Chapter One
Colt
Drink in hand, I turn to scan the room, taking in the tall tables surrounded by statuesque models on the arms of fat, balding label execs, artists in a wide array of designer clothing, and their managers and agents steering them in the direction of the right people to network with. The walls are draped with fabric, and colored lights shine through, giving the whole room an ethereal quality.
My gaze snags on a platinum blonde pixie a few feet away from me. She looks vaguely familiar—short hair, though it’s getting a little long and her roots are juuuust starting to show, sparkly red cocktail dress, long, toned legs ending in heels that match her dress. She fishes a maraschino cherry out of her glass and pops it between pouty lips painted the same deep red as her dress and shoes. The combination of her stunning, sultry attire that showcases her trim curves, the deep V of her dress ending below her sternum and the lazy nonchalance with which she leans against the bar is equal parts amusing and intriguing.
This is the kind of party where people go to see and be seen. Network. Make connections. Not the kind for plucking maraschino cherries out of your drink and sucking the liquor off your fingers.
I try to place her. Is she an artist, attached to an artist, or with a label? Or is she just someone’s guest? Sidling closer, I wonder if I can turn this vague sense of recognition into a beneficial connection. If she’s not powerful enough to help me on her own, she’s probably connected to someone who is.
In reality, I’m connected to someone who’s got enough clout to help me. But for reasons I haven’t been able to figure out in the last four years of being my brother’s assistant, he won’t. Jonathan has the fame. He has the contracts and contacts. But every time I’ve asked him for help, he’s hesitated. Told me that I know all the same people he does, and why do I think they’ll say yes to him if they won’t say yes to me.
Which … maybe he has a point. But why won’t he at least help me find out why I keep getting told no?
Or maybe he doesn’t want to lose his lapdog, and he’s been blocking my way. Maybe being his assistant has actually been holding me back, not getting me into the right circles to launch my own solo career.
That’s what I’ve wanted since high school. Before that, when I was still in junior high, I always hoped that my brothers and I could recapture the magic we had as Brash, the band we formed as kids.
It was my fault that we lost our record deals. I was the baby-faced kid with the golden voice.
Until my voice changed. And by the time I made it to the other side of that shitshow, no one wanted us anymore. Our contracts were canceled. Our agent had dropped us. And Jonathan and Brendan had moved on.
Or so they said.
Jonathan managed to find his way back to the spotlight in his senior year of college. Same age I am now, actually. And he’s been riding high for four years.
Brendan actually did move on. He never craved the spotlight like me. Like Jonathan. He was our drummer, and he liked his spot in the back, not being the center of attention. Still does. Now he’s an in-demand producer, churning out hits left and right.
He’s at least tried to help, working with me on my last demo. I asked him to help me shop it around, but he said it doesn’t work that way.
Really, though, I think my brothers don’t actually believe in me. It’s not that they want to hold me back. They just don’t think I can succeed.
And even though I promised myself that my last demo would be it—that if no one wanted it, I’d give up my dreams of a solo career and settle for running things behind the scenes—giving up is hard. This has been my dream for as long as I can remember. How am I supposed to just let go of the thing I’ve wanted my whole life?
So it’s up to me to make it happen. My brothers won’t help me. Maybe this physical embodiment of the manic pixie dream girl can do what they won’t.
But before I can even open my mouth, she’s shaking her head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. You can move right along with that charming smile and smooth moves. Not interested.”
My laughter is genuine as I lean on the bar next to her, undeterred by her stated disinterest or the way she turns her face away from me. I signal to the bartender for a refill on my vodka tonic. “You need a refill?” I ask the back of her head.
She deigns to give me her profile and orders a Shirley Temple.
My brows climb my forehead, and I study her. “You presenting an award later?”
That finally causes her to give me her attention as a raucous laugh rips out of her. She grabs my shoulder to steady herself, shaking her head.
An answering smile tips my lips, but I’m already trying to think of ways to withdraw from this obviously ill-advised conversation. She must’ve ordered a Shirley Temple because she’s already hammered and her handler told her to sober up. But of course, appearances being what they are, you have to have a drink in hand at all times. Drunken starlets are no use to me, even if she is pretty and her grip on my arm is strong.
She straightens away from me and shakes her head, patting my shoulder once then brushing my jacket like she’s getting rid of any wrinkles. “Sorry. That wasn’t the question I expected you to ask. And no. The answer to your question is no. I’m not presenting later.”
Her words come out clear and straight, no slurring. Her pupils are dilated normally. She’s not rolling, despite her unnecessary touching, and she’s not drunk. My brows wrinkle.
“Why the kiddie drink?” The question pops out before I can filter it or rephrase.
With a shrug, she picks up her drink and takes a sip from the straw. “You always this nosy when you first meet someone?”
“Just making conversation.” Offering a shrug of my own, I turn around to face the party, leaning back against the bar and sipping my own drink. It’s pretty watered down, but that’s fine. I’m not trying to get drunk. Like I said, this party is about seeing and being seen. I’m just here to look the part, make whatever connections I can to help Jonathan, since I’m officially here as his assistant. If I happen to make connections to help myself in the future … well, that’s a nice bonus.
But with the way things are going, I doubt this will turn into anything, and I’m already scanning the room for someone else who might prove more advantageous.
“I quit alcohol,” she says after a long pause.
My eyebrows jump up my forehead at her admission. “Good for you.”
She snorts. “That’s it? That satisfies your curiosity? No more prying?”
I turn my head to find her staring incredulously at me, and I can’t help grinning. “You said you weren’t interested in talking to me and bristled at the only question I asked.” I hold up a finger. “For the record, I didn’t come over here to hit on you.”
“Oh really?” she says, disbelief dripping from her words and puddling at her feet. “You sure about that? I watched you checking me out.”
Resisting the urge to do it again, I return my attention to the crowd. It’s mostly people I’ve already talked to or prefer to avoid right now. If I wait here long enough, though, someone important is likely to come along. And for now, this exchange is entertaining at least. So it’s not a complete waste.