So much porn, so little quality. How could he compete with free? He sold memberships and viewing fees to his bread and butter customers, but their insatiable taste for more daring content led him to realize they’d never be satisfied. He sold enough in advertising to build up his empire, but continued transitioning into areas he felt had more long-term growth. He dreamed of bridging the gap between mainstream America and the XXX world by making an Oscar worthy XXX art film (blowing “Deep Throat” out of the water), garnering him credibility in the business world.
Until then, he focused on mainstream soft porn: pop music featuring scantily clad (barely legal) stars; home decorating channels featuring shows where hunky men came in to rescue desperate housewives from their less than handy husbands (the most appealing form of soft porn for women, focus groups showed); and Men’s magazines featuring raunchy articles on young girl-next-door types pictured in compromising positions, wearing next to nothing.
His secretary’s voice came over the office intercom. “Mr. Walker on line two. Shall I take a message?”
“No, no. I’ll take it. Put him through,” he rolled the high-backed leather chair away from the window, settling behind his desk, guitar still in hand.
“Simon Walker. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir,” Simon waited for a response, and when he didn’t get one, continued. “We’ve had a slight hiccup. Nothing to worry about, mind you, just a small matter.”
“You need my help with a small matter?” Jackson Jones asked.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t waste your time. I just …” Simon stuttered.
“Then don’t.”
Simon gulped. He couldn’t end the call fast enough. Jackson Jones hung up, then buzzed his secretary. “Get me Alex Anders’ schedule.”
Simon Walker was an incompetent, if not a double-crossing scoundrel, and in business he’d learned to always see the important things through himself. Trust no one.
Chapter 45
“Fantastic,” Simon said to the dial tone. Jackson Jones’ silky charm inspired abject terror in those who crossed him. Escaping him was like avoiding oxygen during an airborne chemical warfare attack.
Not that Simon planned on crossing him, but every day he lost a little more control over his star client. He couldn’t understand how his plan could have gone so far awry.
In such moments of doubt, he reminded himself that Alex Anders had no one to blame but himself. For years Simon admired and supported Alex, working for free, booking gigs anywhere that would take them, convincing venues to let them back even after the bass player smashed the speakers, or the drummer sexually harassed the bartender (who happened to be dating the owner). Simon had worked tirelessly promoting Alex’s ill-advised venture into alt-country, when he’d gone solo after yet another band broke up. And through all that, Simon had been the one constant. They were family, or so he thought.
When he’d pitched the idea to team up with Shawn, combining a more mainstream rock sound—a sound that broke Phazee Crux to AAA radio (no small feat)—and tacking on a couple of collaborations between Shawn and Alex, he hadn’t expected to be ignored completely; and worse, turned into an anecdote. His suggestion was cited as “one of the worst thing he’d ever been asked to do” as Alex told journalists regularly.
Not long after, Jackson Jones presented the opportunity to make good money, catapulting him into a new stratosphere of entrepreneurial possibilities, and Simon jumped.
At first everything went as planned. Everyone seemed happy and Simon was on top of the world, until that Dutch commercial derailed the whole thing. Alex started asking questions and Simon didn’t know how to answer. The one stipulation had been that Jackson Jones remained anonymous. When Simon didn’t cave, Alex turned on him and they’d been at odds ever since. Alex no longer trusted Simon and vice versa. Simon tried everything to get the situation under control: manipulation, women, endorsements, intimidation. Nothing worked. Alex Anders was a hard nut to crack.
Chapter 46
Ira Stearn took a cursory look over the familiar contract. Alex didn’t appreciate the speed at which he flipped through page after page. There’s no way he’s reading that fast. It occurred to him this had been a colossal waste of time and money. It was money that, if he couldn’t get out of this contract, would be a lot tighter.
“It’s ironclad.” Ira stated, settling back in his chair, pushing the contract back to Alex.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Unless…” Ira leaned his elbows on the desk, eyes gleaming.
“Unless what?” Alex said, sitting up on the edge of his chair. Ira eyed him over horn-rimmed glasses, relaxing into the back of his own much higher, more luxurious chair.
“Unless, you take advantage of clause 7b,” Ira said, flipping to page six, indicating a paragraph half way down the page.
“7b?” Alex said, scanning the nonsensical text. “What does it say?”
“It says,” Ira smirked, “that you can, after the first year, renegotiate the terms of the agreement.”
“That’s good, then. At the end of the tour, the year is up. All I have to do is negotiate to be let out of the contract.”
“Well, not exactly. You can renegotiate the terms, not the duration.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You can ask for more royalty points, say. Or a larger advance based on previous success. The finer points.”
“But I don’t want to renegotiate. I want out.”
“Well then, it’s ironclad.”
Alex’s face flushed in anger. He came to Ira Stearn to stop being bullied. To take control. And here he was, compromising himself for this bottom feeder at $1,500 an hour to be told, Sorry, better luck next time.
“You know, if you’d hired me in the first place I would have negotiated a much better deal.” Ira said, sliding back in his chair, removing his glasses and setting them on his desk. Alex made a guttural sound in his throat, disbelieving his ears.
“Thanks, I’ll stick with my current representation.”
“Tell me you’re not still with Frank Fitzsimmons?” Ira said, rolling his eyes in exasperation or pity, Alex couldn’t tell which.
“You have a problem with Frank?” Alex asked, feeling defensive.
“No problem, so long as you don’t mind losing.” Ira smiled, but he shifted in his seat, and Alex could swear he sensed an underlying anger.
“Did you lose to Frank?” Alex goaded. Ira narrowed his eyes at Alex.
“I don’t lose to that smug bastard. He thinks he’s so superior with his ‘high moral standards’ but that’s just loser-speak for being too chickenshit to play in the big leagues.”
Alex had no idea what that meant and didn’t really care. His only concern was that he’d flown all this way and paid a bunch of money for nothing. So that’s it.
He looked out the plane window, watching the country pass by in geometric earthy carvings, like a secret language he’d yet to unlock. He wished they would open up to him, revealing the solution to this gargantuan mess.
His worries didn’t include the fact that, if his flight didn’t land on time, he would miss tonight’s concert in Vegas, breaching his side of the contract. He hated Vegas. It was one of the few places that made him feel like his life didn’t turn out the way it should have. As much as he liked to think himself a fairly evolved male, pro gender equality and all that, he couldn’t escape the simple fact that he was a man. It wasn’t the sex, exactly, that held the power. It was the youthful promise Vegas proffered: a version of life where you didn’t have to compromise, where every one of your fantasies could be realized. He’d never been the cheating type and groupies held no interest for him because even if he’d been single, to completely eliminate the chase denied him the opportunity to desire. It just wasn’t sexy.
But Vegas—for all its faults (it’s many, many, faults)—dangled that potential like a proverbial carrot. It was a place you could get rich, win big, meet someone, live ou
t your sexual fantasies, escape reality, and go home like nothing happened. It was a place that put a crack in his stony façade. The less time he spent there, the better.
Chapter 47
Jenna sighed into the phone. Felicity braced for punishment.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jenna asked.
She struggled to maintain her previous Zen while the anger and hurt only a teenage daughter could incite bubbled to the surface. She wanted to scream and ground her until she graduated high school, but another part of her had to pat her on the back and congratulate her tenacity. When Felicity wanted something she took a clear efficient path toward that goal. Jenna wished they could swap … at least until Felicity turned eighteen. Parenting would be a cakewalk if the child were the pushover and the parent the strong stubborn one.
“Because you wouldn’t have let me audition.”
“You’re right,” Jenna admitted. “But that’s my right. You have to respect me if you want me to trust you. You can disagree, but you can’t lie to me.”
“But you don’t listen!”
“I’m listening now. Tell me. Why should I let you do this?”
“Because I love it. Because it will help me get into an Ivy League college. Because I got the part. And because I’m not going to do the stuff you’re afraid I’ll do!” Felicity said.
Jenna took a couple calming breaths.
“Okay … I hear you. And I’m glad you found something you love. I’m proud of you getting the part. I am. But you don’t have to be in movies to get into college. And I want, no need, to protect your childhood.”
Felicity sighed and Jenna heard the wavering in her breathing that meant she was close to tears. Jenna closed her eyes and took another breath, willing herself to get through this. “I know you don’t understand, Sweetheart. You feel grown up, and I remember feeling the same. But there’s a lot you don’t know. And my dream is that you get to hold on to that as long as possible. That’s why I can’t let you take that role.”
“Uaaargh! You don’t get it. Just because you screwed up your life you think you can take it out on me. It’s so unfair!”
Jenna took another deep breath (her yogi would be so proud of all this conscious breathing), silently counting down from ten. Nine, eight, seven, she thought, clenching her jaw, trying to focus her mind. Three, two….
“You’re right, it is unfair. But life’s not fair.” Jenna said, hearing the words reverberate inside her head in her mother’s (and Noelle’s) voice. Then cursed the inescapable fate of womanhood: turning into one’s mother.
“Why!” Felicity shouted.
“I’m doing this because I love you.”
“Gee, thanks!” Felicity hung up.
Jenna sunk down into the couch, head falling into her hands. Am I doing the right thing? She knew Felicity had a good head on her shoulders but couldn’t help remembering that she had too. It wasn’t always enough.
Yes, she’d done the right thing. Some temptations were too great. They were when she was that age and now there was more of everything. The fact that Felicity didn’t realize she was being used to bolster the film’s PR made Jenna’s point for her. She hated not being liked, but she wanted the best for her only daughter.
Chapter 48
Felicity stomped outside, kicking a chunk of gravel from the driveway into a bird of paradise. She stalked around the side of the house, mumbling to herself down all eighty-four stairs, finally reaching the cool sand, where the crashing waves drowned out her grumblings. I’m sick of being treated like a child! She flicked off her sandals, rolled up her jeans and walked along the water’s edge, water licking her calves. She dragged her feet through the water, creating a small wake behind her.
By the time she calmed down, her jeans were wet up to the knees, the rolled cuffs dripping down her calves. She plopped down on the dry sand, knees pulled up, hands behind her in the sand. She mentally catalogued every time her mom had held her back, under the guise of “protecting her.” It was as if, because she messed up, Felicity was preemptively punished for things she didn’t get to experience. The white haze of the afternoon sun reflected onto the water. She watched it until the sun dipped down, turning from white to gold to blood-orange before finally disappearing.
She brushed herself off and trekked home, jeans heavy and cold, exfoliating the exposed strip of leg. She thought about what her mom said as she walked up the stairs, still frustrated that her parents didn’t trust her judgment. She could handle a lot more than they thought. By the time she closed the sliding glass door behind her, guilt seeped back into her conscience, replacing her anger.
Then she saw Trey. His smiling eyes and scruffy hair made her problems melt away. Her grandpa appeared behind him, grabbing an apple from a bowl on the counter. He patted Trey on the shoulder and walked away without saying a word.
“He knows about us,” Trey whispered, checking over his shoulder.
“Did you tell him?”
“No, I think he just figured it out.”
“Well, I guess they were going to find out eventually,” she said, stepping into his open arms.
“So … do you want to be my girlfriend?” He said in a tone that was playful yet serious.
“Hmmm … let me think about it,” she said, kissing him. “Okay!”
She snuggled into his shoulder, and he kissed her hair. Then they made their first official appearance as a couple, joining her grandparents in the living room. They held hands and sat down on the couch, side by side. No one said anything. Felicity couldn’t hide her disappointment. Don’t they care that I have my first boyfriend? Her grandmother read a book in an overstuffed armchair, and her grandpa sat at the grand piano in the corner of the room. How anticlimactic.
Out of nowhere, Shawn started to play “Here Comes the Bride,” glancing over his shoulder at them, a grin spreading across his face. Felicity felt her cheeks get hot. He played, choppy and over the top. From her soft-spoken Grandpa the juxtaposition struck her as absurd. She got the giggles. Once she started, that was it. Anya let out a big laugh, followed by a quick snort, setting Shawn off, followed closely by Trey. They shook, chortling and crying until their cheeks and sides hurt and no one could remember how it started in the first place.
Chapter 49
Jenna arrived at Noelle’s house half an hour after she called. The proofs from the Vogue shoot were ready and Jenna was jumping out of her skin in anticipation. For once, a magazine she couldn’t wait to read!
“They’ve already chosen the ones they’ll use, but do you want to see the rest?” Noelle asked.
“Yes!”
She spread the images out across her desk. The diffused light shone just right to see details without causing reflections. She stepped back and admired them one at a time, picking them up, running her fingers along the edges as though to remind herself of their tangibility.
“Wow,” she said, “look how great they are.”
Noelle’s face lit up. “I have a surprise for you.”
“What?” Jenna said, not taking her eyes off the photos.
“Here’s the image for the story cover,” Noelle handed Jenna a glossy shot of the model in Jenna’s favorite dress of the day: the strapless ivory gown with the ruffled train.
Jenna took a closer look, scrunching her face. That looks a bit like … Yes! She took this shot! She gaped at Noelle, disbelieving. Noelle’s grin spread wider as she held out the magazine mock up.
“Photography by Noelle Enfin and Jenna Jax-Anders.” Jenna read aloud. “I- Why would you-?” she couldn’t get her brain and mouth to cooperate. Noelle patted her on the back, eyes twinkling.
“Why would you do this? I mean … thank you! Thank you so much! But why?” With her synapses firing again, it sounded too good to be true.
“I am old and successful with nothing left to prove. I have no children. No legacy. You can be my legacy.”
“It’s too generous. I don’t deserve it.”
“Pish! Of cours
e you do. Vogue chose your images. All I did was give you credit for something you did.”
Jenna mulled it over in her head, still gawking at the mock up. She could debate her worthiness or sit back and enjoy it. An ear-to-ear smile split across her face. Her photo was going to be in Vogue magazine!
“To you.” Noelle produced two champagne flutes and held hers up in the air. Jenna didn’t mention that it was eleven am. They clinked glasses and Jenna decided that, for once, she’d give herself permission to enjoy the moment without waiting for her world to crash down around her. And in that very moment, she missed her husband and her best friend. She wished she didn’t; but she did.
Chapter 50
The good thing about flying in private jets, apart from ample legroom, was that they were almost never delayed. Alex arrived in Las Vegas well before the concert. He would have time to shower and eat before sound check, he thought.
He got into the car that was waiting for him on the tarmac when he arrived. He didn’t give it a second thought until the driver took a side street, the onyx pyramid of the Luxor getting smaller in the distance. He hadn’t told anyone of his trip. Who arranged for a car?
“Hey! This is the wrong way. Mandalay Bay is after the Luxor.”
The driver gave an indiscernible grunt. They kept going. Something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he realized how vulnerable he was. Stupid! He blamed himself for yet again not asking the important questions.
When they pulled into a cavernous parking-garage he looked for clues to his whereabouts. All he saw were numbered spaces and arrows indicating the exit. He felt his cell phone still in his pocket, and relaxed slightly. He wouldn’t use it unless he had to, in case the noise gave him away, but he had it if he needed it.
Rock My World Page 18
