It’s blue and yellow helps lessen my frustration, and I start feeding the worn pick through my fingers, under and over.
“B, we’ve been at this for hours. This doesn’t have to be a big fucking splash. The fans will create the hype. Trust me.” I scan the hotel suite.
Record executives, Bianca—my manager—and the new guys who will perform with me, litter the room.
Not to mention the other people, some hangers-on and other specialists in social media, publicity and who knows what else. They are all in various stages of frustration.
Two hotties, in figure-hugging jeans and belly tops so tight I can see their nipples, stand back from the fray. Their wide, fervent gazes track my every move.
One of them is my new personal assistant. I forget if it’s the blonde or the redhead, but given their ardent stares, it’s safe to say both would walk through fire for me.
Undying adoration isn’t new to me, so much so, I take it for granted. None of it is real and I’m bored. It’s been too long since someone challenged me.
Well, other than B, but she doesn’t count. I tolerate her for so many reasons. We’ve known each other for so long and I keep her around because of her sister. Now she’s like my annoying sister.
“Jared’s right,” Derek Hanson, a record label executive and all-around douchebag, says.
My eyes widen, not expecting his agreement, but I’ll take it. My manager sighs, pursing her lips, glaring at me before she gathers up her things into a bag.
Her hands tremble. Come to think of it, she’s been jittery since she got here. What’s up with her? She can’t be nervous about embarking on my solo career. Is she worried I’m not prepared?
I’ve got this. I’m ready to face the fans and paps. And itching to start writing songs again. It’s been too long.
The rest follow her lead, getting up and putting their things together. The room is now filled with sounds of shuffling papers, zippers, and snaps of bags. Thank fuck they are leaving. I just want to go home.
I make a beeline for the gleaming white marble bar, glass and chrome everywhere, and through the mirror spanning one wall, I glimpse the blonde scuttling in my direction.
Dammit, I should tell her to scram. I want to be alone, and meeting in a hotel suite just invites all kinds of debauchery. Or more like, my reputation and a hotel room suggests depravity.
At the last minute, Bianca made a big deal about wanting somewhere fresh and different to talk. And some crap about neutral territory. Whatever. Half the time, I don’t understand that chick. And it’s painful to have her around. High-strung control freak. But she’s a good manager. Cutthroat.
“Mr. Grange,”—the blonde’s voice is a sultry breath, as if channeling Marilyn Monroe—“please let me get you whatever you need.”
Her small hands quiver at her sides and her two front teeth nibble at her bottom lip. Yet, despite her nerves, her waterfall-like eyes never waver from mine.
And I feel nothing. Usually, the sexy but too awed to know it, even if this one knows it, stirs something in me. If only a twitch of my dick or a slow burn at the base of my balls.
The feeling is for someone else, someone I can no longer have, but at least I feel something. But right now, there’s nothing, and that’s just as well.
She might be my PA, and I try to stay away from the help. Try is the operative word here because I have failed, and in the end, it just makes things messy. I don’t need the headache.
“What’s your name?”
“Sarah.” She curls a few strands behind her ear and bats her lashes. She isn’t so doe-eyed and innocent as she wants people to think she is.
“You’re my PA?”
There was a time when potential embarrassment would have prevented me from asking. I should know her name at the very least, if I’m signing her paychecks. It’s the decent thing.
But my decency is long gone, and anyway, most people don’t care to know me, Jared Grange, the person. Opportunists, every one of them.
They all want a piece of the rock star. Some even audacious enough to strive for more, for all of me. Greedy fuckers.
The even sicker part of that? I used to get my rocks off on that shit. Being a god among mere mortals, or at least that was how I’m treated. Do I believe it? Nah.
Yet it’s a fucking powerful feeling. And the rush, magnificent. But the thrill gets old fast, especially when there is nothing personal or real about it.
If it wasn’t for my passion for music, the only lifeline I have left of her—my thumb and forefinger rub the smooth resin of the guitar pick—yeah, if not for the music, I’d have left this rock star life like Silas.
Instead, I’ve seen the cold, hard truth. The people in this industry are no different than what I grew up with in the system. Sad to say, but they’re users and they won’t get to me. Rather, I’m down in the trenches with them. Not pretty but true.
“Yes. I’m new. Dana’s showing me the ropes.” She points to the redhead who is furiously taking notes while Bianca talks a mile a minute. “She’s Bianca’s PA.”
“Get me a drink.” My gaze flits to the bottles of booze on the bar.
Done with the chitchat, I slink to the couch, playing with the forget-me-not pick while she fixes my drink.
Sarah, my blonde puppy dog, dutifully does as she’s told. The vixen holds out the scotch and I stare, blankly. It would be so easy. Glass to my mouth and the amber liquid sliding down my throat in one gulp. Fuuuck.
“Water.” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” As if a swatted fly, she buzzes away, unsettled.
She returns with sparkling water with a lime wedge perched on the rim of the glass. The woman waits patiently at my side, watching my every move.
Annoyed by her hovering, I stroll to close the door behind the last of the group. Only B and our PAs are left.
“You okay?” My manager eyes me warily.
Her gaze lands on the ice cubes in my now-empty water glass. She must see the defiant glint in my eye as I crunch a few ice cubes between my teeth like a wild animal. She grimaces.
We’re having an age-old argument that needs no words. She isn’t my mother. I’m ultimately responsible for my actions.
“I’m fine.”
Today was too much of the crap I don’t like. The power struggles, politics, and money underpinning it all. I just want to play music.
“I’m going to make a few phone calls.” If she’s hurt, I can’t tell when she looks to her phone, avoiding my gaze, then to the main door of the hotel suite. Is she expecting someone?
“I’ll head home, or maybe go see Silas.” With a hand to my front pocket, I release the pick and feel for my phone. Not there.
“Ah, can you wait a bit?” Now she’s chewing at the inside of her cheek, a nervous tic that is so unusual for my controlling manager.
“Suure, but what’s going on?”
I eye my phone on the dining table where I left it during the discussions, and head in that direction. The mind-reading blonde, which I find creepy as fuck, darts there and back, handing me the phone.
“Nothing. Dana and Sarah, please go on in and I’ll be there in a second.” She points to the master bedroom.”Oh, and Dana, get Ned on the phone.”