Trently from New Jersey. Anyway, rock stars aren’t supposed to find real love, or their muses become jealous and abandon them.”
“Right.” He should’ve known better than to broach this subject with Stu. Divorced three times himself, Stu had no idea how to talk to anyone without an angle. Blowing smoke up asses was Stu’s specialty, his talent. He couldn’t set it aside if he tried.
“Look, you made it into your thirties. You’re healthy, and thanks to me, wealthy. You have millions of fans. Women throw themselves at you, would leave their husbands for you. What the fuck are you complaining about?” His mouth curled in disgust. Probably because he wished he could change places.
“Nothing. You’re right.” He blew out a breath and lied, “Just nervous about this next round, I guess.” Especially after reading the contestants’ bios. They might well have been the same as last time, for all he knew.
“No worries, bro. You’ll knock ’em dead like always.” Stu winked. “I have to check in, make sure everything’s set up in the edit room. My work is never done.”
“You’re the man.” Such phrases placated Stu. Got him off his back.
“Catch you later.” Stu stepped inside and closed the door.
Jet stood there, a trickle of sweat reminding him to get out of the hot sun. But to where? His studio? He could practice, he guessed. Or work on the song that had been nagging at him.
Or go back in the house. Where Billie was.
Hit the studio, man. Yeah, probably should.
Having another woman around didn’t raise his expectations for real conversation. Most women told him what they thought he wanted to hear. Season one gave him his fill. It was like falling into pheromone quicksand. Almost cozy at first, then it closed in tight, squeezed away his breath and left him nowhere to turn.
And now there was one more to deal with. Billie Prescott. A reporter, to boot–someone he could never speak to without selecting his words carefully. Guarding against misquotes or misconceptions. Mis-whatever.
He couldn’t deny she made a hell of a first impression. Something in the way she looked at him contradicted her screw-you attitude. Ah, shit. With women, it was always the same. Some sort of con to gain a foothold. They all wanted something he couldn’t give. Total devotion. He gave all to his music. Girls provided inspiration, for a while. None had ever gotten to him the way his songs made him think they should. He’d never fallen in love like that. Probably never would.
Still, maybe he should go check on Billie. Make sure she had everything she needed.
* * * *
At Cindy’s summoning via walkie-talkie, a man in a polo bearing the Rock Bottom logo begrudgingly dragged Billie’s luggage through the dining room to the spacious eat-in kitchen beyond. She followed him out the French doors to the patio. Between the doors stood an outdoor fireplace, its mustard-hued chimney flanked by tall concrete pineapple statuary. In front, cushioned seating around a low coffee table, then two oversized chaise lounges with matching umbrellas sat atop an outdoor rug.
“Because