“You’re going to meet someone who blows your lid off, babe. You just have to put yourself out there.” Devi’s cell phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. “Oh! I should take this.” She picked up. “Hey, Maggie!”
I wandered over to the stack of magazines on the coffee table. These days, I was getting used to sharing Devi with her other life. Just one more hint from the universe that I needed to get a life of my own.
I sank onto the couch and flipped through a French Vogue. Max came to lay at my feet and I toed his soft fur with my sneaker. Devi was such a natural with people. She’d forgotten more hot men than I’d ever dreamed of meeting. The concept of not putting herself out there wouldn’t even cross her mind. But for me, the whole idea of exposing myself to rejection and failure made my stomach churn.
Still, she was right. I wasn’t about to meet guys sitting at home with my dog.
Not like I hadn’t tried.
“Okay? Oh. Okay…”
I glanced up at the odd tone in Devi’s voice. Bad news? Her eyes met mine, but I couldn’t quite read the look in them.
“Mm-hmm. Right. Okay… no, no problem. I totally understand.” I went back to my magazine while she finished up the conversation, which was brief and consisted of a lot of “Totally,” and “No problem,” and “Of course.”
I looked up again when Devi hung up. She was staring at her phone, like it might somehow explain to her what just happened. “Well. That was interesting.”
“A client?”
“No. Maggie Omura. You just met her. Kind of.”
“Oh.” Right. The pretty dark-haired waif with the hot guy and the even hotter guy. “Max liked her. Didn’t you, Max?” At the sound of his name, Max woofed contentedly.
Devi leaned back in her chair, assessing me. “You also just met Jesse Mayes, which you’re playing it awfully cool about.”
“Who?” I slurped whipped cream from the top of my coffee.
Devi sighed. “Honestly, Katie. Are you kidding me? Jesse Mayes?”
“What? That guy who just left?” I pretended to be enraptured with a deodorant ad in my magazine. “One of your models?”
“I wish. Jesse Mayes is only one of the hottest rock stars in the world and as an incredibly cool young person you should really know what I’m talking about.”
I assumed she added the “incredibly cool young person” comment since last week we got into an argument when she said my apartment looked like an old lady lived in it. And after I’d rigidly defended my music collection (on vinyl), my home phone (on a cord), and my TV (which didn’t exist), I realized she had a point, and maybe she was just scared of losing her best friend to spinsterhood at the age of twenty-four, which was probably a realistic fear.
I gave her my best stink eye anyway. “So?” Then I went back to my magazine, because in truth I had no idea who Jesse Mayes was. Other than the hottest guy in the known universe.
“So,” she said, “I thought you liked Dirty.”
“Dirty what?”
“The band. Dirty.”
“Oh. Who doesn’t?” I looked up again. “You mean, he’s in that band?” I knew music. Kind of prided myself on it. But people? People were Devi’s domain.
“He’s their lead guitarist. And he sings like a sexy beast.”
That, I could believe.
“He just put out a solo album and they’re shooting a music video in town. The woman they cast to star in it with him as his music video girlfriend bailed.” Devi tipped her pretty nose in the air. “Not from our agency, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, but she’d lost me somewhere around sexy beast. I was now trying to recall every Dirty song I knew, and imagining how Jesse Mayes would look playing guitar, and singing under a spotlight all covered in sweat.
“Anyway.” Devi sipped her coffee, eying me over the rim. “Long story short. I met Maggie at a party a while back. She works with Dirty as the assistant to their manager, you know, the dude with all the tattoos.”
Uh-huh. Hottie number two.
“She’s involved in a lot of their publicity and whatnot and naturally we’ve been in touch.”
“Naturally.”
“She called me up last night. They’re looking to recast, but they’re having some issues getting Mr. Rock Star to commit to what he wants. Maggie knew they’d be in the neighborhood today, so she took the opportunity to haul his ass in here and have him choose one of our girls.”
“That’ll be some lucky girl.” I kept flipping through the magazine, but I didn’t really see the pages. I was too busy trying to picture Jesse Mayes with his shirt off.
“Exactly. They just hired one of our models.”
“Well that’s good for you, right?”
“It’s great for me. Katie, pay attention.” Devi stood, came around her desk and took the Vogue from my hands. “They changed their minds. They just called to drop her.”
“Oh. Well, that’s shitty.” Why was Devi all up in my face about it?
She dropped the Vogue on the coffee table with a resounding splat. “They dropped her because they want you.”
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
Jesse
If there was one thing I hated about being a rock star, it was shooting music videos.
They were tedious as hell, or more specifically, limbo. It was all hurry up and wait, all fucking day.
They were also total bullshit. I’d spent half the morning shooting take after take after take. Fake singing with my guitar, fake singing with my shirt off, fake singing with my guitar with my shirt off. And fake was a total fucking turn off.
I’d spent the rest of the morning on my phone in one of Brody’s spare bedrooms while the wardrobe girls dressed me up like a damn doll. Maggie had even gotten in on it, popping up between a couple of wardrobe racks with a pair of jeans that looked exactly like every other pair I’d tried on.
Fuck it.
I dropped the jeans I was wearing, and this time let my underwear go along with them. I kicked the jeans off my feet, stood there buck naked and said, “Make this one count, ladies.”
Maggie took it like the pro she was and handed over the jeans with a frown of disapproval. One of the wardrobe girls seemed to have swallowed her tongue and got busy looking anywhere but at my dick. The other one almost said something as I stepped into the jeans, commando, and zipped them up. Almost.
“Perfect.” I turned to leave.
“Jesse!” Maggie called after me. “We still need a shirt.”
“Whatever.” I yanked on my T-shirt as I went. “I’ll wear whatever.”
I headed downstairs, into the fray, waving off the half-dozen people who wanted to talk to me along the way. Any one of them probably would’ve fetched me anything I wanted, but I was already tired of being poked, primped and waited on.
All I really wanted was to get this day fucking over with and get down to L.A..
There were way too many people crowded into Brody’s place. Film crew, band management, security, wardrobe, makeup, and the many models that had been hired for the shoot were making the massive house feel like the bus we used on our first Dirty tour—totally overrun with hangers-on.
The house was strewn with lights, camera equipment, and all kinds of crap that was being used for the morning-after scene in the living room. It might’ve just been easier to actually throw a party and let everyone trash the house rather than make it look like the aftermath of a shaker. Zane had suggested it; no surprise Brody vetoed that one.
I passed the living room, where they were setting up for that scene, crew prepping a camera on the dolly track. Zane was in there, the only women in the room swarming around him like bees on a honeycomb, dabbing at him with makeup sponges and finger-styling his beach-blond hair while he ate a bowl of something with chopsticks.
Zane and Dylan, two of my bandmates in Dirty, were doing cameos in the video, the second single from my debut solo album. Since the album was called Sunday Morning, Brody had
asked me what I’d be doing on an ideal Sunday morning. I said, “Fucking,” he ran with it, and the concept for the video was born. Zane and Dylan would be passed out in the living room in the aftermath of a party along with a bunch of babes, which would take about two seconds to shoot since all they had to do was lie around. Meanwhile me and the model that was playing my girlfriend would be getting it on, which would probably take hours to shoot, since I had to fake-sing the entire song to her while we went at it and the camera probably had to catch it from a billion different angles.
I was bored already.
I stalked into the dining room, which was mostly empty. Just a bunch of hot chicks fussing over their reflections in the big wall mirror and making goo-goo eyes at Dylan, who was in the adjoining music room, kicked back behind the drum kit in his kilt, talking to Brody, eating a sushi cone and being characteristically laid-back, borderline oblivious, about the attention.
I was about to dive into the sushi myself when the lone girl on the other side of the table snagged my eye.
She looked different from the other girls loitering around the house. For one thing, she was short for a model. The other girls were also completely ignoring the food. This one was hovering over it, looking adorably confused in her oversized bathrobe.
“You alright?” I took one of the avocado rolls she’d been eying and popped it, whole, into my mouth.
She looked up at me, and her already big eyes went wide. They were a pretty blue-green, a nice contrast to her dark hair. She looked familiar, maybe. But then again, I’d spent the last month having hundreds of photos of models shoved in my face.
“Um… I’m just not sure what to eat? They gave me a straw for my drink, to protect the lipstick, and the robe to protect my clothes.” She held up the water bottle she was holding, a straw poking out the top. “But I’m not sure how to eat without destroying this.” She made a sweeping gesture to indicate her face.
“Eat what you want,” I told her. “They’ll retouch it.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip, unsure.
“Eating your lip will probably do worse.”
She let go of the lip and blushed a little. I could see the color on her cheeks even through the high-def makeup they’d lacquered onto her already flawless skin. She smiled a little. “Thanks for the pro tip.”
“And you’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” I said, popping a cherry tomato into my mouth.
“Shit.” She ran her tongue over her front teeth.
“If you’re really worried about it, have some of these.” I put the bowl of cherry tomatoes in front of her. “They don’t even need to touch your lips.” I winked at her and she blushed again.
This girl was too cute. Unfortunately she was fangirling at me big time.
Then again… I hadn’t fucked a groupie in a hell of a long time.
“Hey, Jesse.” Maggie walked in. “They’re ready for your next shot. Then it’s time for your scene with Katie.”
“Who?”
“Katie.” Maggie looked from me to the girl in the robe and waved a thumb at the girl. “Your girlfriend du jour. You met her at the agent’s office.”
I looked her over again, slowly—what I could see of her in the bathrobe. “What happened to the blonde?”
Maggie looked annoyed. “You didn’t want the blonde, remember?” I did remember. I just liked messing with Maggie. “You said she was, quote, ‘forgettable,’ as soon as we left the office.”
“Because I had no idea which one you chose.” It was true. I’d pretty much been writing song lyrics in my head the entire time she and Brody perused the models on offer.
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “I knew it.” She made a gesture toward the girl in the robe again, who was standing there like a fawn caught in the headlights of a Mack truck. “Good thing we picked someone else. Katie. Remember?”
I stared at the girl, and finally it came to me.
Girl in the wet shirt.
She’d looked different then. No makeup. Damp hair. Kind of flushed.
Unintentionally sexy.
Now she looked awkward-sexy.
Maggie made a noise of exasperation. “Don’t mind him,” she said to Katie. “He’s been in a bad mood. For like a year.”
“I remember.” I held Katie’s gaze, ignoring Maggie. “Cherry pie.”
Her cheeks turned pink again. Damn, she was cute.
This shoot just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
“There’s pie?” Zane walked in, and it took all of two seconds for his gaze to find Katie. And stay there.
Great.
“Who’re you?” he demanded.
“Um, Katie,” she said.
Zane, being Zane, went all the way around the very long table, took her hand, and kissed it. “Sweet to meet you, Katie. I’m Zane.” He gave her his ultra-intense, ice-blue-eyed Viking stare down; the one that generally got him any pussy he wanted.
“Cool,” Katie said. She stared at Zane, because that’s what women did.
“Alright,” Maggie said, rounding the table and hauling Katie away. Maggie was one of the few women I’d ever met who was immune to Zane’s bullshit. “Don’t mind Zane. He’s like that with everyone.”
Not everyone. Just women he wanted to fuck.
When the girls were gone, Zane looked over at me. He froze on the receiving end of the look I gave him. “What?”
I turned to leave, just as one of the wardrobe girls came in with a shirt for me.
“Not that one,” I said, and walked out.
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
Katie
I’d never felt so out of my element in my life.
The thing was, I’d been sitting on the sidelines of my own life for so long that I’d kind of forgotten what my element was.
Which was how I’d ended up here. I’d let my best friend convince me, Katie Bloom, regular girl with not one shred of modeling or acting experience, that I could play super-cool girlfriend-of-a-rock-star in Jesse Mayes’ hot new music video.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Today was the first time in my life I had legit palm sweat.
I rubbed my palms on the plush robe, my hands tucked into the pockets as I followed Maggie through the massive house she said belonged to Jesse’s manager, Brody, the guy with the tattoos from Devi’s office. I’d met him for real this time, and he had this intensely sexy business-meets-rock-’n’-roll thing going on that made me all tongue-tied. I was relieved when the incredibly nice Maggie rescued me from that conversation. Same, when she did it again with Zane. Because what the hell would I say to Zane Traynor, the most charismatic frontman to rock a pair of leather pants since Jim Morrison?
Yeah, I’d hit up Google since getting hired for this thing.
A lot.
Dirty’s lead singer had the body of a love god and a voice he’d clearly sold his soul to the devil for, and yes he was gorgeous, but I only stared at him because it was that or get sucked into eye contact with Jesse Mayes again.
And that was a serious threat to my sanity.
When the man looked at me, things happened to my body that I could only describe as temporary but all-consuming hormonal insanity. It was dizzying, thrilling and terrifying, and I needed to get my shit together before we shot this scene. I was supposed to be all cool and girlfriend-like, hanging out by his side at a party or whatever, not swooning like a pent-up virgin who might combust if he bumped shoulders with me.
It didn’t help that he’d brought all his larger-than-life friends to the shoot.
Sure, I’d seen pictures of all the members of Dirty on the web. But since this shoot was for Jesse’s solo album, I didn’t expect Zane or Dirty’s drummer, Dylan Cope, to be here.
What the hell did I expect?
Maybe some kind of sterile sound stage with an efficient, all-business film crew calling the shots?
This felt more like a party, people crammed into every room of Brody’s architectural marvel of a hou
se, which was in North Vancouver, up the mountainside in Canyon Heights, and probably cost high seven figures.
The film crew looked a lot like what I’d always thought roadies would look like, the roadies looked like criminals, the security guys looked like straight-up bikers, and the management team, which consisted of Brody, Maggie, and various underlings, looked like rock stars.
Jesse, Zane, and Dylan? They looked like something out of a Greek goddess’s masturbation fantasy.
I’d never met people like this in real life.
When I’d first arrived, Maggie had mercifully plucked me from a roomful of women who looked like they’d come straight from backstage at a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. I must have looked as out of place as I felt in my Rolling Stones T-shirt, paint-splattered jeans and purple kicks; apparently all my jeans had paint on them, which was something I’d only realized that morning.
Honestly, what the hell was I doing here?
For the second time today, Maggie deposited me in one of the upstairs bedrooms that had been taken over by the wardrobe team, promising to fetch me in ten minutes.
Ten minutes until my scene with Jesse Mayes.
My palms were sweating again.
The wardrobe girls freed me from the robe and stood me on a little platform to stare at me. Which wouldn’t have been all that weird, given their profession, if I wasn’t totally naked except for a bra and panties. It was definitely not my comfort zone, but since there were only a couple of models and the wardrobe girls in the room, and they did this all the time, I tried to convince myself it was no big deal.
Not terrifying in the slightest.
They had me do a quick change in the adjoining washroom, keeping the champagne satin and black lace bra, but switching out the matching panties for a pair of skimpy black lace boy shorts, which showed a hell of a lot of cheek. Luckily, I had decent cheeks.
“Oh, so perfect,” one of the wardrobe girls gushed when she saw me, and I told myself it was kind of cute and not at all weird that they cared so much what I’d be wearing under my clothes, since no one was going to see it.
Rock Star Romance Ultimate Volume 2 Page 30
