by C. L. Riley
I snicker softly, but I’m loud enough everyone hears. Shit, they could have heard a pin drop, considering they’re all holding their breath in the presence of the ‘mighty one.’ I clear my throat, in a failed attempt to cover my fiendish chuckle.
Why don’t they just set up an altar and worship the prick?
“It’s good to see our star is in such a good mood this morning. Ladies…” He turns his attention to the row of women waiting to weasel into my life. “How does it feel to be in such close proximity to a music legend?”
Unsurprising, they all chatter at once, fighting to be heard.
Before Hewitt can regain control of the mayhem he unleashed, Lila stands, forcing the meeting’s attendees to acknowledge her.
“I can tell you exactly how being near Shag feels. It’s like being on the brink of an orgasm.” She pauses, waiting until all eyes are on her before dropping the bomb. “Shag, as I’m sure you know, has an orgasmic effect. And I promise you, the rumors are true. Shag and sex are one in the same. I should know. I was his first.”
Her bold statement sucks the air right out of the meeting room. The contestants have gone from smiling to sneering at Lila, who has just earned the title of Most Hated Woman in the competition.
Taking advantage of the uncomfortable moment, I clap, nice and slow, the action calculated to show my disapproval and disrespect. “Bravo, Lila. Do you feel better now? We might have a past, but baby, I promise you, there’s no future.”
“Take that, bitch!” Honey snips with obvious glee, opening the floor for the others to unleash their venom.
I lean back and watch as the drama unfolds. A cameraman has raised his handheld, the red light blinking.
Calvin Masters, known for catching people at their worst, gives the cameraman a thumbs up, clearly pleased by this latest development and his crewmember’s fast thinking. My guess is that our legendary director is already pondering how he’ll introduce the unplanned footage.
One of the producers makes a halfhearted effort to stop the women from hurling insults at Lila, but Masters shakes his head and points at the camera. Everyone except the contestants now realize they’re being recorded.
I don’t hear Lila’s last barb, but it must have been a doozy.
There is a flash of blue hair, and one contestant leaps onto the conference table and summersaults through the air, pinning Lila. I remember Cadie’s list. The blue-haired beauty must be the professional wrestler. Lila might be feisty, but she doesn’t stand a chance against a pro.
The two scuffle on the floor, and when it becomes apparent Lila is about to get pummeled, Omar and Hewitt’s guy get involved, separating them as they continue to kick, claw, and scream. Lila wiggles free from Omar’s grasp and lunges. She doesn’t get far before he hauls her back against his chest, restraining her. I don’t need to look to confirm the camera is still rolling and capturing footage that will make ratings skyrocket.
Shaking my head, I admit the obvious. Roping a Rock-Star’s casting process didn’t even bother to consider which woman might actually be right for me; rather, the casting team had done everything to find the craziest, most unstable, yet attractive group of women, women willing to behave like desperate horny lunatics.
I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised by the realization.
Per Hollywood’s sullied standards, it’s always about increasing bank account balances, not about doing what’s best or right. If these first few moments of anarchy are any indication of what’s to come, by the time the last episode airs, we’ll all be richer than we are now, thanks to a viewership bonus system.
Curious how Cadie is handling the bedlam, I glance her way. Jagger Hewitt is crouched by her chair, and she laughs at something he says. With the noise level still high, I can’t begin to make out what he said that’s so fucking funny.
I need to take a walk, or Lila won’t be the only one tackled today.
Chapter Eighteen
Cadie
“Beyond a certain point, the music isn’t mine anymore. It’s yours.”
-Phil Collins
After the insanity at this morning’s meeting, an afternoon, learning to surf with Jagger Hewitt is the ideal way to release some tension and punish Shag. I know. I’m being immature, but I refuse to let him see how much he hurt me. I can play hardball too, you know.
Not to mention, spending time with the island’s owner is enjoyable. I like the billionaire and not because of how many credit cards fill his wallet.
We aren’t the only two taking advantage of the warm water. Most of the crew and contestants, along with Mr. Rock-Star himself, decided to take Jagger up on his surfing lesson offer, courtesy of the show’s expert. The instructor was flown in to provide water sport activities as options for Shag’s date segments.
I have no trouble remembering the water games Shag and I played during cruise week, when we made sure to christen every port with our water-bound shagging sessions.
Jagger interrupts my fond memories with a firm hand around my left ankle, steadying me on the board.
Our instructor, a bearded, tatted, and muscle-bound beach-bum type is demonstrating how to balance. His ‘classroom’ is the shallow surf, and the students are mostly women paired up with men who are more than happy to play touchy feely as they so generously help them stay upright on their boards.
Shag has taken an interest in and is providing assistance to the blue-haired wrestler, Carol Holmes, stage name, Blue Lightening; the one who took down his ex, during the morning meeting’s main event.
Lila can’t keep her eyes off them. She is partnered with Drew, which I find comical. She’s also been sharing lingering stares with our instructor. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the two have already met. For all I know, they hooked up last night after she left me behind to steal her drink.
Class act, girl, I mentally scold, disgusted by my behavior. Lifting an unfinished cocktail is something Robin is famous for. At least, in my case, Lila hadn’t had her lips all over the glass.
“I’ve got you,” Jagger assures when my legs wobble. “Just relax.”
Relaxing isn’t possible with all the shrieks and giggles, the prelude to splashing and more screeches. A few of the contestants have spent more time falling into the water than standing on their surfboards. Blue Lightening is, of course, athletic and surefooted, able to stand tall and proud on hers. I assume that learning to balance on the wrestling ring’s top rope provided her with that ability. She also looks damn good in her glittery, blue bikini, ass cheeks on display. Where I’m thick and curvy, she’s lean and taut, with pert breasts that I’m positive are cosmetically enhanced, and her skin is perfectly tanned and oiled.
So who is punishing who? From what I see, Shag doesn’t know I exist. He’s too busy ‘helping’ his partner.
Unlike Miss Tan and Perfect, I’m already getting burned, but I refuse to give up. Jagger helped me apply a generous coat of sunscreen earlier, but it is no longer working. My skin is starting to sting, which means, I’m going to regret my stubbornness.
Even in my classic, black one-piece, I have plenty of skin to fry.
“All right, everyone! That’s it for now. Feel free to grab a boogie board or do some body surfing after you return your surfboards,” our teacher shouts, his attention landing and staying on me longer than what I deem appropriate.
I shrug off my uneasy feelings and look down from the board at Jagger, suddenly disappointed. I thought we were actually going to surf the waves, a thrill I was looking forward to, but considering this groups’ lack of experience, real live surfing could have been a dangerous, perhaps deadly, gamble.
“I guess that’s it,” I mutter, too quiet for Jagger to hear.
He reaches up to help me off the board, and I lose my balance, knocking us both over and into the water. We come up laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, wiping water from my eyes.
“I’m not. I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“What do yo
u mean?”
He takes my hand. “Cadie O’Shea, try as you might, there is no hiding who your heart belongs to. I’m interested enough that I will continue to play along and help you aggravate the one man who has been desperate to blacken my eye all day.”
My shoulders sag. “Is it that obvious?”
“Not to everyone else. You do a stellar job of hiding your feelings. But in light of the fact I’m captivated by you; I see more. I also see, as much as he’s fighting it, he feels the same. What’s keeping you two apart?”
“Rain check on that answer?” Why can’t I just lie about Shag and go for Jagger?
He studies my face. “Oh, bloody hell. I should have pulled you off that board an hour ago. You’re glowing neon pink. I take it sunscreen doesn’t always work on your fair skin.”
“‘Bloody hell,’ that’s something the English not the French say, isn’t it?” Ignoring his sunburn concerns, I’m more curious about his use of the common British phrase and his unique personal experiences.
“I lived in London for a season. It was one of those expressions that stuck. Now stop distracting me. Let’s get you out of here, shall we?”
Before I can answer, a shadow blocks the offending sunlight. “What happened? Are you all right? I saw you fall.”
Playing his role to perfection, Jagger winds his arm around my waist, drawing me closer. “She’s fine, other than the fact the sun scorched her lovely skin.”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Shag bellows loud enough to draw attention. “You’re going to be sick.” He doesn’t hesitate and pulls me from Jagger’s side. “We’re getting you medical attention.”
He snarls his next words at Jagger, “If you really care, you will make sure the island doctor meets us back at the villa.”
Jagger gives a little salute. “Anything for Cadie O’Shea.”
Not waiting for a response, the man that would treat me like a queen grabs my surfboard and heads for shore. I understand his words have a double meaning. He truly would do anything for me, even help make Shag jealous, if that’s what I want.
“So, Mr. Rock-Star, now that I’m a crispy critter, you’re worried…” I can’t finish my comment. A wave of dizziness rolls over me, and I collapse against Shag.
As he’s done, so many times before, he scoops me up and carries me out of the ocean, ignoring the multitude of offers to help.
One of the resort’s gold-painted golf carts pulls up, and Shag helps me get settled before climbing in beside me.
“You don’t need to leave the party,” I slur, pretty sure I have sunstroke. “You’ll disappoint your admirers.”
“I’m not letting you go back alone, not like this. The burn looks serious. What were you thinking?”
Ashamed by my reckless behavior, I am unable to meet his worry-filled gaze. Chills rush through me, and I shiver, teeth chattering. But before I give in and close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of Lila talking to our creepy surfing instructor.
What is his name?
Rick.
Lila and Rick are not only talking, but also watching our departure with keen interest. I’m confident now that my earlier suspicions were right on the money. Those two have something going on between them. What…I’m not sure, but it is worth investigating when I feel better.
I shiver again and moan. Even my lips hurt and are blistering.
With surprising gentleness, Shag situates his beach towel over my shoulders and puts a reassuring hand on my thigh.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, Cadie Cat.”
I drift off, feeling safer, my head on his shoulder.
* * *
Shag
Huddled next to me at the judges table, Cadie looks like she’s wearing a traditional burka. Well, not quite, but she’s completely covered, face included. So far, she hasn’t said much, but that’s not surprising. Her normally luscious lips are camouflaged by blisters.
Having insisted on attending the talent show, the doctor ordered that she keep her skin out of the direct sunlight. Jagger Hewitt, savior extraordinaire, handled the problem without any prompting. He made sure a giant canopy was installed over the judges’ section, providing extra shade the palm trees don’t.
To ensure she is safe from the sun when she ventures outside our sheltered area, she’s not only completely enclosed in her robe-like-covering but has also wound a scarf around her hair and over her face. The scarf’s material is sheer, allowing her to see just enough to get by. She smells medicine-y, like the antibiotic ointment the doctor prescribed. Supposedly it will speed up the healing process while preventing infection. I sure hope so; the stuff stinks.
I don’t know who to be angrier with…me, Jagger, or Cadie.
Me — because I know how bad she burns and was too busy trying to make her jealous to notice. Jagger — because he was so enchanted by Cadie’s presence, he failed to detect her changing skin color; and Cadie — because she was fawning over Jagger and not paying attention to a health risk she’s well aware of, or worse, she chose to ignore it.
I hate to admit that me and Cadie should have known better. Hewitt is new to all things Cadie. He was undoubtedly and understandably blinded by her beauty. It’s hard to blame him for such an easy-to-make blunder. The second he did become aware of her predicament, he worked to remedy it, and since then has done everything in his power to make sure she has the best care available, going out of his way to accommodate her. As pissed as the Frenchman makes me, I’m not so selfish that I can’t give praise when it’s deserved.
Like a magnet, my stare is drawn to where he leans, his back against a palm tree and his arms crossed over his chest. He gives me a slight nod that I return. It’s almost like we’ve determined, without any words, to do whatever is required to take care of Cadie O’Shea, putting our differences aside to accomplish that at times challenging task. Omar must agree. He is standing side-by-side with Hewitt’s private security. The two of them together make a formable team that I wouldn’t want to fuck with.
All this camaraderie is cool for the moment, but should I discover Jagger did indeed sleep with Cadie, our tentative truce is null and void.
“So, you ready to do this?” William asks, sliding into the empty chair next to mine, his expression grim.
“I’ll be glad to get it over with,” I reply honestly. I have no doubt William agrees.
He found out, not even an hour ago, he would be the stand in judge for Paula Prince, the famous dance choreographer. She was forced to pull out, last minute, due to some sudden health crisis. Since William is the future CEO and a talent scout for Rogue Beat Records, he was selected to sit with me and Josh Keller, a former Miss Universe Pageant judge. We’d unwittingly become a judging panel of three men, which is unbalanced at best. Though from what I’ve observed, the contestants would rather perform for an all male panel, especially if I’m on it.
What our competitors don’t know about is my secret weapon. Cadie might be concealed under her robe and scarf, but her opinions won’t stay hidden.
I suggested she provide a female prospective to our testosterone-tainted panel. She was all for it; William and Josh are on board as well. Simon Crabs, the show’s producer, along with Calvin Masters, approved the addition with the understanding Cadie will not appear on air, under any circumstance, due to her current condition and her bizarre, sun-shielding attire. That was the one stipulation she insisted on. The camera crew will keep her off screen even though she’s seated just two feet to my right, at the end of our table.
Brian Seacrest waits center stage, while the makeup artists bustle around him, finalizing his TV face. Our touch ups were finished a few minutes before.
To make things more interesting, Jagger Hewitt allowed a large yacht to dock for the afternoon, giving us a last minute audience for the performances. The influx of wealthy viewers was approved by Masters, making the talent show seem more authentic. The first episode won’t actually air live, but today’s taping will be live for us.
No stopping. No retakes. Raw footage with minimal final edits is the plan.
This format gives a certain chaotic, anything can happen, feel to the event.
“Five minutes!” Masters shouts through an old school, acoustic megaphone. An electric one would blow our eardrums with the way he bellows, probably why he’s reverted to the dated version.
“Too loud,” Cadie murmurs as if reading my mind. “I need a pain pill.”
The good doctor had given her a few vicodin to get her through the first couple of days. I’m not sure why she’s asking me for her meds. I don’t have them. “You need to be in bed…”
“I know I do, but I need to be here more. I have to see this. I’m taking a pill.”
“Do what you gotta do, babe.” Fuck. I need to stop with the endearments. We’re not a couple. We’re not even fucking anymore, not that she’d be capable wrapped up like a human burrito.
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“Are you laughing at me?” She lifts her flimsy veil and swallows down a pill, draining her water bottle.
I signal one of the crew and point at her empty bottle. It’s replaced immediately.
Despite my gesture, she’s not letting me getaway without answering her question. “So…you think I’m funny?” She glances down and shakes her head. “This sucks. I look like a freak. They better not film me. I will go…”
“Ten seconds!” Masters yells, pointing at Seacrest who waits for his cue and starts the intro, shutting down Cadie’s complaint and giving me an easy out.
“Welcome to the first episode of Roping a Rock-Star!” Seacrest starts things off exactly as I watched him rehearse. I’m not a huge fan, but the man is clearly in his element.
A big screen glides down and scenes of me singing on stage, joking with my band, chatting up girls backstage, being interviewed, signing autographs, and lastly, tied to that fucking chair on the cruise ship flash in rapid succession. Our hit, Drugged Down, serves as the background music, and is the right choice, all things considered. The clip ends with me walking out of rehab, waving to a mob of fans and the paparazzi.
