Rock Bottom (9 page)

“I’m worried about you.”

That makes two of us.
“I needed to get out of there. That place gets smaller every day. It’s making me claustrophobic.”

“You need a concert.”

“Exactly. Tell Everett he promised.” A shift in focus would ease the constricted feeling in her chest.

“I’m going to review Wilco next week and Kings of Leon the week after.”

“Stop torturing me.” She’d kill to take Zin’s place. “Now I’m really depressed. All I have to look forward to is fishing.”

“Fishing? Really?”

“And I can’t even participate. I have to keep out of the camera’s view, watch from a distance.” Not that she had a great love of the sport, but it had to be better than being relegated to spectator.

“Well, make it sound even more boring and readers will lose interest.”

“Not likely.” Not after today’s studio session. “Call me from the concert, let me listen in, will you?”

Zin promised, then said goodbye.

Going from store to store, Billie’s depression grew. No bathing suits for less than two hundred dollars. She tried the adjacent shopping complex, the Malibu Lumber Yard. J. Crew offered the most affordable, if least impressive option.

Tonight, she’d dine out.

When she arrived at Geoffrey’s, the hostess gave her the once-over and said, “Sorry, we’re full.”

Billie flashed her
Strung Out
ID. “I was hoping to eat here so I could include your place on our blog dedicated to--”

The woman’s eyes practically flashed dollar signs. “You’re
that
Billie Prescott? I’ve been following your posts.”

“If I could get in, Geoffrey’s would get some really great publicity.”

“Joffrey’s.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s pronounced Joffrey’s. Let me take another look…” She scanned the reservation list, and beamed at Billie. “Oh, how could I have missed this? We had a cancellation, if you can wait a few minutes.”

Time to make the hostess squirm instead. “Hmm. How long of a wait?”

Her tone turned apologetic. “A few minutes. We’ll have a table ready in a jiff.”

“Sounds great.” Yes, a decent meal would make a nice change from takeout and power bars.

The hostess clip-clopped into the dining room and, as promised, returned within minutes to lead Billie to a table. “The lobster Cobb salad’s excellent.” With a wink, she strolled away, and a waiter appeared. From his eagerness, she guessed the hostess tipped him off.

Billie ordered the recommended salad and a glass of wine. “No, make that a margarita.” What the hell, she wouldn’t be driving.

After a leisurely meal, the hostess reappeared. “How is everything? Do you need anything else?”

“A cab? And would you mind?” She held up the digital camera. “I’d love to get a photo with you.”

With a gushing sigh and psycho-bright eyes, the woman smiled. “For the blog? I’d love that too.”

Billie would bet the hostess aspired to be an actress, or worse, a reality show contestant. Everyone craved the spotlight.

The photo op garnered Billie a complimentary slice of chocolate dessert, and a sendoff worthy of royalty. Waving, she climbed into the cab and gave the address.

At the gate, Billie got out. “I can walk from here, thanks.” She pressed the intercom button. Cindy, ever-present at her desk, buzzed her in.

Stars pierced a thin veil of clouds overhead as she strolled down the solar-lit drive. Pausing at the cottage door, the strains of guitar licks clashed with screeching laughter and splashing from the pool.

Billie pushed inside. “Back to the unreal world of reality TV.” These people needed real jobs, if only to allow her a decent night’s rest. No matter. Tonight, she had a blog to post.

* * * *

Billie slipped onto the patio unnoticed in time for the shoot.

The producer clasped his hands. “All right, ladies. Everyone set for today’s trip to the winery?” When they responded yes in unison, he turned to Stu. “Jet ready?”

“RWA. Ready, willing and able.” Stu glanced nervously at the house.

He’d never win any originality awards. Jet had made himself scarce yesterday and today. Her cottage walls vibrated with muted music from the studio. Jet and his band practiced from midday to midnight, picking up again today.

“We’re supposed to be live.” Ashley smoothed her hair.

Cat popped a breath mint between her teeth. “Not these scenes, honey.”

Stu made a show of checking his watch. “I’ll go make sure he’s RWA.” He strode around the side of the house.

The producer cursed when the time lapsed. Muttering, he herded the women. “Let’s go over here and we’ll get some preliminary shots. Can’t keep wasting time.”

Fifteen minutes lapsed before Stu returned, Jet leading the way. He wore shorts and a tee from one of his tours, fitted to his contoured chest. A broad smile lit his face--a music high. Billie would know that look anywhere. His practice had obviously gone well. And he’d practiced because of her. An inexplicable bubble of happiness welled within.

“Excuse me.” Jet gestured to the producer.

“Yes?” The response dripped with sarcasm.

Jet huddled with the stodgy man. “I’d love the girls to join me in the studio.”

“What? Malibu Wines has cleared their schedule--”

“I appreciate that. Everyone’s put a lot of work into this. We’re on a roll, though, and it would be great to get the reaction of these girls on film, don’t you think? The audience would eat it up.” His voice surged with enthusiasm.

Maybe he’d supplemented the musical high with a little something extra, despite his touted health regimen. Whatever he’d taken, everyone and everything around him picked it up. Since he’d arrived, the air buzzed with energy.

Billie caught the buzz like a drug and wanted more.

“Jet, we’re wasting time.”

“Then let’s go. The band’s waiting.” He turned to Danny and Justin. “You guys are mobile, right? That’s the beauty of live television. You can go anywhere. So come on.” His teeth flashed bright in a smile.

He sure could turn on the charm when he wanted. Even the camera guys couldn’t resist. Without waiting for the producer’s okay, they followed. The women, predictably, followed the cameras.

“It’s more than just the cameras. It’s lighting…” The producer’s hands flew in the air, then flopped. “Fine. So today’s not a total black hole.”

Thankful for her low heels, Billie scooted to Justin’s side.

Tall and lanky, he smiled down at her. “Unpredictable as ever.”

“Really? Did he do this a lot last year?”

“Never.” Danny pushed his glasses up his nose. “This is a first.”

“Hmm.” She needed to get her hands on more season one DVDs as a gauge, though it still wouldn’t provide any insight behind the scenes.

Inside the studio, the other band members picked random notes, joked in low tones. The contestants arranged themselves in front of the main mic where Jet lifted his guitar to his chest.

Billie drifted to a corner to stay out of sight, but not miss anything.

“Should we have them come in again?” Jet asked Danny.

“Good idea. Let’s have you all go out and when we’re ready, we’ll call you.”

With pouted lips, the girls exchanged puzzled glances, hair swishing around their shoulders like a shampoo commercial. With Cat leading, they did as instructed.

The producer entered. “Now what?”

Danny moved opposite Justin’s position. “Setting up. They’ll be back in a sec.”

Heaving a frustrated sigh, the producer went outside.

Jet signaled the band, and they launched into a song. But tonight, they played as one, their song a harmonious blend of pitch-perfect notes.

Billie’s excitement rose. She couldn’t wait to tell Zinta. She wouldn’t say she couldn’t keep her eyes off Jet. His blond hair shone in the lights, giving him an aura of radiance. His voice raw with emotion, his singing drew her in, made her want to go to him, somehow catch the energy he put into his song. Her heart raced like it had in high school, listening to him for the first time.

The band finished the song, and surprise overtook her when the girls clapped. When had they come in? How could she have missed it? But there they huddled like cheerleaders, a seething mass of sighs and lip gloss and overstyled hair.

Jet aimed his megawatt smile at them, and an unfamiliar twinge went through Billie. He conversed with each like an old friend. “Did you like it?”

Did he really need to ask? The band hadn’t sounded this tight in years.

She gasped. Her recorder--she hadn’t turned it on. Rummaging in her handbag, she pulled it out and clicked it on with the excitement of a high school girl sneaking into a concert.

* * * *

Holding a guitar was the most natural pose for Jet. Being nervous made no sense today. He’d played in this studio for months. Loved the acoustics in here. But now, standing in the center of the room with his band behind him and the six new contestants seated on chairs in a semicircle, sweat greased his palm.

Justin and Danny made final adjustments to the pole holding the boom mic above their heads. Thousands of people would watch their performance. His performance. He had to make it good. No, great.

The last to enter the studio, Billie hesitated in the doorway.

He glanced up and held her gaze a beat more than comfortable.

She looked around and moved a folding chair to the side of a large speaker. Good. An inconspicuous spot.

Danny nodded to the producer, who held up two fingers. Jet waved in acknowledgment. He’d have to ignore Ms. Prescott. Not think about what she might write.

Strumming idly, he flashed a smile at his adoring audience. “We have some songs in mind, but if you have any requests--”

Ashley’s hand shot up, and she squirmed in her seat. “
Gotta
Have Your Love
.”

“One of my favorites.” His glance flicked to Billie, and a nerve in his jaw pulsed.

She sat straighter and leaned forward. He’d almost think she was excited to hear him play live.

With narrowed eyes, Cat glared in Billie’s direction, her long-nailed hands clenched like claws.

After a nod to the band, Jet launched into the song as much to ease the tension as anything.

Amber and Julie watched with rapt attention. Terry examined her nails, glanced around the room, did everything but yawn. At Ashley’s fifth request, Terry rolled her eyes. The band ended another song, and she excused herself.

When she passed Billie, the reporter wrote in her notebook. Probably predicting Terry would be cut first. Accurately.

Unless she critiqued his set. Though unplugged, he rendered each as a toned-down version of the recorded song. Words like “rehashed performance” flew through his head, and fear stiffened his fingers.

Yet when his gaze connected with hers, he knew his singing affected her too. The excitement in the room equaled any mega concert’s. Billie may have sat farther away than the others, but her enthusiasm showed in her tapping foot, nodding head and intense focus. He couldn’t help but stare as he sang as if to her alone.

Jutting out her chin, Ashley waved. “Play
Not
Gonna
Take It No More
, will you?” With narrowed eyes, she glanced back.

Uh-oh. Busted. Jet couldn’t hold back a grin. “Sure, darlin’.”

He launched into the hard beat with gusto, moved his whole body to the rhythm.

Ashley slithered upward, arms in the air. Head bobbing, hips swaying, she strutted toward him.

Whoa, when did she turn into an exotic dancer?

Cat pounced to Jet’s other side, hips sliding so near his guitar he had to shift its neck forward, laughing. Yikes, crazy women. He used to love them that way. Lately, they proved a little too much work. But that was the name of this game. Anything for attention. Anything to come in first. Sometimes he wished he could find someone he could just hang with, hold her hand without having to say a word. Or if they did speak, it would be a meaningful conversation.

He’d felt it the first night with Billie. Too bad they’d probably never share such a night again.

* * * *

For the next hour, Billie wrote almost nonstop, adding whatever else transpired.

When she wasn’t staring at Jet. His long layered hair fell across his face at the end of a sad ballad, his features hardened while singing a rebellious anthem, and practically glowed during a love song. Once they aired this segment, every woman alive would want to sleep with him again.

Billie had already found out--the hard way--what it was like to rank below the fans, always second to some demand of stardom. Or some other girl. She pitied anyone who lived through the same experience.

Jet spoke with the contestants, joked with them, asked insightful questions. When he flirted with Ashley, Billie’s gut burned.

So predictable. The long-legged, long-haired blonde. A stream of vehement phrases flowed from her pen.

Most of the contestants appeared ready to throw themselves at Jet already. Of course, he must know the effect he had on women, and he knew how to work it. It might explain why he turned his gaze to her more often than the bimbos. So frequently Billie felt herself blush when Ashley and Cat glanced back, eyes glimmering bright with jealousy. She’d had to divert her attention, bend over her notepad to write something, anything. The resulting article would paint him in a positive light.

The others she’d reserve for a future blog. Maybe Ashley’s moves appeared practiced because they were. Billie had made a note to check into her work history. And Cat--she’d be very careful around her. If Cat could have, she’d probably have hissed, or worse.

The lights dimmed, forcing her to pause. The group milled toward the door.

“Great sound, Jet.” Danny tapped Jet’s shoulder.

Jet glanced at Billie. “Thanks. I owe it all to Ms. Prescott.”

Her spine snapped straight. “What?”

Justin furrowed his brows. “She is inspiring.”

“Oh yeah.” The glint in Jet’s eyes conveyed triumph. “She thinks the band sucks. She made me want to prove her wrong.”

Uh-oh. She couldn’t become part of the story, but she relaxed a little when she realized Danny and Justin had their cameras off.