Rock Bottom (28 page)

“Isn’t that the point of the show? To become attached?”

Her snide remark hit him as sharply as if she’d punched him, and he expelled a sharp breath. “You’re right.”

Picking up his guitar, he hugged it to him and sat. His fingers caressed the strings. “This studio used to be a guest house. I’ve grown partial to it.”

“So what was that new music you played? For a new CD?”

Not ready to go there.
He focused on the guitar. “Just jamming.”

“Play it again,” she urged.

Laughing, he scratched his head.

“Please?” She switched off the recorder. “Off the record. I’d really love to hear it.”

He eyed her warily. “I don’t want any reviews, bad or otherwise. No blogs, no articles.”

“No reviews, nothing. I swear. It stays in this room.” She perched on the stool next to his.

With a deep breath, he launched into the song. His fingers flew along the frets, made the strings squeal with pleasure at his touch. The song captivated him, made time stand still, made him forget life and all its troubles. The best kind of music. A little rough, but it sounded like a hit waiting to happen--sheer raw emotion, not preprocessed into a formula.

As he finished, he froze in place, the strings resonating.

From her blissful expression, she’d caught the same vibe.

After the tune faded to silence, she exhaled. “Incredible.”

He set the guitar down gently in its stand. “Come on.” If he wanted someone to tell him how great it was, he’d play for his sister. He needed someone to push him to make it better.

“I mean it. It’s good. I won’t say it’s perfect. I can tell you’ll be tweaking it.”

“Ha. Tweaking. Yeah.” Exactly. He rested his hands on his knees, watching her.

“The rough spots are easily fixed.”

“Easily? You think so?” He jutted his lower lip, teasing. Not one to craft his songs with formulas, he did have a routine for writing songs.

“For you. You’re a pro.”

He inclined his head. “It’s never easy.”

“No, I suppose not. Not when you care so much, when you’ve invested so much of yourself in it. But that only makes it worth it in the end. Doesn’t it?”

He studied her silently.

She laid her hand on his arm. “This could be the turnaround you’ve been looking for.”

Up like a shot, he paced. “Don’t say that.” Too much pressure too soon.

She rose and followed close. “How can you doubt it?”

He whirled to face her. “It’s one song.”

“There’ll be others.” She bit her lip.

“There already are, but--”

“That’s great! You must know how good they are. You must
feel
it.”

He stepped toward her with an intensity that made her gasp. Hands clenched, he struggled to hold himself back. When he no longer could, he took hold of her arms.

“This is what I feel.” His lips enveloped hers, and immediately brought back the warmth and passion of their earlier kiss. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. When her arms encircled him, holding tight, he pinned her to the wall. Her mouth pressed against his with equal force. His hands moved along her back, lips sliding against hers with a slow, powerful rhythm that made him hunger for more.

Banging on the door roused them. “Jet? Why’s the door bolted? Open up.” Stu. He pounded again on the door, then rattled the windows. “Jet, I need to talk to you. Let’s go, open up.”

Loosening his embrace, he muttered, “Fuck.” He’d grown tired of people intruding on his life.

* * * *

Her thought exactly, but not likely now.

“I, uh… I should go.”

“No, don’t.”

The urgency in his tone drew her lips to his again, but reluctantly paused when Stu knocked again.

With a sigh of defeat, he moved away.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she strained to recall what she’d brought. Seeing her handbag on the floor, she lifted it. “Thanks…for the interview. And the song. I loved it. All of it.” Her stomach churned.
Shut up. Now.
“Goodnight.”

“Billie, please.”

“I have to go, Jet.” Twisting the doorknob, she yanked, but the door didn’t budge.

“Here.” He reached around her to the bolt.

“Oh, right. The lock.”
Please don’t kiss me again.
She couldn’t be responsible for what happened if he did.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek.

“Night.”
You said that already.

He slid the bolt and opened the door.

Blindly, she brushed past Stu and almost ran down the walk.

Whatever Stu had intended to say came out in a blurt. “What? Again?”

Jet’s voice faded. “An interview, Stu. Relax. What’s up?”

Stu’s argument was lost to the screeching coming from beyond. How could the bimbos still be at it?

As she stepped inside, Ashley cried, “There she is.”

“I knew she went to meet him.” Cat’s pace increased.

With a gasp, Billie froze. She had nowhere to go except back inside--but she couldn’t go there either.

“Now girls…” Stu glanced back. “We have a riot on our hands. Call security.”

Emerging, Jet pushed past Stu. “I’ll handle this.” His voice smooth as heated rum, he held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s all calm down.”

Cat led the charge. “Let me at her.”

Ashley followed.

Jet grabbed her arm. “I said hold on.” His rougher tone halted them. “You’re upset about nothing. Billie and I were--”

Cat broke in, “We know what went on.”

“You have no idea.” Jet glared. “Billie’s a professional. A journalist. Any time I spend with her is necessary for promotion.” He softened. “Without promotion, the show’s dead in the water. Is that what you ladies want?”

“No.” Ashley glanced uncertainly at Cat.

“We want you. That’s why we’re here.” Cat stroked his chest.

He threw his arms around Cat and Ashley, steering them back down the path.

Disgusted, Billie couldn’t turn away. The line between reality and the reality show had become a blur. One moment, he looked at her with more feeling than any guy ever had, and the next, he strolled off with his harem.

“Ah, the lucky bastard.” Stu grinned.

Shooting him a glare, she stalked to her cottage.

He got the bastard part right.

Fury blinded her to the words on her laptop screen as she entered her blog post. She described the pure joy of hearing Jet play beautiful new melodies, songs to make anyone’s heart ache to hear more. Why, she wondered in print, couldn’t he let his public decide whether the songs were good enough? Why keep them to himself? Her rant continued about the quality of music, how artists thrived by stretching their boundaries or withered within self-imposed ones.

How Jet continued to allow himself to be distracted by reality show nonsense instead of concentrating on his true love: music.

Submitting it, she shut down the laptop and slept from sheer exhaustion.

In the morning, she awoke with a start. “Oh God. What did I do?” She’d promised not to reveal his new songs. And broken that promise.

He’d surely hate her for this.

Fearful of his hate surfacing where others could see, she sequestered herself in the cabin. Voices sounded outside the walls, but passed.

Late in the afternoon, she had to find something to eat after exhausting her supply of crackers. Takeout might be a possibility, but then again, she’d rarely seen a delivery person past the gate.

She’d have to go out.

Peering out the door, the heat blasted in her face. Ugh. Why did people live here? The stone pavers burned through her soles. The pool water stood calm, undisturbed. No one else wanted to be out in the heat either, apparently.

Luckily, the kitchen stood empty. Maybe the bimbos had taken a spa day or shopping spree. Peering in the fridge, she rummaged for something nutritious but portable. Small prepackaged cheese rounds beckoned. Grabbing two, she closed the door. “Oh!” And wanted to die.

* * * *

Jet glanced at the package in her hand. “Cheese? How appropriate.” How he managed to keep his cool, he couldn’t say. Maybe he hoped beyond hope her blog post had been a ploy to appease her editor. Or maybe her kiss had been a ploy.

“I…” Her shoulders slumped, defeat deflating her.

Right. No explanation would satisfy him. Best not to try. “Does
Strung Out
practice the new journalism, then? All ethics aside?”

She straightened. “It was a great piece.”

“Oh yeah. Very insightful. No personal feelings involved. How could I not see through you? Your false flattery? You only did it to get close. What would have come next, Billie?” Drifting closer, he watched her lips, wanting to know their touch again.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Somehow her comeback lacked conviction.

“Oh, believe me. I’ve been in this business long enough to know I can’t trust anyone. No matter how sweet they appear. If you’d been the girl I thought you were, then that review would have been on your blog the next day.” He turned away, and muttered, “I should have listened to Cat from the beginning.”

“Cat? What did she say?” Horror and anger mixed in her face as she slid in front of him.

Jet knew Cat would say anything to get in his good graces. But he had to know. “She told me you were in bed with your editor. Literally.” Jaw clenched, he glared, waiting. Hoping she’d deny it.

Lifting her chin, she turned, her expression giving nothing away.

He moved in front of her. “Well? Is it true?”

Her nostrils flared. “No.”

His stomach churned. He knew a lie when he saw one. “Come on, Billie. I know when I’ve been set up.”

“It’s not like that.” She blew through her lips. “All right, yes. Everett and I…had a thing. It’s over.”

But before or after she came here? “He always was a schmuck.”

“I swear, Jet. We never colluded to set you up. He sent me here, I think, to get rid of me.”

“Then he’s a bigger schmuck than I imagined.”

Confusion crossed her face. Dropping her chin, she stepped back. “You’re right. I should never have let my personal life--my feelings--interfere with my work. It’s completely unprofessional. I apologize.”

A bitter laugh escaped. “So that’s the only reason you’re sorry? It’s unprofessional?” Didn’t she give a fuck about him?

“What do you want from me? You have an entire harem out there.”

He kept his voice in check, but glared. “Tell me the truth. Is that the only reason you’re sorry?” So gorgeous.
So dangerous.
If he weren’t careful, she could do serious damage--internally.

Gulping hard, her features hardened. “No. I’m sorry I ever took this job. I should never have come here.”

Deep sadness roiled through him. He couldn’t spend another second with her.

* * * *

Watching Jet slam the door behind him, Billie stopped herself from calling him back. Her head swirled, unable to think straight. Did he hate her, or want her? Maybe both? The concern in his face couldn’t have been for her. All those questions about the blog--self-protection, that’s all he cared about. The sting of Everett’s underhanded breakup felt mild compared to this.

You’re giving yourself away too easily again.

Whatever had been building between them had to end. Now. Her heart couldn’t recover from another break, not so soon. As much as she ached to ask him to trust her, she couldn’t quite trust herself.

Rushing back to the cabin, she grabbed her cell phone from its charger and dialed.

Laughing, Everett answered. “Well, hello.”

“Get me out of here.” Her voice shook.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Holding her temple, she calmed herself. Forced a laugh. “I’m bored out of my skull.” She wished. Boredom would be a welcome emotion at the moment.

“Babe. We need you there. Audience buzz is way up. Something’s about to break. I can feel it.”

Yeah. Me.
“Your gut’s wrong half the time.”

“Not this time.” His singsong tone made her want to reach through the line and strangle him.

“Give me something, Everett. I’m going insane here. At least let me cover another band while I’m here. There must be someone playing in this godforsaken town.”

“Nothing going on there today?”

“The Bimbo Squad are out for a wax or something. You’re killing me, Everett. I need new music. I’m in this business because I love bands. Not bimbos.”

Papers rustled, his keyboard clicked. “Hmm. You might have a point. Let me look around.”

“Hurry.” Silence. “Hello?”

The call had ended. With a growl, she flipped her cell shut. “You better come up with something good,” she said to it.

Knowing Everett, it would be days before she heard from him. And he’d likely claim he forgot.

Unwrapping her cheese, she plotted her revenge. She’d go out, get a newspaper. Better yet, just go to a club. But who would she go with? One of these days, she’d talk Zinta into an overnight visit.

Her cell buzzed. Everett’s name displayed. “Hello?”

“There’s a band I want you to cover--tomorrow night. Supposed to be influenced by Jet, actually.”

Groaning, she bit her lip. Only a pseudo-escape. A cheap imitation of Jet. “Nothing else?”

“Hey, you asked for a side assignment. Take it or leave it.”

At least it would get her away from here for a night. “Fine. Give me the details.” Jotting the information, she sighed. “Okay. I’ll file a story afterward.”

If she still had a brain left.

No matter how many times he played through it in his head, Jet couldn’t believe Billie had set out to play him. He’d kissed other women who had, and they put all their efforts into kissing him, but none had gotten to him like Billie.

Hell, even if she was playing him, he wanted her. She made him feel good, and it had been too long since anyone had done that. If she were the devil, he’d dance with her, anyway.

In the morning, he skipped his run to stalk her. If he went inside the guest house, he knew how it would end. In bed. But he might not get the answers he wanted. He had to talk to her on neutral ground.

His heart skipped a beat when she emerged. In a hurry.

Jogging to her side, he fell into step. “Hey, I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. Are you busy?”