Rock Bottom (3 page)

“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 show should’ve been named
Jet
Trently
: Center of the Universe
.

Narrowing his eyes, Stu smiled. “All right. Two thirty. I don’t suppose it will hurt the girls to wait a while. Might make for some interesting onscreen 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.

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 they can’t decide whether to tan or not?” she joked to her unhappy valet.

“If they’re anything like the last batch, it’ll be the least of what they can’t decide.”

Foreboding words, if she’d ever heard them. She followed her guide down a wide stretch of patio leading to the ceramic-tiled pool. Beyond the pool, eight woven wicker chairs surrounded a teak oval table canopied by tree branches. She could only imagine what those gatherings must be like. Jet holding court over contestants, the glow of candlelight not softening their glares at one another through the overflowing flower centerpiece.

Past the cabana at the far end of the pool, the flagstone patio funneled into a walkway lined with shrubbery. At the back of the cabana, a door stood open, and two guys wearing identical polos worked at a long table loaded with equipment.

Slowing, she asked, “What’s that?”

The guy glanced over. “An ad hoc editing room.”

“Cool. Could I check that out later?”

“Check with Cindy.” He veered off onto a side path leading to a small cottage. From there, the walkway wound around and out of sight.