I put my elbow onto the bar and bat my eyelashes. “I don’t normally tell people this, Troy, but I’m super close with someone who writes for Rock ‘n’ Roll. You know, the music magazine?” Troy perks up like a Labrador whose owner is holding up a tennis ball. “I bet if I told this writer about you—and how talented and sexy you are, and how this Reed guy screwed you over—she’d be interested in interviewing you for a featured article.”
“Oh my God. That would be huge.”
“The only thing is,” I say coyly. “She’s not easy to impress. Honestly, she’s always saying she’s got a line around the block of musicians wanting her to write about them. So, I think I’d need to tell her you’re willing to divulge something more than what’s in the public record for the article—or at least, to drop a sizeable hint that will allow her to figure it out on her own—wink, wink—if you want to have any chance of her coming down here to meet you.”
Troy looks pained. “I really can’t say anything too specific about that secret.”
“Oh, yeah, I totally get it. But you figured it out, based on a news story on TV, right?”
He nods.
“Well... What was the news story? That’s got to be in the public record. Maybe this Rock ‘n’ Roll reporter could follow the same breadcrumbs you followed, without a word from you, and figure it out for herself. Maybe this writer for Rock ‘n’ Roll was researching an article about Reed Rivers, so she went to the courthouse to look at the lawsuits filed against him, and she noticed your lawsuit, and she read it, and then happened to see whatever news story you saw... And then, she put two and two together, without a word from you.”
Troy is lit up. He gets it. “Yeah, I think that could work!”
“Of course, it’ll work.” I lean forward conspiratorially and put my fingertips on his forearm. “Who was the woman in the news story? I’ll tell this writer her name, and she’ll research it, and take it from there.”
Troy pauses, his wheels turning. But, finally, it’s obvious his ambition has won out over his fear of Reed. “Francesca Laramie.”
My heart is racing. “Francesca Laramie?”
He nods. “Tell your friend to look her up. It won’t be hard for her to put two and two together, from there.”
With that, he licks his lips and goes in for a kiss.
But I’m outta here. “Let’s not,” I say, popping up from my barstool. “It kills me to do this, Troy, since you’re so hot and talented, and I want nothing more than to go home with you right now and screw the living hell out of you. But if this label guy is as big a psycho as you say, then you have to be extra careful. There shouldn’t be any connection between you and me and this writer for Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I jut my chin at the bartender. “For all we know, he’s reporting back to the record label guy. We shouldn’t be seen leaving together.” I gather up my purse. “I’m going to tell this writer about you right now. Bye!”
“Wait! Georgia! Take my number, at least, so your writer friend can call me!”
“No, no, that’s way too risky. If this writer is interested in the story, she’ll come to Slingers on a night when you’re performing. That way, if Reed ever comes down here, after the article comes out—or God forbid, sues you for breaching the confidential settlement agreement—you’ll be able to swear truthfully, under oath, that’s how you first met her. She showed up at the bar.”
Troy looks vaguely convinced by that. “Yeah... Okay.”
I tap my temple and wink. “Bye now, hon. So awesome talking to you!”
And off I go, sprinting out the door, as fast as my devious little legs will carry me, and then laugh to myself like a madwoman as I sprint to my nearby car in the cool Los Angeles night.
Chapter 9
Reed
Wednesday 2:35 am
I roll onto my opposite side and look at the clock on my nightstand. This is pointless. I’m not going to be able to fall asleep while my brain is still wracked with images of Georgina having sex with someone else. Oh, God. I roll over again, feeling like I’m going to puke from stress.
After my horrifying phone call with Georgina ended, I drove straight to her hotel, thinking maybe she was lying to me about not being there, simply to keep me from coming. But she wasn’t there. So, I chatted up the concierge in the lobby, trying to figure out what nearby clubs or bars had live music. Specifically, what places might have featured a solo musician tonight, since Georgina said, “And when the musician is done performing...” But, unfortunately, the concierge didn’t have any useful suggestions.
After that, I drove around aimlessly, like a madman, scoping out random hotspots, in search of Georgina’s parked car. And when I didn’t see Georgina’s car anywhere—not surprisingly, considering I was looking for a needle in a haystack in a city of four million people—I simply kept going. Driving. Searching. Freaking out.
When my search of Hollywood came up empty, I drove to Westwood—the neighborhood immediately adjacent to UCLA—figuring Georgina might have gone back to her old stomping grounds. I even went into Bernie’s Place, looking for her. But, nope. She wasn’t there, either. At every turn, I came up empty-handed. No Georgina.
And that’s when I had a batshit crazy, paranoid thought: what if, when Georgina casually referenced “the musician,” she meant to do it? What if that wasn’t a slip or an incidental bit of information I’d cleverly picked up on? What if that telltale phrase had been the entire point of Georgina’s little speech to me? What if Georgina was actually calling me, specifically to tell me, in code, she was heading into a bar to watch a performance... by Troy Eklund?
The very thought of Georgina being in the same room with Troy nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. My rational brain knew I was being paranoid, and that the chances were slim. But then again, Georgina did know all about Stephanie Moreland. So, why wouldn’t she know about Troy, too?
I googled Troy’s name and quickly found out he was scheduled to play at some dive bar called Slingers in West Hollywood tonight. So, off I went, all the way back to that side of town. Even though I knew I’d literally commit murder, thereby ruining my life, if I walked into that bar and found Troy with his hands or lips on Georgina.
Thankfully, though, when I got to Slingers, I didn’t see Troy, or Georgie, anywhere. And when I chatted up the bartender, I found out Troy had played his set earlier, as scheduled, thereafter flirted with several women, per usual, and then left about fifteen minutes before my arrival with a blonde who’d practically swallowed his face in the few minutes before they’d cut out. Also, per usual. It was all excellent news, obviously. Also, proof I’m losing my damned mind.
Finally, when I’d exhausted all my ideas, I drove to Georgina’s hotel. Which was where I saw her convertible in the parking lot. I was glad to see she’d returned to the hotel... but sick to my stomach to think she might not be alone in her room. Oh, God, how I toyed with the idea of going to Georgina’s room and knocking on her damned door. But, somehow, I refrained. I forced myself to leave and drive home, even though my heart felt like it was bleeding.