I shrug again. “You’re hot. I’m sure you’re well aware of that fact, though.”
“Are you gay?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Is that the only believable reason a man wouldn’t hit on you?” Her silence is answer enough. I shake my head. “No. I’m not gay. Are you?”
Her cheeks get pinker, and she drops her gaze. “No. Though when you’re a member of a girl band, everyone assumes you are. Or at least bi.”
“Which band?” I sip my drink, eyes roaming over her again, flipping through my mental catalogue of girl bands now that I have that clue. So she is an artist. Maybe this conversation could be more than just entertaining after all.
“Golden Enigma.” She mutters the answer, the sound almost lost in the ambient noise, but it all clicks into place.
They were big news, getting a lot of media attention, opening for Cataclysm if I remember right. Things were going good until a few months ago.
There was a bad car accident, a head-on collision on the freeway late at night. The other driver died on impact. All three members of Golden Enigma were in the car. One was in the hospital for weeks. One’s facing charges. And one walked away with bumps and bruises. Or so the story goes.
Her eyes never leave my face as the impact of her words sinks in. She watches me put all the pieces together, and her face shutters the longer the silence stretches between us.
She draws a breath, the sides of her dress threatening to slip off her breasts, except I know it’s taped in place and that kind of wardrobe malfunction is extremely unlikely. Especially for someone still overcoming a worse scandal. She doesn’t need more scandal heaped on her name.
“Which one are you?” I ask as the band members’ names come to me—Katie Long, Mia Rossi, and Alexis Lovell. If memory serves, Katie was the one who ended up in the hospital, Mia was the driver, and—
“Alexis,” she answers.
“The one who walked away.”
Turning back to the bar, hiding her face from me again, she snorts. But it lacks the amusement and conviction of her previous snorts. She’s pretending to be unaffected, but it’s an act.
“What are you doing here?”
She lets out a sigh and stirs the ice in her drink. “My agent is trying to get our old label to sign me as a solo act. Katie’s out, and Mia …” She shakes her head again. “Our contract was canceled after the accident. Since I was the voice of reason of the three of us, my agent thinks we can convince the label that I’m a safe bet. But I have to walk a fine line of attending parties like this”—she waves her hand around at the elaborate colored lighting and fabric-draped walls—“where I can schmooze and network and prove that I’m sober and a risk worth taking.” She raises her eyes to mine once more. “I have the talent. They know I have the voice. They’re just not sure I won’t fuck it up again.” Picking up her drink, she jiggles the ice. “So Shirley Temples for me for the foreseeable future. Holding up the bar. Talking to people my agent brings over to meet me.” She points a finger in my direction. “No douchey assholes looking for a quick fuck.”
Chuckling, I hold up my hands. “Good thing I’m none of those.”
She quirks an eyebrow in disbelief, but a real smile finally stretches those ruby red lips. “Well, good, I guess. So now you know my story. What’s yours?”
Chapter Two
Alexis
The tall douche with piercing blue eyes and artfully messy hair who claims he’s not a douche—aka, the poster boy for douches everywhere—laughs at my question and drains his drink.
He turns to catch the bartender’s attention and orders a glass of tonic water with a slice of lime. Fresh glass in hand, he turns and tinks it against my glass. “You know, tonic with lime is a more convincing non-alcoholic drink if you’re looking to keep up appearances. No one can tell the difference between it and a vodka tonic.”
I make a face, stirring my remaining cherry in my glass. “But then I’d have to drink tonic water. At least a Shirley Temple tastes good.”
His low chuckle sends a wave of goosebumps down my arms. He has a sexy laugh. Too bad I’ve sworn off men as well as booze and all other forms of fun at parties. A few months ago, I was partying with actual rock stars. I even made out with Mason Gray, the drummer for Cataclysm. He hosted the best parties until his bandmates made him stop, claiming they were too crazy, too out of control. That he was out of control.
Katie, Mia, and I had scoffed at the time, riding high on newfound fame and fortune.
Now, though …
I see what they were getting at. Cataclysm is still going strong, untainted by career-ending scandals.
Katie, Mia, and me? Maybe we should’ve listened better.
Maybe I should’ve listened better. Tried harder to rein them in.
Now it’s up to me to keep on the straight and narrow, at least if I want to make something of what might be the last chance I have in this industry. I grew up following the careers of all the famous female artists. So many of them have a brief, meteoric rise, and then it burns out just as fast, ending with them broken.
I promised myself when we started that I wouldn’t end up that way. That we wouldn’t end up that way. I’ve already broken the second promise. This is my last chance to make good on the first.
That means no dick, no matter how charming the smile attached to it or how tingle-inducing his laugh.
“Shirley Temples have too many calories, though,” he says, oblivious to the effect he’s having on me. Good thing I’m not drinking alcohol. I might not be able to pretend to be so unaffected if I had a good buzz going.
I stir my straw around my pink, sugary drink again. He has a point. But I’ve saved my calories just for this, and I’m not going to let some pretty boy ruin my enjoyment of the one pleasure I have available right now. Shrugging one shoulder, I take another sip. “I’ve only had chicken and celery today. I have room for the extra calories.”
He gives me an appraising look, his eyes tracking over my body, lingering on my waist and thighs. “Smart,” he says, returning his attention to the crowd.
I want to be disgruntled at the way he was checking me out, but his gaze was clinical. Calculating. The way my agent sizes me up before meetings with the label execs where we discuss my marketability. “Don’t get too fat,” she says. “In fact, lose five pounds. Skinnier is better.”
We stand companionably against the bar, me sipping my drink slowly, drawing out the sweetness for as long as possible before I have to return to my dull, carefully controlled diet, intended to shave off those last stubborn five pounds.
“So who’s your date tonight?” he asks, apropos of nothing. “Wait, don’t answer, let me guess.”
I hide my smile in my drink, because he’s never going to get it right if we’re playing this game.
He looks me over again, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Even though your band is out, you guys were pretty hot over the last six months. I’ve heard the chatter. And you said you’re trying to get signed as a solo artist. You need someone to boost your image.” He turns his attention back to the crowd, picking out and discarding possibilities with his eyes. After a moment, he jerks his chin off to our left. “There. Derek Bayers. He’s close enough to your age to be a viable boyfriend candidate, which is important for the press. He was nominated for best new artist last year, and has strong sales and tour numbers. He’d be good for your reputation.” Raising his eyebrows, he looks at me for my answer.