by Elise Noble
Rush Moder took the number two spot, and from the amount he seemed to drink, I concluded he’d have been better off at Alcoholics Anonymous sessions than meet ’n’ greets with his fans. No wonder he’d made so many typos in his messages to Tessa. But he didn’t seem short of female company either, even if he struggled to keep his temper in check on social media.
Jethro David Altierre—more commonly referred to as JD—played the drums for Indigo Rain when he wasn’t too busy doing drugs. He’d been arrested for possession last year and let off on a technicality, but a grainy picture that appeared on a gossip website six months later of a blond guy snorting white powder suggested he hadn’t changed much.
Finally, there was Dexter Reeves, the bassist. He never smiled, rarely spoke, and had—miracle of miracles—avoided significant scandal since he started with the band. A true enigma.
In all my research, the words most commonly used to describe the members of Indigo Rain were “talented but troubled,” and that about summed it up. I played some of their songs as I worked, and although I’d always been more of a pop fan than a rock chick, I could hear why they were so popular.
In fact, I got lost in the music for almost half an hour, then gave myself a mental slap when I realised how little time I had left to write the damned article. A title. I needed a title.
Five reasons why girls go for bad boys… And six reasons why they shouldn’t.
I picked up my favourite pen and began to write.
Since Tessa liked to visit Old Spitalfields Market in Shoreditch, and she also liked to drag me along with her, I had a reasonable idea of where I was going. Or at least, I thought I did. When I traipsed along a side road near Shoreditch High Street, I found a dusty storefront with a sign for Brightwell’s Books where Fly Boy Media should have been. I checked the email again. Number forty-four—I definitely had the right place.
I pushed the door open and hesitated on the threshold. “Hello?”
A plump man with a comb-over popped out from behind a musty stack of paperbacks.
“Can I help?”
“I’m looking for Fly Boy Media, but I’m not sure I’m in the right place.”
“Alana?”
Oh, shit. I was in the right place.
“Yes, that’s me.”
He stuck out one pudgy hand. “Roy Flynt. Why don’t you come through to the office? My boy will be back any moment. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, he’s been looking at your Twittergram.”
I didn’t know what was worse—a so-called media company boss who didn’t know the difference between Twitter and Instagram or the fact that his son had been stalking me through them. At least they could only have found my regular pages, not bikini girl. Bikini girl masqueraded as Raven du Walt. Raven was my middle name, and I’d borrowed the du Walt from my maternal grandma. She died when I was five, but until then, she’d spent more time caring for me than my so-called mother had.
“Coffee?” Roy asked as he showed me into a grubby room full of mismatched desks and chairs.
“Yes, please.”
“The kettle’s over in that corner. Milk and two sugars for me, love.”
Did he just…? Oh my goodness. Welcome to the dark ages. I should have walked out right then, but two qualities my mother had instilled in me were tolerance and politeness, no matter how misplaced they might be. Plus I couldn’t afford to have any rudeness reported back to the careers advisor at uni. At that moment, I envied Rush Moder for his ability to let rip with whatever was on his mind.
“Sure, no problem. Milk and two sugars.”
The kettle boiled—slowly—and even though I took my time, Flynt junior still hadn’t arrived by the time I set a mug of coffee on the desk in front of Roy. The old man seemed to have forgotten what I was there for, and he’d started work on some invoices.
“It was two o’clock, wasn’t it?” I asked. “The interview?”
“That’s right. Terry’s never been so good at timekeeping, but I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”
“Perhaps you could call him? Or text him?”
“Eh, I’m not so good with all that modern technology.”
I gingerly slid my article towards him. “I printed this out. Perhaps you’d like to read it while we’re waiting?”
Because at least then I wouldn’t need to attempt conversation.
In the early hours, I’d come to the conclusion that dating a bad boy really wasn’t a smart idea. Sure, they were sexy, tough, and exciting, but if you wanted a project, building flat-pack furniture was a better bet. At least it wouldn’t break your heart when it got bored. Bad boys were bad news.
Roy fished around in his drawer and came up with a pair of reading glasses, and I breathed a sigh of relief. As soon as Terry arrived, I’d ask a few basic questions, then make an excuse and leave.
Ten interminably long minutes passed before a guy younger than me slunk through the door. From his clothing, he aspired to be in Indigo Rain, although he sadly lacked the looks and presumably the talent since he was working in a place like this. He fiddled with his lip ring as he slumped into a chair opposite me.
“You’re the new girl, yeah?”
“I’m here for an interview.”
He looked me up and down, pausing on my chest. “You’re hired.”
“Hold on a second—I don’t even know what the job entails. The description was kind of vague.”
“Oh.” He glanced at his father, then shrugged. “We’ve got this website, like the Huffington Post but for our generation, and you’d be writing the articles for that.”
“All of them?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Unless you can get other people to help you out.”
“And what do you do here?”
“Load the stuff onto the website.”
So he basically hit copy and paste.
“What about affiliate income? SEO? Traffic generation? Ads?”
“Huh?”
“How do you make money?”
“We just need to get everything up and running before we worry about that.”
In other words, they had no plan, no work ethic, and no idea how the internet functioned.
“Your website says the company’s been going for twenty years?”
“Indeed it has,” Roy said. “Up until now, we distributed religious pamphlets, but everything’s going online now. Times are a-changing, and so are we.”
Great. I’d wasted an entire day.
“Thanks for your time, but I don’t think we’d be a good fit.”
I strode towards the door, and Terry came to life, shifting into a new gear as he chased me to the door.
“Wait! How about we throw in some stock options?”
No. Just no.
CHAPTER 3 - ALANA
AS IF TO rub salt into the wound, my phone vibrated as I hurried along Shoreditch High Street towards the Tube station. My university supervisor just wanted to remind me how important it was to secure a suitable work placement so my final degree classification didn’t suffer. She’d helpfully attached a project brief to the email—in order to get the course credits I needed, I had to write up what I’d learned during my spell in the real world and show how it tied into my studies.
Hurrah.
Dove was already home when I got back, and so was Bear, the dog she’d rescued with Zander. He was a bouncy ginger thing—Bear, not Zander—who drooled a lot and had a habit of eating Zander’s boots at every opportunity. During the week, Dove and Bear lived in a cottage at the fancy estate where she worked, outside of London in Northbury village. Zander usually stayed with her for two or three nights a week, which gave me breathing space, but they’d both be around for the weekend and the last thing I wanted to do was rehash my disaster of an interview.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“It wasn’t quite what I was looking for.”
“Aw, I’m so sorry. Do you have anything els
e lined up?”
Nope. “One or two possibilities.”
I didn’t want dinner to turn into a pity party.
“That’s great! You can tell us all about them over dinner. Maybe we can help you to prepare for your next interview? Not that I’ve had loads of practice, but I know Zander interviews staff for Blackwood.”
On second thoughts…
“I promised Tessa I’d watch a movie with her tonight.”
“Anything good?”
“Something about dragons and, uh, space. And it’s got hot guys in it.”
“Any idea what time you’ll be back? Not that it matters, it’s just, you know…”
She blushed because I did know. Dove wanted to do dirty things with my brother, things that I didn’t even want to think about, let alone hear.
“I’ll just stay the night.”
“You don’t have to…”
“It’s no problem, honestly.”
Except it was. Because Tessa had gone out on a date, which most likely meant she’d be doing naughty things of her own later. Instead of ruining everyone’s evening, I threw a change of clothes and some toiletries into a bag and slunk off to a cheapish hotel around the corner.
“Single room again, Miss Alana?” the receptionist asked.
No, that wasn’t the first time I’d stayed there, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“Yes, that tiny one on the third floor’s fine.”
He beamed at me. “I give you discount.”
“Thanks, Marek.”
Alone in bed, I turned on the crappy TV and tried to concentrate on a detective show, but I’d missed the beginning, so nothing made sense. Much like my life, really. That hadn’t truly begun until I moved in with Zander. And now relationships confused me, and I didn’t understand boys.
Especially Rush Moder. Out of morbid curiosity, I opened Instagram and checked out his profile. The rant had disappeared, replaced by a picture of him playing the guitar on stage, complete with thousands of comments pledging to have his babies. Ugh.
Had a responsible adult finally reined him in? How did it work? I’d always figured that with their millions of dollars, rock stars would have assistants running their social media accounts for them. That was partly why I’d been so incredulous when Moder replied to Tessa in the first place.
I checked my inbox, and yes, the whole thread was still there. It hadn’t been a figment of my imagination. And possibly I had been a little harsh on Tessa over her idea, because after my visit to Fly Boy Media, spending a year writing about four spoiled man-children looked like an attractive option. At least I’d be able to pick my own hours. And it’d be easy enough to fulfil my supervisor’s brief and tie the whole project back to my studies. There was the writing I had to practise for the journalism skills module; the ethical dilemmas that had to be weighed up when considering privacy, objectivity, and public interest; the need to expand my research capabilities; and the constraints of media law.
What if I could wangle my way close enough to Rush Moder to write an article about the band? It wouldn’t need to be anything epic, just enough to satisfy my supervisor, and Moder had been open to the idea because he’d mentioned Dex wanting to sign off on anything I came up with. And the meeting time he’d suggested—eleven o’clock in the morning—hardly said one-night stand, did it?
Should I consider it? There’d be no naughtiness, and I definitely wouldn’t wear a bikini, but I’d be willing to put on tight jeans and make-up in the name of a story.
To message or not to message… I drummed my fingernails on the cheap veneer of the bedside table as I considered my options, which were depressingly few.
Oh, screw it.
Raven: Still on for Monday?
Nothing. The screen stayed stubbornly blank. Either someone had confiscated Rush’s phone completely, or he hadn’t noticed my message. Or possibly he’d come to his senses. Realistically, that last option was the most likely. Dammit. I’d have to start hunting for a proper job again next week.
I’d all but lost hope when a notification popped up on my phone in the middle of my Sunday-evening Netflix binge. My fingers trembled as I read the whole message.
RushModer: Yeah, babe. I’ll leave your name at the desk.
Holy shit. I had a…a what? Not a date, but a meeting with Rush Moder. A business meeting. A very businessy business meeting. And thank goodness Zander would be at work tomorrow because I absolutely couldn’t tell him about this. He’d flip out.
He’d totally flip out.
“Hi.” I smiled at the receptionist at the Hamilton House Hotel even though the butterflies in my tummy threatened to force their way up my throat. “I’m here to see Rush Moder.”
Her polite expression faded to mild distaste. “Your name, please?”
“Raven du Walt.”
It felt strange calling myself that, but Rush only knew me by my Instagram handle. My left foot began tapping all of its own accord as I waited, and my fingernails were about to drum out a staccato on the wooden counter if she didn’t hurry up.
Finally, she shook her head.
“Sorry, you’re not on the list. I’ll have to ask you to go outside. Indigo Rain’s management has set up a waiting area for fans, and some of the band members may come down later to sign autographs.”
“Could you check again? I only spoke to him yesterday, and he promised to leave my details with you.”
“You spoke to Rush Moder?”
“Well, I messaged with him.”
“I’m sorry, Miss du Walt, but he definitely hasn’t given us your name, and we’re under strict instructions not to let anybody else up. Perhaps you could message him again and clear up the confusion?”
Her voice stayed sweet, too sweet, while her tone said she absolutely didn’t believe me. As for Rush, I hadn’t even met him yet, and I already wanted to shake the guy. Was it so difficult to remember one simple task? I took a step back and pulled out my phone, ready to berate him for wasting my time, when I had a horrible thought. Rush had never called me Raven. He’d only ever called me “babe” or…
“Uh, could you try looking under ‘bikini girl’?”
“I’m sorry?”
“My name. Try ‘bikini girl’ rather than Raven.”
“You’re the bikini girl? We were wondering who that was supposed to be.”
“Yes, that’s me. It’s a nickname.”
“Where’s your bikini?”
I was in a five-star freaking hotel, lady. “I only wear it on special occasions.”
And meeting the dick that was Rush Moder didn’t count.
“I suppose that makes sense. Okay, take the express elevator up to the top floor. The band has all four penthouse suites.”
The security guard stationed in front of the lift stepped to one side as I approached.
“Top floor?”
I nodded. Obviously, he’d seen the receptionist pointing me in that direction, and he swiped a card that allowed me to select the uppermost level. As I sped skywards, the butterflies took a leaf out of JD Altierre’s book and got high. They were having a rave in my freaking stomach. I checked my reflection in the mirrored wall, relieved to find I was still presentable after my dash from the Tube station. I wore my make-up like a shield, and I was just touching up my scarlet lipstick when the doors dinged open on the penthouse floor.
The band has all four suites.
I paused in the hallway as the elevator whooshed back down to the ground floor. Suites A and B were to the left, C and D to the right. What was I supposed to do? Knock on each door until I found Rush Moder? Everything about today’s escapade screamed “bad idea.”
Voices came from the left, and I headed in that direction. Maybe I could ask whoever was there for help?
The door of Suite B was closed, but A’s was wide open. I knocked anyway, but when nobody answered, I ventured inside. Further… Further…
“Oh my…”
A naked blonde lay handcuffed to the kin
g-size bed, long hair flowing over the pillow. Three men crouched next to her, whispering amongst themselves while she slept on, oblivious.
One guy turned at my muttered interruption, his eyebrow raised. “Yes?”
JD Altierre. I recognised him from the pictures I’d been studying all weekend.
“Hi, I’m… I’m…” Speechless.
Fortunately, Rush Moder picked that moment to look up. “Bikini girl?”
“You really have to stop calling me that.”
After all, I’d worn jeans today, tucked into sensible mid-heel boots, plus a top that covered everything.
“You know her?” JD asked.
“Sort of. She wears less clothes on the internet.”
Great. Now he’d made me sound like a porn star.
“On Instagram. Rush was looking at my holiday photos. Apart from that, I remain clothed at all times.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
JD turned his attention back to the blonde as Dexter Reeves straightened.
“Clothes or no clothes, you need to leave.”
“But I was invited.”
“Yeah, I get that. But we’re dealing with a situation here, so unless you know how to undo a pair of handcuffs without the key, you’ll have to fuck around with Rush later instead.”
What a pig! And worse, I couldn’t even correct him on his mistaken assumption because Rush did indeed think that I was there to fuck around with him. All I could do was stop myself from getting thrown out before I convinced the band that I had a higher purpose.
“As it happens…” I slid a bobby pin out of my hair. “I may be able to help you.”
Handcuff locks weren’t complicated. I’d found that out one morning three or four years ago after I received a desperate call from Zander. Please could I come and rescue him? His friends thought it would be funny to handcuff him to the balcony in some girl’s flat, and he was terrified she’d wake up at any moment. I’d had to climb a freaking tree to get to him, and did I mention he was wearing boxer shorts and nothing else? Remind me again, who in our household was supposed to be the responsible adult?
