The other woman said, “Oh, my God. I’ve actually heard of you guys.” Then she pulled a piece of paper out of her purse with a ballpoint pen. “Could I have your autograph?”
Brian bit his tongue, hoping his face didn’t how just how annoying he thought this kind of shit was. He didn’t mind signing his name for real fans, but people who just wanted a piece of a celebrity for the sake of it irritated the shit out of him. Still, he did it, because being an asshole wouldn’t get him anywhere. When he handed it back to the woman, she stared for a minute and then finally asked, “What’s your name?”
“Brian. Zimmer.”
“Oh. Okay. I can see that now.”
Without a word, he took the other woman’s notebook and also signed it next to the other guys’ names. Then Sam said, “Let’s go, guys.” No one argued as the women thanked them and the group all but ran out of the lobby, because that sort of situation was often like tinder, easily ignitable when other people, fans or not, were drawn to the growing crowd. There’d been one time at a coffee shop somewhere in the Midwest where they’d wound up signing for over an hour, just because a couple of teenage girls knew who they were and approached them.
It was all good but it meant that, on some days, it felt like there was no such thing as a day off.
When they arrived at the restaurant, they had another problem. They had to wait at the front to be seated, and a young woman wearing a crisp white blouse paused, mouth agape. Her eyes nervously assessed the group until she finally said, “I don’t think we serve Hells Angels.”
Sam started laughing. “We’re not Hells Angels.”
“Er, um, any motorcycle club. I think you’re supposed to—”
Clay said, “We don’t belong to an MC, either. We’re a rock band, and we stayed the night last night here. In your hotel.”
Brian added, “We even had a little shindig in the ballroom last night.”
Sam said, “You can check that, can’t you?”
Dane finally spoke up, pulling a wallet out of his back pocket. “I have my room card here.”
“Just let me ask my manager.”
Brian couldn’t decide which was worse—fake fans or the general ignorant public. Just because they had long hair and tattoos didn’t mean they were violent people. After a bit, the manager, a well-dressed middle-aged man, said, “So sorry, sirs. Katrina’s correct in that we don’t allow obvious members of a motorcycle club or gang in our establishment unless they remove their insignia—but you are most certainly our welcome guests. Please follow me.” As he led them to a large round table near the back and handed them all menus, he said, “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive her.”
In response, Emily said, “She’s just doing her job.”
“Thank you for understanding. She’ll be with you shortly to take your order.”
Soon enough, she did just as the manager had promised, having thawed, no longer frightened of their appearance. Once the group had coffee and had placed their orders, the guys started talking about last night’s show.
“I’m not encouraging moshing anymore. Did you guys see those two guys punching at each other?”
“How could we miss it?” Clay asked. “It took three security guys to get ‘em separated.”
“I’ve never understood the point,” Emily said—but when the guys looked her way, she had a huge grin on her face, as if she’d said it merely to get a reaction.
Dane had been swiping at his phone and, until this point, Brian had assumed he was texting with Charlie. “Have you guys been online yet?”
That was an opening Brian couldn’t resist. “Online? What’s online? I’ve never been there before.”
Dane was not amused and neither rolled his eyes nor chuckled. “I’m serious. Sam, you gave this nutsack an interview.”
Sam almost spat out his coffee. “What nutsack?”
“This guy Job Travis with Ferocity Magazine.”
“Man, it doesn’t matter if they’re a nutsack or not. We gotta press palms and do interviews to get the word out. You know that, man.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s an asshole.”
“Let me see,” Clay said, holding out his hand.
After handing the guitarist the phone, Dane said, “The dude is no LFS fan. He called our latest album unoriginal.”
Brian shrugged. “Ain’t like we haven’t heard that shit before.”
Clay, his eyes glued to the phone, said, “Unoriginal, contrived, sophomoric drivel, to be exact.”
Sam said, “That is harsh.” When Brian frowned, getting a solid sense of his bandmates’ disappointment with the review, Sam shook his head. “But you know what? Brian’s right. We’ve always had critics. How many stations refused to play our songs until I sang a couple with mostly clean vocals? And remember what the critics said about our second album?”
Clay said, “How could we forget?”
Brian nodded, wrapping his hand around the coffee cup. “You can’t make everyone happy. It’ll never happen. They were whining then about us sounding the same on the second album as we did on the first, but our fans dug it, right?”
“Sure did.”
Sam looked at Brian, a slight smile on his face. “Exactly. So this time we try something really different and they hate it, too. And who gives a shit?”
Clay tilted his almost empty coffee mug at Sam and said, “Damn straight. Our fans are loving it.”
Dane looked up from his phone. “Well…maybe.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Our next couple of shows are sold out—but, starting next week and past that, we still have plenty of empty seats.”
“They’ll get filled,” Sam said—but Dane didn’t look so sure.
Brian wasn’t worried. Even without the tour, the album was selling all right and, even if it wasn’t, it wasn’t like they were going to starve. Thanks to all the different digital outlets nowadays, money was constantly flowing in and it would take a couple of new albums with zero sales and no one coming to the tour venues to really hurt.
What was more disheartening was how critics weren’t giving it a listen beyond the first single.
Clay said, “Guys, we knew we were taking a chance. We intentionally decided to push the boundaries. That’s what makes what we do art. I don’t give a shit what they think. I stand by our work. Some of the songs on this album are out there, but in a cool way. I love this fucking album, and if not everyone likes it, that’s their loss.”
“Maybe that’s okay with you,” Dane said, pointing at Clay with his phone, “but here’s what another critic said: ‘Don’t waste your money on Last Five Seconds’ newest album. Eternal Brutality refers to how your brain will feel after listening to all the tracks. Every song is a piece of shit, and it has rightfully earned a place on my top five worst albums of all-time chart.”
“Jesus,” Brian said, starting to laugh. “I think that dude needs therapy. He’s got worse problems than our album.”
Everyone at the table started laughing. Clark, who’d been pretty quiet up to this point, said, “I don’t know how you guys can just brush it off. I’d be calling that guy, giving him a piece of my mind.”
“Nah,” Sam said. “Not worth it. Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. And the album’s still selling.”
As the waitress started putting plates in front of everyone, Brian said, “Exactly. And they say there’s no such thing as bad publicity. So let ‘em say nasty shit about our album. At least they’re talking about it.”
As if it had been the most profound thing said that day, Clay said, “Hear, hear. Let ‘em talk.” Holding up his water glass for a toast, everyone at the table joined in.
And Brian, like always, chose to look at the glass as half full—because he was still in his dream job living his dream life. It was only missing one thing, a partner, but he believed that would happen soon enough.
It was just a little harder now that he and the guys were recognized everywhere they w
ent…but Brian even had a plan for that tickling his brain just below the surface.
Chapter Three
At first, it had been really hard to not give anything away. That stupid Instagram post had completely blown up, attracting far more attention than it merited. What was worse was that Sophie had tried to put a positive spin on it, had wanted to use it like a life lesson. Instead, everyone had focused on the one detail she’d wanted to keep secret:
Who was the musician?
After vowing more than once that she’d take that information to the grave, she settled into her new life: one where her agent was actually calling her frequently with job offers. It seemed that things were looking up for both her and Rory. He got the lead role in an avant garde off-Broadway play, and she was getting offers for more shoots than ever.
Rent would not be an issue for the next several months.
Today was a shoot for a luxury fashion house, probably the biggest job she’d had to date and she was trying to remain calm and appear poised. At the moment, she was sitting in a chair as a makeup artist applied contouring and another artist was leaning on a nearby counter, looking at his phone. The woman applying Sophie’s makeup asked, “Is she late?”
“Isn’t she always?”
“How the hell does she get away with it? Why do they keep hiring her?”
“Because she has a recognizable face that sells shit. When you get famous, they let you get away with more.”
“Well, you don’t help,” said the woman working on Sophie’s face. “You get her ready fast enough that they never know.”
The man stood up straight. “That’s how I keep my job, too, honey.”
After a couple of minutes, the woman said, “Okay, close your eyes, please.” Then she started lining Sophie’s lids and the model finally allowed herself to relax. Even if the other model was late, she was here and ready to work—they’d chosen her! And although she didn’t know who the other model was, if she was as recognizable as the other artist had indicated, then that could only be good for Sophie.
She heard the man say, “It’s about time you got here, CC.”
“I just like to give you the thrill of working under pressure.”
As they rustled around, getting her seated, the woman working on Sophie leaned over, dabbing at her cheeks while whispering in her ear, “She probably spent more time than usual throwing up her breakfast.”
Was the other model bulimic or was Sophie’s artist just catty? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t smile or say anything. Then the artist applied false lashes while Sophie waited patiently.
After a few more minutes, she was allowed to open her eyes, ready to go except for dressing. Her artist asked if the male wanted some help while Sophie got up to go to the dressing room.
It wasn’t until she walked past the other model that she saw who it was: Cookie Brown. Oh, they were going to be fast friends—Sophie just knew it. And wait till she told Cookie what she’d done to the woman’s ex. She was gonna love it.
But work first.
* * *
“Okay, ladies, let’s take five.”
Both Sophie and Cookie walked to the table where bottled water sat on ice. Sophie took a bottle and asked, “Want one?”
“No thanks. I’m watching my calories.”
While unscrewing the cap, Sophie paused in thought. As much as she wanted to point out that water had no calories, she wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. She’d been getting a chilly vibe from the other model, but she didn’t know why. The last thing she wanted to do was make things even more uncomfortable between them by pointing out the other woman’s mistake.
Maybe she was joking, but Sophie wasn’t going to take the chance.
“Can I tell you something?”
Cookie already had her phone in hand and was swiping at it with her thumb, so when she looked at Sophie, it was with a carefully sculpted eyebrow arched to perfection. “If you must.”
That comment confirmed that this woman was a bit rude, but Sophie was still going to give her the benefit of a doubt. After all, the modeling world was a dog-eat-dog world, very competitive, and making friends was difficult, because you never knew who’d stab you in the back.
Surely Cookie would see the humor in what Sophie had done a couple of weeks ago, though. “Well…I wanted you to know that, on behalf of all models, I got a little revenge on Brian Zimmer.”
When Cookie looked up from her phone, her penciled-in brows knitted as if she were deep in thought. She appeared to be irritated as hell that she even had to interact. Opening her mouth, she said, “Brian?” But then the confused look faded, her expression softening. “Oh, of course. My little bear from the metal band. I’m calling that my bad girl phase. Every girl’s gotta have one.”
“Do you want to know what I did?”
“Not particularly. We all have bad girl phases, but you don’t have to announce them to the whole world.”
Sophie was starting to suspect that maybe the “little bear” had been right about this woman’s functioning brain cells. She wasn’t keeping up—or, perhaps, she was a little too self-obsessed.
Or starving and dying of thirst.
Most likely? All of the above.
“No, I meant did you want to hear what I did for revenge?”
“Revenge?”
“Yes. On Brian Zimmer.”
“Revenge for what?”
Sophie took a deep breath in through her nose in an effort to maintain her calm. “For what he said about you.”
“Is he talking about me again? I swear, dude. Give it up. Your fifteen minutes of fame are over.” At that point, Cookie started cackling as if she’d told the world’s funniest joke.
“No. I’m talking about when he called you vapid when that fashion reporter asked why you guys broke up.”
“So?”
Maybe Brian had been right about at least one model.
“Did you read what he said?”
“Why bother? I don’t need to give him any of my head space.”
She certainly couldn’t afford it.
“What he said was an insult to all models. I did not get into modeling because it was the only profession I could handle.”
“And that makes you special?”
By this point, Sophie would have sworn she’d had more productive conversations with cats. “No. All I was saying was I was very insulted by the things he said about you in that interview.”
“How is it insulting to be called vapid? Everybody wants to be faster at things. It’s an indication that you’re good. And I don’t care what he thinks about modeling. When he started talking about it when we dated, I just ignored him.” With a grin, she leaned in closer. “Or rubbed his manhood. That usually got him to shut up.”
Cookie Brown had just confirmed everything Brian Zimmer had said about her in that one sentence. It didn’t take Sophie long to puzzle out that Cookie had thought that vapid must have meant something like very rapid.
“Places, ladies,” came the call from the photographer and Sophie decided not to pursue conversation with this woman any further, because she already felt stupider just from their exchange.
One thing was clear: the bassist from Last Five Seconds might have been wrong about women in modeling, but he had been right on the nose when it came to Cookie Brown.
* * *
When LFS had started touring as an indie band, Brian hadn’t cared about it one way or another, because you could party anywhere in the world. After the band signed with a label and started touring for real, though, he’d lapped it up—seeing new places, meeting new people, going to cities he otherwise never would have been able to visit. After a month or so being away from home, though, the road got old and he didn’t want days of rest in between shows. He wanted to get the rest of the tour done.
Especially now even though they had a long way to go.
Back in the day, he’d had a crummy little apartment that the guys had given him endless shit about,
but it didn’t matter, because it was nothing more than a glorified storage space. After he and Kyle had gotten married, they’d purchased a beautiful home that Brian had grown to love—but they’d sold it when they split and it was better that way, because he couldn’t have lived there. Not after all that. There were too many memories. Even though he and Kyle had figured out they didn’t belong together, it didn’t mean he didn’t cherish their time together. He’d truly loved her and getting rid of the house was a huge part of letting go.
One splurge he’d allowed himself was taking the money from the sale of the house and renting a ridiculously expensive apartment in downtown Denver, spending more a month on rent than he used to spend in a year—but now that he had a home with all the amenities, he kind of wanted to be there.
The only problem? It was empty. And lonely.
He’d considered getting a dog, but the problem was touring. What the hell do you do with a dog when you don’t have a yard but, even that aside, you’re on the road almost a year at a time with few breaks? It wouldn’t be fair to the little guy.
Today, though, in spite of his natural inclinations, he was really glad to have a day off. Some of the road crew were off doing some touristy thing, but he and the guys were hanging closer to the hotel. They’d been here dozens of times before—and Florida was already unbearably hot and humid this time of year, so indoors with A/C was the place to be. Maybe in the evening, they’d feel like hitting the beach.
Or so the guys had discussed.
Brian, though, was feeling restless as hell. He’d walked inside a couple of tattoo shops and considered getting new ink but where the fuck on his body could they put it? He had a couple of spots on his belly and back that could stand some paint, but he wasn’t in the mood. Plus, unprepared, he’d just as likely wind up getting something he didn’t really care about.
He continued walking through the cool mall…and paused in front of a salon.
But he didn’t pause long. Soon, he was walking in, ready to do something even crazier than getting a new tattoo.
Later, when he met the gang for dinner at the barbecue place, they almost didn’t recognize him. Clay asked, “What the fuck, Bri? What have you done?”
Slow Burn (Feverish #4) Page 3
