Her Rock Star Friends, page 6
“People have been talking soooo long about the competition between our groups. It’s ridiculous.”
It sure was, I thought.
“What do you say, Jersey? I mean you and Cole were best friends in high school, weren’t you?”
“You could say that,” said Jersey with a twist of his lips.
I turned my head to the left and saw Jacine in the wings making the hand sign for “wide smiles.” Jersey pointedly did not glance at her, though from his vantage point he must have seen her out of the corner of his eye.
“Banshee,” Nyberg persisted, “broke up under the cloud of a lawsuit you filed against Cole, isn’t that right, Jersey?”
Man, Nyberg went for blood, and I glanced again to Jacine, whose face paled and drew into tight lines. Her eyes flashed and I could tell Nyberg would never get an Alexander and Wells client again on his show. She’d make sure of it.
“That’s right,” said Jersey. By now he was Nyberg’s target.
“But that’s not the way you treat a friend, is it? From all accounts, you signed away your rights to the songs in a poker game?”
“Yep,” said Jersey with a pop of his lips. Tension flowed off him. There was no way not to feel it.
From the sidelines, Jacine mouthed “what the fuck?”
“We were kids,” I said in a bid to rescue this mess. “We’ve grown since then. We’ve established our own bands, wrote our own songs. Hell, Jersey here is making more money than Cole anyway.”
Oh fuck. I did not say that.
“You are?” said Cole amicably. Or as amicably as a rattlesnake could hiss. “But my album Total Bliss outsold Caress, didn’t it?”
“In the US, yes,” said Jersey. “But I have a big following in Japan.”
“I thought you hated Japan. You told me once you’d rather eat a whore’s twat than sushi.”
I sat as frozen as a North Atlantic iceberg, not knowing what to say, waiting for the sun to explode, because that was the only thing that would save us now.
“I learned to like sushi,” Jersey said with a wicked gleam in his eye, “about the same time you learned to like whores’ twats.”
Cole sat paralyzed while his face turned a shade of blue.
“But then,” added Jersey. “I’ve always had a more sophisticated palate.”
This was too much for the crowd and they howled, laughed and clapped, and Cole stared at the audience for a microsecond. Then he opened his mouth and roared, laughing great big guffaws. He jumped up, and like the showman he was, shook his finger at Nyberg, and hopped around like a wild man. Jersey recognized the moment, laughed and clapped me on the shoulder with a warning look in his eye. I laughed too.
“We got you good, didn’t we!” Cole yelled. He turned to the crowd and held up his arms like he would at a concert. “Didn’t we?”
The studio audience jumped to their feet, laughing, clapping and stomping their feet. Jersey and I stood, and we threw our arms around each other necks like we were each others’ best buddies. The crowd ate up the lie.
When the hoorah died Cole looked over his shoulder at Nyberg.
“Now, how about discussing our concert?” he said with a big smile.
Bob Nyberg wished us luck, and we walked off the stage like we were best of friends.
As if.
Once off the stage though, Cole and Jersey looked at each other cross-eyed and quickly Jacine, and the lawyer moved to intervene.
And because I had enough of these two’s nonsense, I did too.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “Let’s not blow this. Jacine here set up a sweet deal for us after the disaster at Angelo’s.”
Both of them gave me the stink eye but I don’t care. It was about time these two manned up and acted like adults.
“Why don’t you mind your own business, Holmes,” snapped Kane.
“Cole,” said the lawyer. “He’s right.”
“And what business is it of yours?” said Cole.
“If you want to know, it was my connections that got you that date. My reputation, not to mention friendships of long-standing are on the line if you screw up.”
“What?” said Jacine. Her disbelief betrayed this was news to her.
“I wouldn’t do it for just anybody, Jacy. But I placed a call. Or two.”
“Tobias, you shouldn’t have.”
“It was important to you, so I did.”
Cole looked like someone took away his favorite toy. Jersey bristled, and I didn’t understand why, until I saw Jacine Alexander’s eyes sparkle with affection for the lawyer. And Cole and Jersey obviously had their sights set on her.
And losing badly to Mr. Lawyer.
“What the hell!” spouted Cole.
“Cole, please,” pleaded Jacine.
“Why are you trying to appease this asshole,” snarled Jersey.
“Let’s take this outside,” said Tobias.
“Shut up!” Cole and Jersey said in unison.
A shocked PA ran up to them. “Guys, we are trying to tape here. You’ll have to leave.” A security guard moved into our line of sight, punctuating the need for us to get out of Dodge.
Cole scoffed and Jersey sneered, but they turned toward the exit. Even in this, they made into a competition by nearly pushing each other out of the way.
Jackasses.
And then it got worse.
I followed her and the lawyer out to the parking lot to find Kane and Dys rolling around on the ground.
It was a perfectly fine spring evening, with the sun shining low in the sky and the temperature a perfectly reasonable seventy-two degrees, but these two were sweating like pigs in their effort to pound each other into the ground.
“Damn it,” I grunted as I pulled the topmost, which was Dys, off of Kane.
“What are you, five?”
The lawyer helped Kane off the ground, but none too gently.
“Do I have to remind you,” he said derisively, “that a condition of your bail is that you don’t get into any more trouble? Do you want to go to jail?” the lawyer sputtered.
“Tobias, will you get Mr. Kane home?”
“Oh, so it’s Mr. Kane now?”
Her eyes grew dark as a raven’s wings as she put her hands on her hips. Though she wore a thoroughly LA fashion statement of a red duster, white cami top, and skinny black jeans, wearing un utterly fearsome expression on her face. She stood as a Norse Valkyrie, chooser of the slain. Only she appeared to want to slay both Kane and Dys.
She was magnificent.
My breath hitched in my throat as I watched her stare down two of the biggest rock stars in the country. Now, that was a woman worth having.
“What do you mean, ‘now?’” spouted Dys.
“Enough!” she ordered. She waved her hand at a limo parked by the door, and the driver rolled the window down.
“Anson, please take Mr. Dys home.”
“Yes, Ms. Alexander.”
“But Jacine—” Dys said.
“Go! I’ll talk to you later. And neither one of you better have a black eye tomorrow because we have more talk shows to do.”
Dys drew his lips tight together but entered the limo after the driver opened the door.
“Tobias, please take Mr. Kane home.”
“I’ll drive myself,” he said.
“No. Look. Goddamn it, your eye is swelling already. You won’t be able to see out of it to drive. Go home. Put some ice on it.”
“I’d rather you put something else on it.”
I could not believe the jerk leered at her.
“Tobias, please,” she said as she squeezed her eyes shut.
“Come on, Mr. Kane,” said the lawyer. Though he spoke formally, his tone was anything but respectful. Jacine scowled at Cole, and he nodded his head.
“I’ll call you later,” he said as if he had that right.
Jacine stood like the ice princess she was as the men drove off, leaving her alone with me. And then she blinked.
“Damn,” she said. “I don’t have a ride home.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go?”
“How about a nice island in the Caribbean?”
CHAPTER NINE
Jacine
What a cluster fuck. I’m beginning to wonder about my ability to make these grown men act like adults.
“I’m sorry,” said Rory.
His words were surprisingly gentle for a physically huge man. Rory stood at six two with a bulky chest and biceps born of pounding drums for a living. Though he liked to sit behind the drum sets, he was the driving force behind his band Clash. Like many musicians he was multi-talented, and though it is usual for the band’s frontman to be the band’s leader, in Clash’s case it was Rory.
The slanting sunlight casts a kind of halo in his red hair, and his green eyes glittered in a way that never came out in his band posters. He’d gained heft too, since his younger years, and I seemed to like him. He may have been number three in my affections when he played for Banshee, but now I found myself reassessing that position.
“You don’t have to apologize for those two,” I said. I bit my lip because I fully intended to check in with my father tonight. And crazily I found tears forming in my eyes.
“In a way I do. Maybe it’s fucked up, but I still think of those two like brothers. Here, my car is this way.”
He pointed in the general direction, but it didn’t take a hound dog to pick out his car. A cherry red Ferrari sat angled into two parking spots. No one was going to nick his precious baby. He clicked on the key fob, the doors unlocked with a click and he gallantly opened the door for me.
Aside from a driver, no one opened the door for me.
In New York, because I don’t have time for personal encounters, it never happens. Even if I did date, I doubt a man would do it. It’s a kind of backhanded snub to women’s independence, or least that’s the excuse for the modern man’s laziness in trying to woo a woman.
So Rory’s gesture, at once caring and masculine, overwhelmed me.
“Hey,” said Rory gently. “What’s this?” He swiped an errant tear from my cheek.
“Nothing,” I said as I sat on the soft leather seat. I buckled in with a too fierce tug on the belt.
“Yeah. I bet you cry all the time when two rock stars beat each other.” Rory gave me a rueful smile and shut the door.
I gave a half-laugh, but in truth, I didn’t deserve even that small enjoyment. I felt like a bad daughter because I hadn’t seen my father all day. I worked all day getting the promos for the concert cranking, though I talked to him on the phone. And in a rush like the drenching New York rain, the weight of bearing the company on my shoulders and my father’s mini brush with death swept me. I’m glad I’m sitting because my body physically gave way to a bout of weakness that could have been emotional strain or lack of food, or both.
Fiddling with the small, red strappy purse the ever detailed, Rose, my stylist, paired with this outfit, I pulled out the sunglasses she thought appropriate. They were a leopard print frame to match the leopard print open-toed mules I wore. Rose left photos of what I was supposed to wear with what, and the picture showed the model wearing the sunglasses on top of her head. It pulled together the look, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just wearing the cherry red duster when I’m used to New York black was daring enough.
And I am a PR maestro in LA? Without warning, the sense that I was an imposter in my own life collided with my usually rock-solid self-confidence.
Engaged in my self-absorption, I didn’t notice that Rory gained the freeway, and I could see we were in for a long drive. The typical rush hour traffic clogged the roadway, but Rory proved to be a master of advanced lane changing. He used the engine power of the Ferrari to slice into openings between cars. The fading sun caught his ginger hair and the reddish stubble on his chin clenched in concentration infusing both with a sexy glow. The muscles of his arm flexed as his hand worked the stick shift and I could easily imagine that hand working me.
What the hell is wrong with me? First, randy thoughts about Tobias, an aborted handjob from Cole and to top it off with cunnilingus with Jersey? All thoroughly tantalizing but ultimately unfulfilling.
I needed to get laid.
But not with one of my clients.
But the thrum of the stop/start of the Ferrari’s powerful engine as Rory navigated the treacherous lanes of LA traffic reverberated through me like a siren’s song. No wonder it is considered a sexy machine. It was sex on four wheels.
My panties are soaked, damn it, and I squirmed, swimming in the evidence of my arousal.
With relief, I spotted the exit to Hollywood Park, and I waved my hand to tell Rory to take it, but he merely nodded and zoomed off the freeway in the right direction.
My father’s house is at the edge of Griffith Park but technically a Hollywood Park address. He bought it after the market crash for pennies on the dollar because he is as brilliant with money as he is with clients. A modest home by Starland standards, the facade is unassumingly and unimpressive 1950’s plain red clapboard and boring rectangular windows. But that was my father. He believed in substance, not flash. I remember moving into it in my senior year of high school thinking it was a dump. I didn’t understand his penny-pinching ways until I accidentally ran across a bill for the private school he sent me to. That man put all his money into me. So I grew to appreciate this house because it represented my father’s love.
It’s most stunning feature however was not in the house, it was the thoroughly unobstructed view of the famous Hollywood sign from the back deck that jutted out over the slope the house perched on. My father sits out here at night, with his laptop and drink in hand. He says it reminded him of what was at stake for his clients if he screwed up.
He never screwed up.
Wanita, our housekeeper, opened the door and started in surprise to see me. She appeared to be heading out, and she held a couple of plastic containers of food.
“Oh, Miss Jacine, I was just on my way to see your father.”
“Are you? And what’s this?”
“He said he's missed my cooking and—”
“Let me see,” I said. Reluctantly she held up one container of steak fajitas and another of chicken.
“No,” I said shaking my head. “Not the steak.”
“But—”
“And make sure he gets a half portion. And tomorrow morning we will talk about his diet. He’s on restrictions during his recovery. He did have a heart attack.”
“Oh,” she said with her eyes wide. “Mr. Alexander said it was just stress.”
My father, the liar. What did I expect from the premier spin-doctor of LA? I see I have more to manage than my father’s business.
“And you believed him? Wanita, I’m surprised.”
“Sorry, Jacine. I should have known better.”
“I’ll take that steak container.”
“There is more in the refrigerator for you with the rest of the fixings. It’s good to have you home.”
“Thank you, Wanita.”
She gave a passing glance to Rory. “Mr. Holmes,” Wanita said as she walked by him.
“Good to see you again, Wanita. You do make the best fajitas in LA.”
She smiled.
“There should be enough for two,” she said.
Oh brother. Now I have to invite him in.
“Come along,” I said.
“I’ve always liked your house,” he said. “It’s not pretentious like so many LA homes.”
“Thanks. So you’ve been here before?”
“You don’t remember? Your MBA grad party, before Banshee, broke up?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. Of course.”
I pulled out Wanita’s homemade ice tea, fajita wraps, salsa, and black beans and rice from the refrigerator, and heated the food separately in the microwave. Using that appliance was my one culinary accomplishment.
“Can I help?” he said.
“The plates and cups are in that cupboard.”
“Where do you want them?”
