by Lauren Rowe
A faint smile lifts the corners of Georgina’s indignant mouth, like she thinks she’s dealt me a death blow with her little speech. And, once again, I find myself fighting not to smile. Holy shit, she’s fucking adorable. Irresistible. Feisty. Glorious. Oh, how I wish she could sing, even a little bit. Because the girl’s got star power in spades, in a way truckloads of wannabe actresses and models and pop stars would kill for. “Everything you’ve said is exactly right,” I reply. “Especially the part about you being CeeCee’s employee, not mine. In fact, I wouldn’t have agreed to this arrangement if it created any kind of employer-employee relationship between you and me.” I lean forward, my eyes on fire. “And do you know why I didn’t want you as my employee, little Georgina?”
Her chest rises sharply. Her nostrils flare again. She shakes her head.
I smile. “Because I never fuck my own employees.”
Georgina’s lips part with surprise at my obvious implication, left unsaid: but I have no problem fucking one of CeeCee’s.
“Well, news flash,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You’re not going to fuck me, either, no matter whose employee I am.” She leans forward, cutting the distance between us in half. “And do you know why you’re not going to fuck me, Mr. Rivers?” She’s close enough for me to see the caramel flecks in her hazel eyes. To smell her shampoo and moisturizer and toothpaste. “Because. I. Don’t. Fuck. Assholes.”
I can’t help smirking at her bald-faced lie. “Well, so much for you fucking C-Bomb, then. That’s a relief.”
She clenches her jaw, clearly annoyed, but says nothing.
I cock my head. “So, that’s your clever way of telling me, yet again, that I’m an asshole?”
“Seems like a logical deduction to make from what I just said.”
“Well, that’s an interesting interpretation. Between the two of us, I think any reasonable person would say you acted like a far bigger asshole the other night than me.”
Her eyebrows furrow sharply. “Are you high? You were a colossal dick to me, Reed.”
“Oh, really? Huh. I didn’t tell anyone to fuck off and die. And I’m certainly not the one who had a demo in my pocket the entire time we were flirting. Just a boner, which certainly doesn’t qualify as a hidden agenda.”
“Ha! You want to talk about hidden agendas?” she booms, her glorious temper rising and reddening her cheeks. “Every word out of your mouth that night was a lie, designed to get you into my panties. You think it’s not a hidden agenda to pretend to give a rat’s ass about what a woman says, to pretend to care about having a conversation with her, for the sole purpose of ‘seducing’ her? I know you’re a hundred-and-five and all, but we kids these days call men like you ‘fuckboys,’ Reed. And it’s not a compliment.”
“Getting you into my bed wasn’t my hidden agenda, Georgina. It was my expressly stated goal. I explicitly told you, straight-up, I wasn’t interested in dating you. Only seducing you. Maybe you ‘kids’ today aren’t familiar with the art of seduction, so let me translate for you. The entire purpose of it is getting to the fucking part. So, please, enlighten me. Tell me, what was I hiding from you that night? Name one fucking thing.”
She opens and closes her mouth, at a loss for words.
“I thought so,” I say, leaning back in victory.
“Okay, Mr. Rivers. Listen up, you arrogant prick. I’m going to explain what happened the other night, once, without leaving anything out. And then I’m going to move on and never speak of this again, because I’m already sick to death of the stupid topic.” She takes a deep breath, apparently trying to keep her temper under control, and every cell in my body strains with desire for her. “I wasn’t using you that night, Reed. I was genuinely, sincerely, outrageously attracted to you, from the first second I saw you. I assure you, I wanted to get ‘seduced’ by you, every bit as much as you wanted to seduce me. And, for the record, yes, I was fully aware ‘seduction’ was a euphemism for ‘fucking.’ Aware of and quite thrilled about it.”
I’m breathing deeply. Trying not to let on how intoxicating she is to me—that she’s already won me over, and then some.
“To be honest,” Georgina continues, crossing her arms. “I bet I wanted to have sex with you, even more than you wanted to have it with me. Because, heck, you can have sex with anyone in the world—just by snapping your fingers, Mr. Big Shit Music Mogul. For you, banging some nobody student-bartender isn’t a big deal. Just another Thursday night. But, for me, getting ‘seduced’ by Reed Rivers, going to his fancy house in his fancy car, was a very big deal. And before you call me a gold digger, I’m not. Why would I care about your money, when I was in it for nothing but one night of sex? But who wouldn’t feel swept away by you and your glamorous life? You made me feel like I was in a movie. I haven’t slept with that many guys in my life. And certainly never anyone as experienced and exciting and dashing as you. I’m not saying I gave a shit about you, personally, okay? Even as we were driving to your house, I wasn’t sure I liked you. But one thing I was positive about: I sure as hell wanted you to do filthy things to me—with absolutely no strings attached, I might add—simply for the fun of it.”
Every word out of her mouth has been music to my ears. And to my cock. And not a huge surprise, to be honest. Of course, Georgina sincerely wanted to fuck me that night—for all the reasons she just set forth. She’s a journalism student, after all, not an aspiring starlet—a whole different breed of woman than the ones I’m used to encountering. Plus, even the best actress in the world couldn’t have faked Georgina’s reaction when we kissed. The way she bucked and jolted into me, and then kissed me back with a passion that took my breath away—like she was drowning and I was oxygen. Or, fuck, maybe it was the other way around, and she was the oxygen. Either way, Georgina’s passion that night reflected back to me everything I was feeling in that moment—like every atom in my body had been doused in lighter fluid, and then set ablaze by the torch that was Georgina Ricci.
Which is probably why... maybe... now that I’m thinking about it... I reacted the way I did when I first found out about the demo. For a split-second there, I irrationally thought maybe Georgina had been the world’s best actress, and that she’d played me expertly the whole time, even during our nuclear-bomb of a kiss. And I didn’t like how that made me feel. But now... now that I’ve had time to process and reflect, now that I’m seeing the earnestness in her eyes, I know for certain she’s telling me the truth. Of course, she is. Which means I really was an asshole that night. But realizing I was an asshole doesn’t mean she wasn’t one, too. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m inclined to let her off the hook. Not yet, anyway.
“So, you expect me to believe it was pure coincidence you had your stepsister’s music demo in your pocket that night?” I ask.
Georgina rolls her eyes. “Will you stop being a stubborn dickhead for a second and just listen to me? Holy hell, you’re even more stubborn than me.”
I bite back a smile.
“I’d never heard of you before the event. On my walk there, Alessandra told me about you during a phone call. So, because I love my stepsister, and always want her dreams to come true, I loaded a flash drive with her best songs the minute I got to the lecture hall, just in case the chance to hand it to you fell into my lap. Wouldn’t you have done the same thing for someone you love? God, I hope so... or else you’re an even bigger dickhead than I think you are.”
This time, a huge smile spreads across my face. When was the last time anyone spoke to me like this? T-Rod, I’m pretty sure. In Maui, several years ago during Josh’s wedding week. Anyone since? I truly don’t think so.
“The truth is, having that demo in my purse the whole time we were talking at the bar turned out to be an albatross around my neck. Of course, I wanted to come through for Alessandra, but I didn’t want that demo to screw up my own chances of getting ‘seduced.’ Which, yes, I fully realize, is exactly what wound up happening. The bottom line is I wanted to have sex with you, Re
ed, because you made my ovaries vibrate. Was I also hoping you might be willing to take a few minutes of your precious time to listen to my stepsister’s songs? Yes. So sue me. But, I swear to God, my desire to help Alessandra wasn’t a ‘hidden agenda.’ It was an agenda that ran concurrently with my own.”
I smile. How could I not? I’m the guy who’s paid money to a cancer charity to get this girl here, after all, because I want to fuck her so badly. But also because of some other motivations that run concurrently with my desire to fuck her. Things like my genuine desire to help Georgina and her father, and to get CeeCee a promising new employee, and my artists some great publicity. But, yeah... mostly, because I want to fuck Georgina. “Thank you for explaining all that to me,” I say. “For what it’s worth, while I was making your ovaries vibrate, you were making my balls vibrate.”
She can’t help smiling at that. “Thank God for small mercies.”
“Look, I admit I gave you a bit of a harder time the other night than you rightly deserved. And for that, I sincerely apologize.”
She looks shell-shocked. And then deeply pleased. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”
There’s a beat, during which the opening band hits the last, crashing drumbeat of their short set.
“What about you?” I say.
“What about me... what?”
“What do you apologize for?”
She pulls a face that says, Not a goddamned thing.
“You don’t think you have anything to apologize for?”
She twists her mouth. And then says, begrudgingly, “I’m sorry I double-flipped you off. It was rude of me. One middle finger would have sufficed. This one. With my new pretty ring on it.”
She flips me off, singularly, and I can’t help chuckling, despite myself.
She shakes her head and exhales. “Okay, yes, I maybe went off the rails a teeny-tiny bit. But, honestly, I’m proud of myself for telling you off and leaving when I did. I chose my integrity over my libido. If choosing my integrity over sex with a smoking hot asshole isn’t ‘adulting,’ then I don’t know what is.”
“Mmm hmm. Because you never, ever fuck assholes.”
“Correct.”
“Not even the smoking hot ones.”
“Correct again.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “You’re such a liar, Georgina Ricci. And a terrible one, at that. I’d bet anything, literally anything, you only fuck smoking hot assholes. In fact, I’d bet a million bucks you’d rather fuck an exciting, smoking hot, bad-boy asshole, than some nice, boring, God-fearing football star with a Captain America smile any day of the week.”
She rolls her eyes, plainly annoyed I’ve invoked Bryce McKellar to make my point. But then she makes a face that tacitly admits I’ve pegged her exactly right. Yep. This girl is a fireball who’s hopelessly attracted to assholes like me, the ones who throw lighter fluid on her flames, whether she likes it about herself or not.
A genuine affection for her rises up inside me, an attraction to her feisty, flawed, adorableness. And I suddenly can’t help smiling at her from ear to ear. To my surprise, she returns the gesture, flashing me the most genuine smile she’s graced me with since we chatted at the bar... and, just that fast, something passes between us. Respect. Understanding. Georgina knows I see through her hotheaded, drama-loving bullshit, and I know she sees through my button-pushing, keep-you-at-distance bullshit. We’re the same, Georgina and me. Two bullshitters, buried beneath hardened outer layers. Two people who recognize themselves in the other. At least, in this moment, it sure feels like we do.
In a distant part of the stadium, the crowd roars, signaling Red Card Riot has just walked onstage. And a few seconds after that, we hear the band launch into the first song of the night—an instantly recognizable, global smash off their second album called “Ready or Not.”
“Well, that’s my cue,” Georgina says, popping off the couch. “Good chat, Mr. Rivers. When I get back from touring with RCR at the end of the week, I’ll call to schedule your interview.”
“Sit down, Georgina.”
She freezes.
“I said sit the fuck down. You’re not going on tour, and we’re not even close to finished with our little chat.”
Chapter 22
Reed
Georgina sits back down on the couch, looking like a petulant teenager who’s just been grounded from going to a concert with her girlfriends. “Come on, Reed. This tour is my best chance to get an amazing interview out of C-Bomb.”
I can’t believe my ears. “You still think you’re interviewing C-Bomb?” I say, barely containing my disdainful chuckle. “Sweetheart, no. That’s off, too. Obviously.”
“What? No!”
“You can interview the full band, if you like, after they return from tour in a month. I’ll set that up for you. But the mini-tour and the one-on-one with C-Bomb are both off.”
Georgina balls her hands into fists of frustration and bangs her thighs, morphing from a grounded teenager into a toddler being denied an ice cream cone. “But CeeCee specifically assigned me to interview C-Bomb, as my top priority. She said everyone always interviews the frontmen of bands, like Dean, and never the drummers. She said C-Bomb, with his bad-boy persona and muscles and beard and crazy hair, will make an eye-catching cover boy and sell a shit-ton of magazines. She said you’d love the idea!”
I’m floored. None of what she just said makes any sense. CeeCee knows I loathe C-Bomb with the force of a thousand suns. And yet, she told Georgina I’d “love” the idea of him being a featured interview in the issue—and our fucking cover boy? Ha! I can’t fathom a more ludicrous statement. So, why the fuck did CeeCee say any of it? Why did she send Georgina straight to C-Bomb, on day one, as her “top priority,” when she had to know I’d nix the idea from jump street? I blink rapidly, trying to reboot the faltering computer in my brain. “CeeCee said I’d ‘love’ the idea of you interviewing C-Bomb?” I ask slowly, simply because it’s so preposterous, I’m not sure I heard her correctly.
Georgina nods furiously. “And, don’t forget, you agreed to give CeeCee full editorial control, so really, it’s up to CeeCee whether I interview C-Bomb, not you. And CeeCee says yes.”
I scoff at the ridiculous notion. “CeeCee has full editorial control regarding the artists I make available to her. But, see, since I own every band and artist on my label, I decide who’s made available. And I’m not making RCR available to you until they get back from tour—and, even then, not as individuals, only as a full band.”
Oh, she’s livid now. “But, why?” she booms, her eyes bulging. “Why, why, why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m protecting my brand. The tour idea isn’t original or fresh enough. And C-Bomb isn’t a good interview subject or representative of his band or my label, as an individual. My job is to sell RCR’s upcoming album. And to do that, I want Dean’s blue eyes front and center, because Dean is the one who sells records and tickets and posters for walls.”
“So does C-Bomb! He was literally on my wall when I was a teenager, Reed! And he hasn’t been interviewed a fraction as much as Dean.”
My heart is galloping. Georgina’s confession that she had Caleb on her teenage wall is driving me fucking crazy—and most definitely having the exact opposite effect she’s intending. But somehow, I manage to keep my voice calm and professional as I say, “I don’t want an interview of C-Bomb for sound business reasons. Conversation over.”
Georgina grunts in frustration. “Lies, lies, lies! Stop bullshitting me, Reed. You don’t want me going on tour with RCR, or talking to C-Bomb, because you think he’ll make a move on me!”
“No.” I lean forward, my eyes blazing every bit as much as hers. “I don’t want you going on tour with RCR, and talking to C-Bomb, because I know he’ll make a move on you.”
Fuck.
Why’d I say that?
At my confession, Georgina leaps up and points at me in the armchair. “I knew i
t. Ha!” She crosses her arms. “Well, so what if he does? You and I aren’t dating. In fact, you’ve made it clear you’ve got no intention of ever dating me. Which means you get no say on who, besides you, gets to try to seduce me. I’m an adult, Reed. And so is Caleb. You might own Caleb’s band. But you don’t own Caleb, the man. And you sure as hell don’t own me.”
My body feels like it’s short-circuiting. I’m feeling so jealous, so possessive, so turned on by the fire in her eyes, I can’t think straight. Did Georgina have sexual fantasies about Caleb as a teenager? Did she practice kissing her pillow, while pretending it was Caleb? “Caleb can’t have you,” I say evenly, my heart raging in my ears. “Nobody on my roster can have you. In fact, nobody on planet Earth can have you, until this thing between us has run its course.”
She stares for a long beat, flabbergasted. And then throws her head back and bursts out laughing. “The ramblings of a madman. Nobody on Earth can have me until you’ve grown tired of me and thrown me away? Gosh, what a lovely offer, Mr. Rivers. But, no, thanks. You don’t get to have me. You don’t get to plant your flag in me vis-à-vis the entire fucking world. And you most certainly don’t get to screw with my job, just because you want to fuck me and I’ve turned you down. That’s illegal, you know. I’ve got rights. Or haven’t you been following the news lately? That kind of shit isn’t allowed anymore, Reed.’”
Oh, Jesus fucking Christ. “Georgina, I have no intention of screwing with your job. On the contrary, I only want to help you do it. I want this special issue to be a grand slam, every bit as much as you do. But don’t, even for a minute, forget your job is to write about my artists. You’re in my house now, Georgina, which means you’re going to play by my rules, whether I want to fuck you or not. Which, to be clear, I do. Very much. I don’t deny that. But that fact doesn’t change the fact that you’ll toe the line when it comes to my artists. And not just you. Anyone who wants to interview my artists, whether they’re from Rock ‘n’ Roll or any other publication, whether I want to fuck them or not, always, always plays by my rules in my house. No exceptions, not even for you.”
