Fame & Obsession (Lords Of Lyre Book 1)

by Cora Kenborn

  Our dueling eyes met and exasperation gleamed in her expression. “Does it matter? You should’ve been the one to tell me. You’re not an island, kid.”

  “I’ve got this.” I turned to leave. I’d had enough misguided advice from the entire band already. I didn’t need it from my manager too.

  She called out calmly as I reached the office door. “Stalking can escalate from harassment to violence in the blink of an eye. I hope for your sake you do.”

  I purposely avoided her eyes as I left her office. Pressing the call button for the elevator, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and hit the speed dial button.

  Her studious voice answered the call. “Hi. How was the ass reaming?”

  “Fantastic. I need a favor.”

  “Hello, Tanna. It’s nice to talk to you too,” she replied with an edge to her voice.

  “Sorry, listen, were you serious about being able to track online stuff?”

  “Why would I lie?”

  Her abruptness threw me. “Right. I need you to track down a list of screen names from Chatter for me.” I spelled them for her slowly.

  “Okay, any importance?”

  I let out a nervous breath as the elevator arrived. “My stalker may be in that list.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Phoebe

  “Just fucking perfect!” My foot plunged into a puddle, and I glanced down as a wave of the murky water sprayed droplets down the front of my ivory dress. Tightening my grip around the useless umbrella, I cursed as a flurry of movement around me propelled a second shower, drenching me. “Damn tourists!” I cursed, moving around them.

  I ran full speed up the steps to the Ralston Media building on Monday morning. Flashing my access badge through the security scanner, I grumbled a hello to Gus, the security guard, and made my way to the elevators. While waiting, I ran my forefinger over my bottom lip. I could still feel his mouth on mine three days after the album release party. His scent had intoxicated me. If I took a deep breath, I almost could convince myself he stood right next to me.

  Before I could stop myself, I inhaled heavily. To my disdain, the only thing filling my lungs was the overuse of male cologne. I coughed, doing everything I could to expel the wretched smell from my nostrils that—thank you, asshole—I could taste.

  People had already started to piss me off today. The over-cologned asshole was just the pace car in the race. I knew it had nothing to do with him, but it didn’t stop me from glaring as I stepped off the elevator and into the Vinyl lobby.

  “Morning, Phoebe!” Patty smiled, her crinkled eyes widening at my disheveled appearance. “Good Lord, child, what happened?” Patty had manned the front desk at Vinyl since the dawn of time. She was a nice woman, however, I was in no mood for motherly concern.

  I blew a wet piece of hair out of my eyes. “Rain happened.”

  She shook her silver-bun head in sympathy, and extended a handful of pink messages. “For you, my dear.”

  My eyes widened. “Is Bieber in town?”

  She chuckled softly. “I think most of them are from MetroGroup. They seemed anxious to speak with you.”

  A nervous twinge hit my stomach. Feigning disinterest, I walked away before she could ask questions. “Later, Patty, don’t work too hard.”

  Clutching the messages in my hand, I made my way down the hallway. I kept my head down as I passed Castellano’s office. I still bristled from his “equipment” comment and wondered if someone had said something to him about my Club Vanquish disaster. The thought of Heath Vaughn calling my boss made me cringe.

  Just as I passed the Vinyl editorial offices, my phone vibrated. I glanced at the number and frowned. I didn’t recognize it, so I denied the call and shoved it back into my purse. FEDS training had also taught me to not answer calls that came up as unknown or unfamiliar. It was a safety precaution that I vehemently enforced. The phone hadn’t hit the bottom of my purse before it started vibrating again.

  “What the hell?” I studied the same number. Warning bells went off in my head.

  Jesus, stop being paranoid.

  Declining the call once more, I took a step forward when it vibrated again. Same number, but this time I wasn’t apprehensive. I was pissed. Against my better judgment, I accepted the call and jerked the phone to my ear, as they hung up on me. Dragging it down to eye level, I stared at it as if it grew horns and a tail.

  Bad mood worsened, I stomped the rest of the way to my desk, flopped down, and threw my purse in the metal drawer, slamming it shut with Herculean force. The MetroGroup messages were crushed pink balls by the time I tossed them on my desk. I tried to smooth one out and decipher Patty’s serial killer scribbling while waiting for the computer to boot.

  I’d just reached for the desk phone when it rang so loudly I jumped and knocked the receiver off with my forearm. Mood still foul from the less than stellar start to my morning, my usual professional phone greeting flew out the window.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Well, aren’t we a little ray of sunshine this morning?”

  I gripped the receiver until my knuckles turned white. The husky voice on the other end of the line curled my toes. “You,” I breathed.

  “You seem surprised, princess.”

  “Why the hell are you calling me at work?” My heart pounded, and a layer of sweat built between my hand and the receiver.

  “You wouldn’t answer your cell and I need to talk to you,” Julian said evenly.

  My mouth fell open. “That was you?”

  “You were expecting another guy?” His tone heightened with agitation.

  “How in the hell did you get my cell number?”

  He continued, choosing to ignore my question. “Are you interested in what I have to tell you?”

  “I’m not interested in anything from you, Julian. A date, an obligation, or anything else.” My mind spun. “You also ran off the other night before I could tell you to stop acting skeevy when you have a girlfriend. That’s a special kind of shitty.”

  “I had to get back to a concert I ditched running after you, to which I am still having to kiss ass for doing.” He paused in slight amusement. “Did you just call me skeevy?”

  “I never asked you to come after me.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Does she know that?” I accused, remembering the bathroom altercation at the venue. “She seemed pretty possessive of you.”

  “Aw, Phoebe, are you jealous?”

  “Ugh. You’re such an ass.” I wanted to cut off communication with him, but my hand refused to obey simple commands and hang up the phone.

  “Why? Because I have a past?” He laughed. “That’s hardly fair, princess. I’m sure you have one I wouldn’t like either.”

  You have no idea.

  My voice shook. “Sometimes history doesn’t stay in the past.”

  “She’s just a friend, Phoebe.”

  “She’s still in love with you.” Half of me wondered if he’d volunteer more information.

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “But the feeling’s not mutual, so I’m not concerned.”

  I rubbed my forehead and sighed heavily. My impatience with this Monday morning had peaked, and I hadn’t even had coffee yet. “Jesus, I’m at work. I’m not having this—”

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.” The roughness in his voice raked over my exposed nerves. “I know you feel it too.”

  “You kissed me,” I pointed out.

  “You kissed me back, princess.”

  Damn that word!

  “Phoebe! My name is Phoebe!” I couldn’t take anymore. “Please stop. It was a mistake.”

  “What are you so afraid of?” he demanded in a low voice.

  I paused and searched the office for eavesdropping ears. Everyone seemed to be away from their desks. “I’m not afraid, all right? Look, I have to—”

  “Don’t hang up on me, Phoebe.” he warned.

  He flustered me, and I couldn’t afford
to be flustered at work. “Don’t call my office again, Julian.” Anticipating his next protest, I added, “Don’t worry about the press conference notes. I’ll figure something out.” I replaced the receiver and dropped my head into my hands.

  Why wouldn’t he just leave me alone? Why did he have to be so goddamn stubborn?

  I jerked my keyboard out from under my desk and pulled up the internet. The Lords of Lyre article deadline loomed over me before the end of the day. If I planned to bullshit my way through it, I needed to do preliminary research. If I was lucky, I’d find some insider information posted from the after-party. If I’d only had the time to do this before the damn party, I wouldn’t be in this situation.

  If I’d never stepped foot in Club Vanquish, my life wouldn’t be so fucked up.

  ***

  Two hours later, I’d collected five pages of research on Julian Bale, Lords of Lyre, and Circa Records. Julian’s freakish phone call had delayed my morning trip to the breakroom and put me in a serious caffeine deficit. I decided to return the MetroGroup calls after refueling and banishing all Bale thoughts from my mind. I’d just swiped my coffee cup and rose from my chair when my desk phone rang again.

  I eyed it suspiciously before picking it up. “Vinyl Editorial Department, Phoebe Ryan speaking.”

  “Phoebe, so glad I caught you.” The editorial director of MetroGroup Publishing’s raspy voice croaked on the other line. Ellison Young had a husky voice deepened by years of smoking and a fast lifestyle. We’d met briefly at Ralston Media’s Fourth of July picnic a few weeks ago. She’d been amused by my accent and took to calling me Dixie.

  “Hi, Ms. Young,” I chirped, twirling the coffee cup on my forefinger.

  “Oh, doll, it’s Ellison.”

  “Okay, Ellison, what can I do for you?”

  “Look, Dixie, I’ve got Victor here. We need you to come to my office.”

  Apprehension set in. “Right now?”

  “If you’re not busy.”

  “Mr. DeMarcus is there?” I gripped the armrest of my chair.

  “He’s the one who asked me to make the call.” She left no pause for comment. “So, I’ll tell him you’ll be here in ten, all right? Thanks.”

  “Elli…” I didn’t finish her name before she hung up. Pulling the receiver away, I held it away from my face and stared at it.

  Whatever just happened involved Victor DeMarcus. That meant no arguing and get my ass moving. Grabbing a notepad and a pen, I took to the hallway with my heels skirting the corners like they were on rails. Smoothing my dress as I approached the MetroGroup editorial offices, I tentatively knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Ellison called through the thick wood.

  Opening the door, my confident gait faltered as my gaze settled on a familiar pair of smoldering green eyes staring back at me with delightful smugness. I wanted to take my shoe off and sink the heel right in between them. What game did he think he was playing? This was my job, not some egocentric battle of the sexes. Barely contained anger seethed from within me, and I tore my eyes away in an act of self-preservation. Otherwise, I would have lunged across the table and strangled him with the telephone cord.

  I directed my attention toward Ellison. “Ms. Young, you wanted to see me?”

  She waved a sleeveless arm in the air. The flamboyant outfits and brassy blond updo she wore as a trademark seemed more Hollywood than New York. “Doll, I told you it’s Ellison. Kudos on the quick follow-through. You’ve got fire in your eyes and a rocket booster up your ass. I like you, Dixie.”

  My anxiety heightened. “So, what can I do for you and Mr. DeMarcus, Ellison?”

  Do you feel that? That’s the cool breeze of me ignoring you, Fancy-Pants.

  She nodded to the open seat in front of me. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

  Unease settled in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know if it stemmed from fear of the unknown, or because the seat she pointed to was beside Julian Bale. It also didn’t help that the bastard was grinning like he’d just won the fucking lottery.

  Sinking slowly into the chair beside him, I kept my stare averted to my right, where Ellison was seated. Victor DeMarcus sat regally at the head of the table, his face stoic. Ellison might have gotten a kick out of me bitch-slapping Julian Bale into next week, but I doubted the straightlaced VP of communications for Ralston Media would be as forgiving.

  “Are you well-read in the autobiography genre, Dixie?” Ellison’s red lips moved rapidly as the words coming out of them struggled to catch up.

  Quickly flipping through my brain’s library, I mentally scanned all autobiographies I’d read: Melissa Joan Hart’s crazy sexcapades, Dolly Parton’s diet tips, Brandi Glanville’s tales of vaginal rejuvenation—yeah, I’d have to tell the truth on this one.

  “Absolutely.”

  Nice one, Pinocchio.

  Ellison threw her arms up in a touchdown sign and smacked DeMarcus’s arm. “See there, Vic? We’re halfway done!”

  “I’m still not clear on why I’m here, Ellison.” I ran a hand through my hair, exasperated at their ambiguous, coded communication. “Did you want me to interview an autobiographer?”

  “Phoebe…” a voice rumbled on my right.

  “I’m not sure how that’d fit into Vinyl’s editorial content, but I guess there’s—”

  “Phoebe…” The voice became assertive, with a hint of amusement.

  “—a way to make it work. Everyone is connected to entertainment, right?”

  “Phoebe!”

  “What?” I screamed. Turning my head, I shot him a death glare.

  Julian chuckled and nodded at Ellison. “If you’ll shut up for two seconds, she’ll explain.”

  I wanted to stab him in the eye with my pen. Instead, I shifted my attention back to Ellison and seethed quietly.

  “Bite and beauty—you’re a commodity, Dixie.” She smiled, gesturing in DeMarcus’s direction. “Hold on to this one, Vic, she’s a rare bird.” She shifted the conversation back to me. “Most people don’t realize the majority of autobiographies are written by a ghostwriter. You know, a brains behind the brawn type of deal.” She stopped and nodded to Julian. “No offense.”

  He smiled. “None taken.”

  “The ghostwriter weaves the celebrity’s tales into an amazing literary work, making the public think they’ve turned into Hemingway,” she explained with a hearty chuckle. “Hell, if it weren’t for ghostwriters, we’d be selling books full of Penthouse Forum letters.”

  Everyone in the room laughed, except for me. There was nothing funny about any of this.

  When the merriment calmed, Ellison shook her bouffant head toward Julian. “This is Julian Bale. He fronts the new hard rock group Lords of Lyre. They recently signed with Circa Records. Are you a fan, Dixie?”

  Julian’s arrogance overpowered the room. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t his fan, his groupie, or his princess. I was nothing to him but a prize at the bottom of a box of Frosted Stalker Flakes. However, I held my composure. He knocked me off-balance everywhere else but he would not rattle me at work.

  “I’m not into that genre, but I’ve heard their music.” I smiled as smugness settled on my face. “My roommate is obsessed with Mr. Bale.”

  Ellison laughed. “Oh, honey, what red-blooded woman isn’t?”

  Damn it. That backfired.

  Tapping my pen on the table, I laughed nervously.

  “MetroGroup and Circa have agreed to commission an autobiography on this man. Victor and I thought you two should formally meet, since you’ll be writing it.”

  The pen flipped wildly from my hand, scattering across the table into DeMarcus’s lap. “I’m sorry, what?”

  DeMarcus calmly picked up my pen and set it on the table.

  “Well, I’m told you covered the Lords of Lyre album release on Friday for Vinyl?” She looked at me for confirmation.

  I nodded, too in shock for words.

  “The timing couldn’t have been more perfect
for Ralston Media,” she continued, slapping a hand on the table. “Julian’s publicists loved your writing and contacted us to specifically request your collaboration.”

  What writing?

  The whole operation reeked of Julian’s masterful string pulling. “Ellison, I appreciate the offer, but I work full time at Vinyl.”

  “Oh please.” She waved her hand in the air. “Victor can secure your job while you work with Julian for the next six months.”

  “Six months?” I choked on the words.

  “Greatness doesn’t happen overnight, Dixie doll.”

  “Then why write an autobiography now if he was signed overnight?” I snorted.

  Ommmphhhfff! I grunted in pain as a booted toe kicked me underneath the table.

  Ellison smiled knowingly. “Innovation, doll. In this industry, you either set the trend or you follow it. Every tramp in Hollywood has sold a secret for a buck. An autobiography written about the next Mick Jagger and published before infamy is a concept you’re gonna own. It’ll skyrocket both of you.”

  Speaking wasn’t an option. I couldn’t breathe long enough to form words. I thought the worst was over. I was wrong.

  “Because of our partnership, Julian and his band have graciously agreed to play a few songs at Ralston Media’s thirtieth anniversary gala in two weeks,” Ellison explained. “Everyone involved agrees that your attendance with Julian will generate huge publicity.”

  “What do you mean with Julian?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Do I need to draw you a picture, doll? You arrive together, smile pretty for the cameras, walk the carpet, schmooze, whatever it takes to make this book sell. This is media generated by media, doll.” She arranged the multitude of gold bangle bracelets on her arm. “Your Vinyl piece on the band’s album release comes out next week, and MetroGroup will be making an official acquisition announcement around the same time. It’s a win for everyone.”

  No way would I let them pimp me out. Even for a shot at my dream. “That’s really not necessary, Ellison. Besides, I already have a—”

  “I’m afraid we insist on it.” The low baritone of Victor DeMarcus’s voice startled me. I darted my eyes to him. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair was coiffed into a no-nonsense comb-over.