The thought made me roll my eyes. The media was already going to have a collective conniption when the video finally dropped, because right now, no one knew a thing. My comeback album was a closely guarded secret, and everyone involved, myself included, had signed ironclad nondisclosure agreements. One of those “go ahead, tell the media; we’ll sue you for anything they paid you and then some, and don’t think we won’t find out it was you” things.
The secret would be out soon, though. The release was coming up fast, and the video we were shooting tomorrow would drop within a couple of days of the album. The marketing twits said they were aiming for “shock and awe” by breaking out a brand-new Olivia Taylor album and video without any kind of lead-in hype.
“You’ve been off the radar for three years,” one of the suits had said. Gesturing wildly like marketing guys always did, he’d added, “Now you’re going to explode back on to the scene.”
My gut told me they just didn’t want to promote anything until they were absolutely sure the album would happen. An artist who was a way better gamble than me had fizzled out midway through recording a highly anticipated third album. She went to rehab—didn’t we all?—and the album never happened, so the record label wasn’t even giving me the chance to embarrass them like that. Not a word to the public until every track was cut and the video was in the can. Even then, total silence until the minute the album dropped.
Probably so they still had a chance to pull it if I did something “outrageously and typically Olivia” and wound up the laughingstock of the tabloids. Again. Which, the bigwigs had reminded me a hundred times over, would be in violation of the ominous morality clause they’d hammered into my contract when they re-signed me this year.
“Fuck up,” it said in not so many words, “and you’re not only dropped, you’re never signing with Risen Star again as long as you fucking live.”
This from the people pairing me up with a porn star.
I rolled my eyes again.
For all the business bullshit and the constant reminders that I’d screwed up before, I was still walking on cloud nine. In stripper heels, maybe, but even that couldn’t put a damper on my excitement about being back in the game. Every step of this album—writing it, recording it, and now this—had been like a dream, taking me back into a world I thought I’d never be a part of again, and I could not wait to get back onstage.
That thought made me shiver. The stage. Nothing beat the feeling of singing on a stage.
Yeah, I may not have been thrilled about some aspects of my current situation, and I was worried sick about it all getting yanked out from under me, but I was excited as hell. This was really happening. I was a signed, performing musician again.
When I reached the door to the soundstage, the security guards standing outside gave me a nod and let me in.
The set was still mostly plain plywood and sheetrock, and the room was packed with cameras, crewmen, backup dancers and enormous lights. The air was heavy with coffee, hot electronics, and fresh sawdust, and at least someone in the room must have been outside recently for a prescription smoke break. People shouted over equipment and chatted amongst themselves. Hammers banged. Saws whined. Crew members strode past with stern looks on their faces and coiled extension cords on their shoulders. A small flock of suits loomed in the shadows, peering at everyone and everything over their Starbucks cups. Dancers stretched beside the far wall, people with clipboards muttered and swore, and someone somewhere barked at someone about a missing gel for one of the lights. Typical set for a video.
I smiled to myself. This wasn’t the first shoot we’d done for this video—we’d shot some other footage last week—but walking into a music video set was like coming home. Despite all the chaos and insanity, it took me about three seconds to home in on him.
His back was to me. All in black leather, just like me and the backup dancers, but he stood out. I couldn’t put my finger on what set him apart from the other guys. They were all obviously fit, and he was probably just as limber as they were, given his profession, but he still looked…different. Like a runner compared to a swimmer. Just as fit, just as powerful, but honed for a different sport.
Or maybe my brain just couldn’t process him, or who he did or didn’t look like, because whatever his body was designed for, right then it was wrapped in skintight black leather. Nothing but skintight black leather. It covered his broad shoulders. Stretched over his biceps. Coated those narrow hips and that butt like it was painted on.
Holy hell. Sex appeal, indeed.
He was talking to one of the producers, and right at that moment, the producer saw me and gestured over Buck’s shoulder.
Buck turned around.
Oh.
My God.
The camera hadn’t done him any justice. None at all. Even from here, the black leather emphasized his green eyes. He gave me a quick nod and a smile, and damn him, he didn’t look half as cocky as he had in his photos. Just a guy, a regular guy, who happened to be loaded with quiet charisma and a hot body.
There was no pretending he hadn’t seen me. He saw me all right, and he was heading this way, and there was no escaping.
And suddenly my high heels weren’t the biggest threat to my ability to stand.
~*~
The Princess and the Porn Star is available from Samhain Publishing and all major online retailers.
World Enough and Time Page 27
