Rock Bottom (2 page)

“Correct.” He navigated past the chairs and made for the door.

Close on his heels, she followed. “Which means I can cover an episode and--”

Turning, he held open the door, all business now. “A few episodes. I want daily blog posts and a weekly article.”

“Don’t do this.” She clutched his shirt. “You’re sending me away. Why?” She spoke through rigid lips in case others watched. “Is it because of this weekend? We both had too much to drink. We can cool it for a while.” The hell she would. She’d hung on for two years waiting for him. Things had finally gotten to a good point. Almost.

“Billie. C’mon. We’re both professionals. This is about the magazine, not our personal lives.” His overly casual tone harkened to the same one he used while escorting unwanted salespeople to the door.

Sure. Okay. Facts dropped into her brain from obscurity. She’d never actually watched the show, but… “Isn’t this set on the West Coast?”

“Mmm hmm.” His mouth appeared a grim line. Nothing like the soft, sensual, full lips that had kissed her and had unleashed his oh-so-talented tongue. No tongue, whatever its level of skill, had a chance in hell of escaping those tight lips.

“In California?” The smog. The traffic. The general lack of cultural amenities, sequined shows aside.

“Yep.” He popped the
p
. It sounded so final.

Her throat thickened with dread. “You probably already bought my ticket, didn’t you?”
Bastard.

“No. You can do that. But make it quick. They start shooting season two the day after tomorrow. I want you there the day before.”

Tomorrow, then. Mere hours to pack.

Damn. Damn
damn
damn
.
He intended to railroad her out of town. Or fly her. Inwardly cringing at the humiliation, she balled her fists and debated whether to pummel him.

Sidling closer, she played the siren card, walking her fingers up his button placket. “Are you sure--”

“Book the flight, Billie. And no five-star hotel. You’ll be staying on site. Oh, and stop in to see me before you leave today.” With a wink, he strode toward his office.

“Wonderful.” Her life was ruined. And he couldn’t be happier.

Life went from blissful to bleak in a blink.

* * * *

At her desk, she stared past the computer screen where the receipt was displayed for her flight. The one-way ticket to a hell occupied by Beautiful People. Tanned with absurdly white teeth and plastic smiles to go with their surgically enhanced bodies. Tomorrow, she’d arrive--and stand out like a crow among peacocks and cockatiels. That reminded her: she needed to check on The Black Crowes tour schedule. She seemed to recall them having an upcoming concert on the West Coast.

Zinta approached and perched on her desk. “What’s up with you and Everett?”

Despite her objection, she’d act professional. Cool. Calm. “Nothing. Things are…fine.” She’d reserve her bitter venom for later.

Zinta sucked air through her teeth. “Sorry.”

“No, we actually reached a milestone this weekend. And I mean
all weekend
.” She widened her eyes to punctuate.

“Really. But now he’s sending you away?”

Ignoring her friend’s incredulous look, she set her messenger bag atop her desk, wondering how much it would hold. How much her heart could hold. The situation called for positivity. “It’s been casual up to this point, but I really thought we broke new barriers this weekend. So in this new relationship zone, it’ll take a while to sort out the signals.” If one weekend in bed counted as new. Or counted for anything.
Damn.
She’d been so sure it had.

“That mixed?” Zinta cocked her head in a way suggesting she’d nailed the problem. “He failed the litmus test?”

After unplugging the laptop, she coiled the wires. “I don’t have a litmus test. Exactly.”

“You showed him the tree houses, didn’t you?”

Her flat tone suggested Billie didn’t need to answer. Zinta already knew.

Billie stuffed the mouse into a carrier pocket. “Too much junk to pack.” Evasive tactics might stall her friend.

Zinta craned down to peer her in the eye. “It’s way too soon.”

Billie slumped her shoulders. “I know. That should come much later. I rushed it. But he might come around.” Sure, he was sending her away, but that didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t want a relationship. Maybe just not right now.

Standing, Zinta sighed. “Honestly, you need to revise your list of Lust Haves. Cross Everett off.”

Lust Haves. Zin liked to quantify and qualify everything into lists, descriptions, categories, goals. Billie, on the other hand, accepted what came her way with gratitude. And much less organization.

“I have a feeling Everett just revised it for me.” He’d topped her Lust Have list. But such incredible sex couldn’t all come from lust, could it? He had to have thought about her, given her more consideration than his usual dates. Maybe even pined for her, a little.

“Aw, honey. Play it cool. Let him make the next move.”

He’d forced her to, temporarily. From Philadelphia to Malibu. Talk about culture shock.

“I have no choice. He’s actively avoiding me. Of course, now he won’t have to.” She sat and opened her desk drawer, removed her digital recorder and a few notepads and pens. Whatever she forgot, she’d buy on site and charge back to the magazine.

Zinta tapped her nails against her mug. “I can’t believe he gave you that assignment. He mentioned it earlier, but I didn’t think he was serious.”

Zipping her laptop case, Billie tried to keep anxiety from her voice. “Yes, on an extended story. He must really want me gone.” Maybe things hadn’t gone as well as she’d thought.

“No.” Zinta’s whine matched her pout. “I need you here.”

“You’re the only one, apparently.” Biting her lip, Billie realized the truth of the statement. Going away might provide a better perspective on her life. And what she needed to change.

* * * *

The desk appeared too neat. Freakishly so. As if she’d never again sit at it to dash off a review or interview an up-and-coming band. To remedy that, she crumpled a sheet of paper and tossed it onto the desktop. Too staged. When she removed it, her stomach clenched. Would she never occupy this place again?

After stopping by Zinta’s desk for a hug, she went to Everett’s office and stood in the doorway. “Guess I’m off.”

“Come in. Shut the door.”

Oh no. Here it came. The final kiss-off. She did as he said, and turned to face the music.

He pinned her against the door, his body all hard warmth, his tongue already probing hers. “God, you taste good.” His lips curled against hers in a smile.

Ignoring the alarm bells screaming in her head, her body melded to his. “Why--”

“It’ll be good for us.
Both
of us.”

She let her fingers wander south of his belt buckle, and made her voice breathy and low. “Are you sure?”

Releasing a pent-up sigh, he groaned. “Yes.”

Damn.
So much for sexual persuasion. She could only imagine how ineffectual she’d be in California.

* * * *

Through the wispy clouds, Los Angeles sprawled below and the plane tilted into its descent. If lucky, she’d spend less than an hour in the airport, and another hour trekking south to Malibu, if the traffic gods smiled upon her. Then she could collapse on whatever cot in a closet they provided.

Now she could unequivocally state she knew how Jet Trently felt when his life began its downward trajectory. “Luck, be a lady and plummet my jet from the sky to save me from this torture.”

The plane touched down with not even a bump, and Frank Sinatra crooned endlessly in her head.

No such lady. Not in California.

All for the best. Everett wouldn’t have grieved at her memorial. More likely he’d have angled for solace in the arms of someone else. Someone younger. Less available. Despite his lust-filled goodbye, his eagerness for her departure shone through, leaving her more confused than ever.

After collecting her suitcase from the carousel, she wheeled it toward the exit. At least the promised heat had allowed her to pack light. A few basic black essentials she could dress up with accessories. Hope sprung eternal Everett would cut her stay short.

Outside, the sun sizzled up from the sidewalk. Even sunglasses couldn’t cut the glare. The dark suit jacket had to come off. Everywhere she looked, sun, sun and more sun. Could people go mad from too much sunlight? Might be a good angle. Would account for a lot, actually.

Hailing a cab, she gave the driver the address provided by Jet’s manager and spent the drive with closed eyes hidden by sunglasses. When he slowed, she cleared the haze from her brain to take in Malibu. Getting to the beachfront house required the driver to meander through a high-end neighborhood. They pulled up outside a mustard-colored plaster wall with a wrought-iron gate. The driver pressed the intercom button. A woman answered, asked them to wait while she checked for Billie’s name on the list. The gate swung open.

The immense house echoed the honey-colored wall, but its Spanish-Mediterranean architecture set it apart from the other homes. A mixture of funk and class, not at all the soulless sleek beach home she’d imagined.

The driver set her luggage from the taxi’s trunk on the sidewalk. “Will that be all?”

She caught the look as his gaze sidled up her thighs and rear. “Yes, definitely all.” A thought struck her. “Hold on. I do need something else.” Switching on the cell camera, she handed it to him. “Take a quick pic. Get as much of the house in there as possible.” She waved her middle finger.

He held it at eye level, clicked, surveyed his handiwork and gave it back. “Nice.”

“It’ll do.” All the proof she needed of her landing on the West Coast. Adding two words,
I’m here
, she forwarded it to Everett, though she still had trouble believing it herself.

Malibu. The Bu, to locals. Twenty-one miles of sand and surf and vacuous, self-absorbed celebrities like Jet Trently, looking for a
Baywatch
babe to even out the beauty quotient for photo ops.

On the upside, the stunning views would enhance her stay. The branches of the tall cypress trees behind the sprawling two-story house swayed in the breeze off the Pacific. The home’s architecture invited closer inspection, though its honey-mustard plaster she could live without. Still, it would be easy to spot coming back from long walks on the beach… Yes, she might get used to coastal life.

Maybe the
L.A. Times
needed a good reporter. Hey, she could do entertainment news as well as anyone.
Isn’t that why you’re here?
Silencing the snide voice in her head, she shouldered her carryon bag and wheeled the other. Everett would pay for this.

She hoped it wouldn’t take long to get situated. She needed to study her map and learn the lay of the land.

That brought a chuckle. She was about to meet him, wasn’t she?

Well, one of them, at least.

* * * *

The guitar strings vibrated, rich with the chord Jet Trently strummed. God, he loved playing. If George Harrison made his guitar gently weep, Jet could make it scream with pleasure, sigh or talk badass. Probably why his name frequently listed with Eric Clapton and Eddie Van Halen as the world’s best.

“Jet?” his manager called. “It’s time.”

Shit.
Already? One of the dangers of playing. Music carried him to a beautiful place devoid of time where no stress existed. No reality.

And definitely no reality TV. Why the hell had he signed on for another season of torture? He was no actor. Yeah, so reality TV didn’t require him to be, but dealing with those crazy women they lined up definitely did. He didn’t know if he could muster the necessary enthusiasm for another few months. At the end of the last season, he’d been so relieved he could’ve gone on a real binge.

But no, he wasn’t going there again. Jeff had taught him that much. He owed his brother for saving him twice: once from the crappy New Jersey town they’d grown up in, and from becoming a total cliché, living the supposed rock star high life. At thirty-five, he wanted more than a quick lay. Was he expecting to find it in any of the season two beauties? Hell no. This gig gave him a steady paycheck and put his face out in front of the public. Reminded them who he was. How great his music had been.

Been. Yeah. Could be again. The few tunes he’d worked up this past year were crap. But workable crap. Each needed that elusive something. 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.