Rock Bottom (8 page)

If Jet had to describe Amber, he’d be hard pressed. Nothing set her apart from the others.

Of all the contestants, Julie baffled Jet the most. Fresh-faced and pretty, she appeared younger than twenty-four. Something about the way she carried herself suggested a better upbringing. When Jet spoke her name, she went to him without undue haste or excitement, as if the line had been for a restaurant table. What the hell was she doing here at all?

No matter. None of them interested him. To be fair, he’d try to dig beneath the surface of too much makeup, generous doses of perfume and hair product. Maybe a real person lurked, for one at least.

And he’d get a kick out of teasing Billie with the act. The way she fanned herself, his taunts already got to her, adding a little extra interest to this season. The best way to rid himself of leeches was to burn them.

* * * *

Watching Jet fawn over each woman, kiss her cheek as she said hello, grew more nauseating each moment. Billie scanned the handout, but it gave sparse biographical details for all the women. Intentionally glossing over their pasts? Or did no juicy details exist to fill in the blanks? Billie bet the former.

During the introductions, Billie fanned herself, wrote some notes, wondered how long she’d have to endure this crap. Wandering down the walkway, she texted Zin:
Rescue me.

Zinta replied,
That bad, huh?

The pits.
If only the series would be cancelled. Slight chance if the ratings slipped any farther.
How’s everything there?

Oh fine
, Zin messaged.

Right. And I’m Mick
Jagger’s
love child.
No, but she could have been his lover for an hour or two. Another mega-ego she’d neatly ignored. Scar tissue made for a strong protective barrier.

Billie hated texting, and called Zin. “Spill.”

“You won’t like it.” Zin’s voice cracked, and not from the bad connection.

“I thought Everett loved the blog?”

Airily, she said, “Oh, he did. It’s difficult to elaborate at the moment.”

“He’s nearby?” Damn him. Always in the right spot at the wrong time.

“Exactly. It’s along the lines of Jet’s old song
Don’t Know Where You Been
.”

Racking her brain, Billie ran through the lyrics in her head, but came up with sparse lines. “I remember the video better. One of Jet’s best.” Shot in black and white in a small club, the video showed Jet sidling up to the microphone. He shone with a mercurial glow in the spotlight, lips curled as his voice growled and grinded against the sexy backbeat of the drums. He stroked his guitar like a lover, and no one heard the lyrics.

Zin bubbled with curious enthusiasm. “Yeah, what’s he like? Is he as hot in person?”

“As hot as a nearing-middle-age guy can be. Yeah, he’s cute. But clueless.”

“How so?”

Her frustration funneled into a rant on Jet’s musical ambition. Or lack thereof. “He seems to think this show is really to showcase his musical talent. How thick can he be? The show’s titled
Rock Bottom
. Did that escape his notice? Does he not get that they’re setting him up for a full-on persecution?” The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She glanced over.

Jet stood a few feet away, mouth set in a grim line, narrowed eyes directed at her.

Surprise prickled her skin.
Damn.
She never meant for him to hear that, either, yet here she stood, foot squarely in her mouth again. She straightened. “Will do. Thanks for the info.”

“Uh-oh. Within hearing range?”

“It’s the way of it lately. Talk to you soon.” She flipped shut the cell, pulled out her notepad and wrote nonsensical notations, willing the warmth crawling up her neck to disappear. Explaining one misspoken remark would have been hard enough, but how could she explain two?

In her peripheral vision, Jet stood still as a statue. The weight of his stare grew heavier each moment.

Around them, the sounds of the set echoed. Only the two of them remained unmoving, isolated within the bustle.

Finally his voice bridged the distance. “When the world doesn’t give you opportunities, you take them.”

“Pardon?” So he knew the real premise of the show? To stake him to the TV screen and let viewers rip him to shreds?

He moved closer, the gleam in his eyes sharpening. “Do you have to put other people down to feel good about yourself?”

“Of course not. I’m a professional.” At the moment, she felt anything but. Her job didn’t include unintentionally skewering people, and she obviously had.

“You write like a snotty high school girl. ‘Jet doesn’t want to acknowledge the series is a joke--that the network’s made him the butt of it--because his music is laughable.’”

Heat pricked her cheeks. “How did you…” Realization struck. “Oh my God. The blog.” She hadn’t posted it accidently, had she? Of course he’d have read it sooner or later. She’d have preferred later. After she’d revised it, softened the edges so they weren’t quite so cutting.

“Yeah. The blog.”

“How did you read it?”

His furrowed brows intensified his gaze, hard and beautiful as ice blue diamonds. “Like everyone else. Online.”

“I didn’t… it wasn’t…”
Stick to writing, Billie. Speaking is not your forte.
“I hadn’t finished it.”

With an incredulous chuckle, he sounded as if the wind had been knocked from him. “Oh, you had more? Wait.” He patted his chest, his sides, then craned his neck to look behind him. “Oh yeah--here it is. The one place you didn’t twist the knife.”

Damn.
He was taking this really hard. “You don’t understand--”

“Obviously, I never will.” He strode off down the walkway toward his studio.

The hurt in his voice stung her equally hard.

Halfheartedly, she said, “Jet.” As much as she wanted to follow, she didn’t. Couldn’t. Until she came up with a plausible explanation, he’d never listen, anyway.

* * * *

Anger propelled him down the path. Other days, he’d smile at the sunshine, revel in his fortune at living the life he loved.
Rock Bottom
was an inconvenience, but one that would help him get his music noticed again. Eyes on the prize, as Stu said. Until yesterday, he was okay with that. Why did it now feel like not enough?

He hadn’t met Billie Prescott before yesterday.

Bitch
didn’t describe her fully enough. She sure had him fooled. At first, she’d been a little cold, sure, but he’d chalked that up to professionalism and jet lag.

Yesterday the show hadn’t begun.

Today, apparently, all bets were off. His opinion of her changed as radically as her attitude. “Work on my music instead of my abs. Clueless reporter.”

The key word. He had to remember her purpose here. Cover the show, report to fans. If he didn’t want to alienate those fans, he’d have to walk a thin line. Set his emotions aside.

Every time he spoke to her, the line blurred. Her warmth and caring--were those an act too? Turned on when she needed them, and off as easily?

From the patio, Stu called, “Jet.”

He kept walking.

Huffing, his manager caught up to him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m taking five.”

“We just started.”

We.
It rattled him how Stu insinuated himself into every aspect of Jet’s work. His manager had put forth no effort today but wanted to take credit.

“I need to clear my head. Play some music.”

“The girls are waiting.”

“Fuck the girls.”

“I’m hoping you will. Ratings will skyrocket.”

He whirled to face Stu. “What about my music? When do we get some real gigs? You promised--”

“I said after the show.”

He wanted to swipe that sickly grin off Stu’s face. “You said you’d work at least one into the show. At least one. It’s not too much to ask, Stu.”

“I think--”

“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to promote me. Get me a gig, Stu. Or so help me, I’ll walk.” Jet’s voice shook. He dragged a hand across his mouth and reeled in his anger.

“All right, all right. I’ll get on it. In the meantime, I’ll coordinate with the producer to film a studio session.”

Jet blinked hard, wanting to swipe Stu from his sight. His mealy-mouthed arguments, disguised in soothing tones, used to convince Jet his manager had everything under control. Now he had to wonder whether it was himself he controlled. “A studio session would be good. But a concert is what I need.” Not playing to a live audience made him jittery.

Stu raised his hands near Jet’s chest, but didn’t make contact. “For now, I need you to go back on set. All right? Stay focused, man. We all have obligations. This isn’t forever.”

“Good thing. Or I’d take the express to visit Cobain and Hendrix.”

Stu inclined his head toward the patio. “They’re waiting.”

A sharp inhale fortified him. With a nod, he followed Stu. When Billie was nowhere in sight, relief washed over him. He couldn’t take any more from her right now.

* * * *

Over the next week and a half, Billie did her best to remain invisible. While her blog posts enjoyed insane popularity with the public, no one in the compound shared the sentiment. Except Justin. Every morning, he’d say, “Excellent post,” even if all she’d done was upload photos--a practice that seemed safest. In her cottage at night, she closed the blinds and bolted the door.

Jet appeared to actively avoid her. The few times their glances met by accident, he immediately frowned, as if the experience pained him, as if the reminder reopened the gash made by her cutting remarks. Shame burned deep, but she couldn’t approach him.

Everett ignored her complaints, downplayed her worries about revenge. “You only imagine they’re angry. They exist for drama, babe. Without the blog, the show might have tanked by now.”

Her hopes sank as dread filled her. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Then she’d been perpetuating her own purgatory. Time to get back into real writing. “Maybe we should focus on articles instead. From Philly.”

“No way. You have a huge following. You’re hot.”

How many times she’d longed to hear him exclaim those words with such enthusiasm, but face-to-face. “I don’t want to be hot.” Never had she imagined uttering those words. “I want to come home.”

Issuing a noise meant to indicate he was thinking when all the while she knew he intended her to stay indefinitely, he said, finally, “Not yet.”

“Where are my other assignments?” Concentrating solely on this bunch of loonies could prove contagious.

“For now, focus on
Rock Bottom
.” Tapping noises. He must be either drumming his fingers, or his pen. Which meant his patience had nearly run out.

Well, so was hers. “You promised--”

“Gotta go, babe. Keep up the great work.” Then silence.

Groaning, she flipped shut her cell. “Damn jerk.”

“Whoa, careful. My ears.”

Glancing up, she realized she’d wandered to the side of the pool house. Justin smiled as he stepped outside.

“Sorry.” She held her head and blew through her teeth.

“Have you never heard sarcasm before?” Cocking his head, he arched a brow. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, my stupid boss.” With a wave, she turned. No need to elaborate.

“Yeah, bosses can be a drag.”

“I’m beginning to feel as if I checked into the Hotel California.” Like the Eagles song, she’d checked in, apparently for good.

Bending to adjust a boom mic pole, Justin grinned up at her. “This place can get a little small.”

“I really need to get out of here.” She thought out loud. “Does any place rent scooters? Maybe I’ll just call a cab.”

“If you can wait until later, I’ll take you.”

Her heart leapt. She stepped closer. “Where?”

“Where do you want to go?”

His tantalizing tone inspired giddiness, made her feel lighter. She could escape this prison tonight. “Ooo. The Getty Villa’s supposed to have wonderful ancient artifacts. Or Malibu Wines…”

Wincing, Justin clucked his tongue. “I’m talking
late
late. Like after midnight. We usually keep filming until then.”

Her light feeling deflated. “Oh.”

“You need to stop getting up so early. Stay up with the night owls.”

No thanks. Their screeching kept her up some nights. “I’m hoping I’ll be pulled from this assignment soon.”

Disappointment showed in his frown. “Oh no. We’d miss you.”

“You’d be the only one.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “Hey, cheer up. The big day will be here soon.”

“For?”

“One of them gets the ax.” He mimed slitting his throat.

“One less bimbo.” More than one would suit her. The quicker they went, the quicker she could leave.

Shooting went smoothly the next few days. Billie kept to herself to relieve the awkwardness, but it magnified the feeling of being an outsider. One who didn’t belong.

Maybe Jet would ease up on her a bit. After all those sweet things he said her first day here, all pretenses of innocence faded once the others had arrived. Like Zin had warned, he wanted to play her, to woo her most sympathetic writing in his favor. How could she have fooled herself into thinking he was a nice guy for real?

Still, while ostracized, the Jet compound had a military air. She was a prisoner of her own making. No--Everett’s making.

In her cottage, she found the phone book and called a cab. Damn if she would spend another full day in this hormone-saturated prison.

When it whisked her away, the knot in her chest eased. She was free.

Nothing else in Malibu was.

Trying on a three-thousand-dollar sundress, Billie took a picture in the dressing room and sent it to Zin in a text message.

Within seconds, Zinta called. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No, but the danger looms ever closer.” Not close enough to shell out three thousand, though. She unzipped it and slipped it off.

“Where are you?”

“The Malibu Country Mart. I need a bathing suit. Can you believe I forgot mine? I might even get some Malibu Rock Star jewelry. Isn’t that a hoot?” The brand predated Jet’s show, but the coincidence amused her.