“Who’s paying for the studio time?” Jacob asks.
“Who cares? We’ll find the money.” I can’t believe that’s what he’s worried about.
“Easy for you to say when your girlfriend’s apparently loaded,” he grumbles.
I knew letting him see the guitar Mallory bought me would bite me in the ass eventually.
“Settle down.” Val glares at both of us. “The record company will cover it. As long as you get it done quickly, I don’t think it will be an issue. They want you to put something out soon.”
“Do it fast but make it good. That’s a lot of pressure.” Jacob’s scratchy voice rubs some guilt in. He needs to be on vocal rest after this weekend.
Alvin’s kept quiet for as long as he can. “What the fuck else have we been working for if not this?” His wild hand gestures punctuate the frustration in his thunderous voice. “We’ve been rehearsing the new songs. I can think of five off the top of my head right now we could give him.”
“Easy, Chipmunk,” Jacob rasps.
“Fuck you, Jacob. Don’t ruin this because you’re afraid of success.”
“I’m not ruining shit.”
“All right.” I stand up and hold out my hands like a boxing ref trying to push my two bandmates into their corners. “Val’s right. This is a good sign. We rocked this weekend. We’re all exhausted from back to back shows of this caliber. Let’s take the next couple days to regroup.” I glance at Jacob. “You killed it this weekend, now it’s time to rest your voice.”
Jacob nods and mouths a quick, “Sorry” to Alvin.
“I’ll do what I can to find a studio and have you set up by Wednesday,” Val promises. “By the way, what’s this talk about a Vicious Vandals tour?”
“Something Andrew’s hinted at. Nothing’s solid yet.”
“Well, keep me in the loop. Maybe I can talk the label into an actual tour bus for you this time.”
“Holy shit.” Jacob high-fives Garrett. “A tour with Vicious Vandals will be sick! Those guys know how to party.”
Even though this weekend was a success, I can’t help feeling like, sooner or later, I’ll find myself on another rooftop trying to coax half my band off the ledge.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mallory
This is a joke.
My agent claims a fairly well-known producer wants to meet with me. She’ll only whisper his name in person, so I have to go all the way down to her office. Supposedly, he saw me in the coffee commercial and has the perfect part for me. In an established television series.
The punchline? The meeting is supposed to take place at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
It all feels a little too familiar to how I was set up with Davey Revolver in England. When I expressed my concerns to Marilyn, because yes, I’d had to explain that whole debacle to her, she assured me these kinds of informal meetings happen all the time. I don’t really buy it, but I also don’t want to pass up the meeting if there’s a chance it’s legitimate.
“Are you fucking kidding?” The absolute look of horror and disbelief on Chaser’s face after I explain the situation would almost be comical if we weren’t talking about my career.
“Trust me, I said the same thing.”
He scrubs his hands over his face. “You’re not going alone.”
“Thank you.” I didn’t realize how much I’d been hoping he would say that until the words came out of his mouth.
His eyebrows shoot up as if he’d expected me to argue with him. But, nope. I’m relieved.
“What time?”
Here’s the part that makes it even better. “Eight o’clock tonight.”
“You fucking kidding me? Is it an audition or a date?”
“Will it cut into your session with Andrew?”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” He waves his hand in the air. “We’re almost done, anyway.”
Chaser’s been working long hours with Andrew, coming home later and later every night. The lack of sleep has made him edgy and irritable, so I can’t wait until they’re finished.
Chaser tugs on my hand, pulling me along. “Come on, let’s get you to your audition.”
Oh, how I love him for saying “audition” with a straight face.
We arrive at the hotel, and I walk up to the restaurant where our meeting is supposed to be held. The maître d’ sends me to the front desk. Chaser follows me, shaking his head.
“Hello, my name is Mallory Dove, I’m supposed to have a meeting with Mr. Woods at 8 o’clock.”
“Oh, yes.” The smile slides off the clerk’s face, and his gaze bounces between Chaser and me. “He asked you to meet him in his suite first.”
Behind me, Chaser grumbles, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The clerk leans across the desk and in a lowered voice, says, “I would take your bodyguard with you, miss.”
Does it ever end?
“What did he say?” Chaser asks, as we head toward the elevator.
“Nothing.”
That answer’s not good enough for Chaser, of course. As soon as we’re enclosed in the elevator, he turns me to face him. “What did he say?”
“He said my bodyguard should go with me.”
Chaser nods thoughtfully. “Figured.”
As we approach the suite door, Chaser takes a position behind me. Music drifts into the hallway. Something slow, soft, and romantic. I hesitate before knocking.
A young man opens the door and smiles down at me. The smile fades when his gaze lands on Chaser. “Miss Dove, your friend will have to wait with me while you meet with Mr. Woods.”
He opens the door wider, apparently expecting me to agree. Chaser settles his hand on the small of my back, reassuring me I’m not going anywhere without him.
“Is she here?” A masculine voice calls out a few seconds before an older gentleman steps into the living room in his bathrobe.
I briefly close my eyes and shake my head.
I knew it.
“Who the hell are you?” he demands, glaring at Chaser.
“Her bodyguard,” Chaser answers in an even voice.
Anger twist the director’s face. “What is this? Are you hoping for an audition too? I’m fresh out of parts for grungy hitmen.”
“I’m here for Miss Dove’s protection.” Chaser’s solemn tone makes it clear he has no plans to leave and no interest in auditioning.
My heart swells with love for Chaser. For trying so hard to maintain an illusion of professionalism, when this whole thing reeks. He’s keeping his cool for me. I know he’d prefer to handle this by throwing a few punches.
Mr. Woods continues to glare at Chaser. But Chaser’s in full junkyard dog mode tonight and doesn’t back down.
“Mr. Woods, do you have some lines you’d like me to read,” I ask to break the tension.
“Well, I, yes.” He throws one more exasperated look in Chaser’s direction. “Let me grab the script.”
He returns with one sheet of paper. I scan it and grit my teeth. The role is for “massage therapist” and judging by the lines on this sheet, he plans to take off his robe and have me rub oil all over him at some point.