her writing with any ulterior motive. If it inspired Jet, helped him realize his full potential, all the better.
With that thought, her burden of guilt lightened. She’d corner him later and apologize.
* * * *
After two hours of lurking on the fringes of the camera’s view, Billie felt as persecuted as a soul in purgatory. And every bit as overheated. Even in the shade, her dark top and pants seemed to absorb sunlight. If the cameras weren’t rolling, she’d love to dive in the pool.
Listening to the excited babble and chatter of the six contestants brought back torturous memories of high school: the girls’ bathroom where the popular ones debated boys, fashion and makeup. The gym locker where cheerleaders rapturously described dates with jocks. At least then she could walk away when it grew too nauseating. Now, she had to stay. Worse, she had to regurgitate their babble in some coherent way.
Billie scanned the show’s outline. Today, the contestants officially met Jet, though he’d greeted them earlier inside. To put them at ease, Stu explained to Billie–off the record, of course. The public had no need to know, he said. Billie conceded. She’d pick her battles.
When Jet finally put in an appearance just before three, Billie again flashed back to high school. Her stomach clenched, her senses pricked to alert at his every movement. She tensed, waiting for him to look her way, smile, speak to her.
He strode in scowling, head ducked purposefully, as if he were on his way to somewhere else. Or wanted to be.
One glance. As he approached the back patio, that’s all he gave her. One piercing glance. It burned into her, the second expanding into infinity, throwing all time out of synch.
The producer swiveled at his approach, called, “Jet, good. Let’s run through some notes before we start.”
Staring into hers, something deadened in Jet’s eyes, and then his frown intensified, his stride hastened.
Despite the heat, she shuddered with the unexpected chill. If only everyone else would take a break, leave them alone long enough so she could explain her earlier comment. Above all else, she wanted Jet to view her as a professional. Her opinions didn’t play into her writing, but curbing her tongue wasn’t her strong suit.
Still scowling, Jet scanned through the pages, the producer and Stu murmuring to him.
The producer stepped out of the camera’s frame. “Ready?”
“In a minute.” The pages fluttered as he flipped one, then another.
“Something wrong?” Stu asked.
“I can’t find anything about the gig.”
His sharp tone silenced the tittering women, snapped everyone’s attention to him. Especially Billie’s.
Only Stu seemed unaffected, and spoke with his usual snake oil smoothness. “It’s not in this outline.”
“When will it be?” Jet spoke more softly, but sounded no less threatening.
Riveted, Billie watched, hugging herself.
Obviously, Jet had been promised things. When would he realize: the show parodied real life. It didn’t enrich it.
Stepping near, Stu murmured something inaudible, something sounding like an urging. Or a warning.
Jet threw down the pages. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” He shot a sharp glance at Billie.
She slunk behind the nearest cameraman. Why focus on her? An innocent bystander? A neutral observer?
Well, not so neutral. Not after her remark.
A few minutes later, the producer said they couldn’t hold up shooting any longer, and counted down from ten. Jet paced, his expression blanking more with each step. By the count of one, he smiled rather stiffly in the direction of the pool.
Season two had begun.
* * * *
All morning, Jet had given himself pep talks. It would just be another performance. A very long performance. It has nothing to do with my music, no matter what Stu says. He’d have to work it in somehow. And stick it out until the contract ran out. But after this, no more.
The alarm on his cell went off. Ah, hell. Time to get on set. Ironic how claustrophobic he’d become in such a big house. Literally nowhere to hide that the cameras couldn’t follow, starting today. Already it chafed his nerves. Bad enough he had to endure the microscopic attention of the cameras, but now her too. Worse than a video, Billie Prescott would interpret. Opine. Slant. Her audience would listen–the very people who mattered. The ones who loved music.
At least he’d found out her true nature. Walking into the editing room at precisely the wrong–no, right–moment. He might not have believed she could be so cruel otherwise. Until he’d read the blog. Yeah, if anything drove home that she was just another leech, the blog post did it. Funny how she separated herself from those sucking his blood dry when she made her living from it.
He glanced over and the sting came back fresh. He had to remind himself again: just one more bitch to deal with. But one who had no stakes in any of this. His career rode on it.
“All right. Let’s do this.” He tossed the script aside and let the producer position him. On with the farce.
He plastered on a smile. The six contestants had endured a lot to get here, and they deserved his consideration. None appeared well-to-do, and he pegged all as high-maintenance, but each looked upon him with true excitement, eager to get a turn with him alone. Oh yeah, and a shot at a hundred grand.
They waited together, and their competitive electricity permeated the air. Competitive beauty. That brought a chuckle, and he relaxed as he called the first girl.
“Hello, Cat.”
The mocha-skinned beauty whose father hailed from Cuba and mother from Malaysia. No age provided on the spec sheet, and impossible to tell from studying her. Tall and lithe, she walked with the grace of Cleopatra, dark almond-shaped eyes focused on Jet as she approached. She slunk toward him like her feline nickname, her sexual confidence sizzling. Sliding her arms around his neck, she drew him to her in a kiss much longer than any introduction.
Holding her waist, he gently moved her away with a grin. “Save some for next time.” Might have to change the rating on the show for this one. A glance at Billie heightened his attention. Arms folded, her nauseated expression appeared tainted with something more. Jealousy?
Couldn’t be. She must want to get back in his good graces. Too bad.
Relieved when Cat sidled away, he turned to the waiting group. “Ashley.”
The only blonde, surprisingly. Her pale blue eyes brightened when she approached, beaming. In her late twenties, the report said, but brittle hair and laugh lines made her appear older. Jet wondered what hard life she’d led. Sensing her fragility, Jet spoke softly as he welcomed her, but sent her off quickly too.
Next, he called Brianna, who might have been Ashley’s brunette alter ego. Brianna mimicked Ashley’s movements, her appearance, everything but her high-voltage eagerness. Oh, she smiled at Jet, but without the giggly exuberance. Or desperation.
Terry, another exotic beauty, had a full mouth graced with wide lips. Her smile filled her face. Dark brows arched into a peak above dark eyes. Like the others, long hair cascaded down her back.
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