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