by J. Bengtsson
The room fell silent, nervous eyes darting from person to person as if they were about to witness an execution. My execution.
Through clenched teeth, Hollis responded in the hushed, homicidal tone reserved just for me. “It sounds like a man digging his own grave.”
“Maybe,” I said, all full of a bravado I had no business displaying.
“No, McKallister, not maybe. I will annihilate you, and when I’m done, not even your brother will be able to save you. Mark my words—you’ll never work in this business again.”
Well, shit. How thoroughly had I thought this all through? My conviction wavered as reality set in.
Had I just canceled… myself?
It was then that Alan Forrester, the show’s long-running host, stepped up to the plate. “People, there’s no need for threats. Quinn, I think what Mr. Hollis is saying is that no one’s trying to pressure you. Perhaps you thought we were too active in your song choice this week, and I would have to agree. You were right to choose the song you did. It suited you perfectly. Would we have preferred to have been warned? Sure. But what’s done is done. And the crowd loved it, so no harm no foul. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hollis? All we’re asking is that you uphold your end of the deal and go out there and make your fans happy.”
“Actually, Alan,” Hollis said, his words dripping with contempt as he pushed the lesser man aside. “What I was trying to say is, if the kid walks away now, he should know that any song he releases in the next decade belongs to me!”
That detail hit me straight between the eyes.
“That can’t be right,” I challenged.
“Oh, but it can. Why you Gen-x-y-z-er’s don’t read the fine print, I’ll never understand. But let me make it perfectly clear: I. Own. You. Quinn. Now, turn around and march back on that stage like you signed on to do, or I’ll be that sniper on the roof making sure every dream you’ve ever dreamed dies a horrible, bloody death.”
I scanned the group of the powerful Hollywood elite, the very last men any self-respecting, aspiring singer would want to mess with. Fucking fine print! Why hadn’t I read it? What was I, five? Honestly, I shouldn’t be trusted to touch knives. And now, I’d wedged myself so far into a corner that unfurling the white flag seemed the easiest way out. But did I really want fame on his terms?
“Okay.”
I’d taken so long to utter that one word that when it finally arrived, a collective sigh united the room.
“Well, halle-effen’-lujah, McKallister. You aren’t as dumb as you look.” Hollis pointed me toward the door. “Now off you go!”
Irked by his dismissiveness, I actually looked forward to the second part of the sentence he hadn’t let me finish. Hollis thought he had me by the balls, but the minute he’d issued his smug threat was the minute he’d lost me. The thing about intimidation and me was that I never shrank from it. Being the youngest of five boys, I’d learned to adapt and survive in harsh environments. Under beds. Inside headlocks. Hell, if I’d waited patiently for release every time one of my brothers shoved me in a hamper and sat on the lid, I never would’ve gotten anywhere in life.
By drawing up the battle lines with his fine-print fist, Hollis had given himself the upper hand—but the war was far from over. My nemesis was about to discover that the youngest boy in the McKallister family was never scrappier than when his back was up against the wall.
With my eye on the firing squad, I opened my arms wide and slowly backed out of the room.
“No, Hollis,” I said, a wicked smile forming. “I didn’t mean, ‘Okay, I’ll be your little bitch.’ I meant, ‘Okay, let the bullets fly.’”
Right so, my fuck-you moment didn’t go down exactly as planned. Just as I turned to make my escape, I discovered a split second too late that the PR lady was still inexplicably standing right outside the door, but instead of doing our obligatory dance, this time I plowed right into her, knocking both of us to the ground in the process.
“Oh, man, I’m so sorry,” I said, helping her up and smoothing down her collision-worthy hair. What the hell was she still doing hanging out by the door, anyway? Was that part of her job description? Because hell, I was currently unemployed. I wondered if they had any openings in the PR department.
Hollis’s henchmen saw weakness and descended, manhandling as they tried to push me in the direction of the stage. Oh, no, they didn’t. I broke free, and with no other weapon to speak of but my Gibson guitar, I started swinging my girl around like a bat.
“Back off,” I warned. Granted, I had no earthly intention of slamming my Lucia into one of their noses. That would just be cruel to the guitar. But just the threat of a broken nose repelled the manicured men. When it came right down to it, none of them seemed willing to risk rhinoplasty for their boss.
I took their cowardliness as my cue to bolt for the nearest exit.
“Go after him!” I heard Hollis shout from behind me.
“Me?” Alan Forrester whined, his voice high and disbelieving. “Why me?”
“Because I pay for your gym membership. Make it worth my while.”
I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, as I’d already flung open an emergency exit and escaped into an alleyway. A quick dash brought me to Hollywood Boulevard, where the hordes of tourists would work as my protection.
“Excuse me. Right behind you. Coming through,” I said, issuing warning after warning as I zigzagged through the crowd—not an easy feat, mind you, with the whole lot of them walking with their heads trained to the ground reading the names of the stars on the Walk of Fame.
“Quinn! Wait!” I heard Alan call from somewhere behind me. Well, shit, that gym membership was really paying off. He was faster than his leather loafers might make you think. Ducking behind a t-shirt display in front of a gift shop, I waited until Alan passed before scanning the boulevard for a more permanent solution. My eyes zeroed in on a tan sedan with a bright-yellow ride-share sticker on the back window featuring the single letter ‘R’.
And there it was.
My getaway car.
4
Jess: Runaway Rock Star
“RYde, wait!”
The urgent call touched my ears just as I’d let my foot off the pedal and begun rolling forward. I pressed back down on the brake and adjusted my rearview mirror, watching as a man raced toward me, coming to a complete and screeching halt right at my passenger side window.
Too caught off guard to be startled, I lowered my window a crack and peeked up at him over the rim of my reflective orange-tinged sunglasses. Holy mother of yoga goats! My eyes amplified at the sheer awesomeness of what they were seeing. The man was beautiful. So attractive, in fact, that if I’d seen him walking down the street while leading one of my city tours, I’d have pointed him out to my giddy tourists and made up some story about him being a rising Hollywood star… and I’d probably have been right.
Everything about him was spot on, like his DNA had been meticulously pieced together by a master artist. He was young, yes, but still within that sweet spot where PTA moms could eye-hump him without feeling icky. This was the kind of guy who landed acting gigs even if he couldn’t act, the kind of guy who got upgraded to first class even if he’d purchased the basic fare, the kind of guy who could post something totally lame on Instagram and still get a thousand likes.
I soaked in his classically angled face, side-swept hair, and long, muscled physique like a flower might benefit from the first drops of morning dew. It was true, I preferred a man to have lived a few more years, but there was a generous amount of wiggle room when the subject in question had a guitar case slung lazily over his shoulder.
Did he have talent? Did I care? No. As far as I was concerned, any guy who had the ability to carry even the corner end of a tune was instantly five shades hotter. Slow it down, Jess, I lectured myself. No way could I entangle myself with this musical Thor. Not only was he too young to be anything more than a one-night stand, but musicians in general were a notoriously prickly b
unch, and letting my guard down around them could only lead to an early morning walk of shame. If I were smart, I’d roll up my rent-a-ride windows and get the hell out of here.
If I were smart.
My finger hit the button and I slid the passenger side window down to get a better look. Wow, the outfit. What was this guy wearing? He looked like one of those shiny Christmas balls you hang on a tree. Yet, strangely, the odd getup did nothing to cancel out his hotness.
“I need a ride,” he said, with more command than a dude wearing disco pants should be allowed to possess. He said it like he just assumed I’d open my legs… I mean… door for him.
Retracting my wagging tongue, I replied with as much composure as possible, “Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. You can’t hail a RYde – gotta order on your app.”
“I know that.” His frustration sharpened each word. “I just need…”
The man’s stunning greenish-gray eyes darted back and forth between me and something of interest down the street. “Look, just let me in. I don’t have a lot of time.”
Um… hello, dictator. This guy obviously didn’t hear the word ‘no’ very often. Granted, I hadn’t yet decided if he’d hear it from me, but one thing was certain, I needed to establish some ground rules before my lust allowed him to walk all over me.
“Nor do I, bud. Not a chance I’m driving you around for free.”
“And I’m not expecting you to. I’ll pay you cash.”
Cash? Now why hadn’t he said that in the first place? Twenty-something guys rarely carried that dinosaur accessory around anymore unless they were on vacation—riding my tours with their wives or girlfriends. My eyes narrowed in on his ring finger… and found nothing. All right, another plus. Sexy, possibly single, and definitely safe because anyone dressed like Elton John was no threat to me.
Now all we needed to do was come to a mutually beneficial financial agreement.
Or not.
I watched in stunned disbelief as he jiggled the handle on my passenger side door without so much as a negotiation. Seriously? Did he think I was an amateur? I hadn’t survived all this time in Los Angeles with an unlocked door.
“Ah, ah, ah.” I shook my finger. “Cash first. Then getaway.”
He dipped his head into the open window, a slight smile erasing the stress lines in his forehead. I gulped, taking in that marquee-worthy face of his and understanding that, going forward, this hot, young stud was going to star in a good deal of my nighttime fantasies.
“That’s not how getaways work,” he explained, adopting a more patient stance. “I say go. You drive.”
Please. He acted like I hadn’t inhaled all forty-five installments of the Fast and Furious franchise. I think I knew what a getaway entailed.
“Well, you see,” I countered, summoning every bit of my reserve sass, “without cash up front, that sounds more like a car-jacking to me.”
His eyes widened, clearly surprised by my spunk, and that barely-there smile of his tipped up even higher. Good god, he had full-on leading man dazzle. Who let this guy out of his gilded cage?
“You don’t mess around, do you?” he asked, the amusement in his tone almost enough for me to hand over my keys. Almost.
“Oh, I’ve messed around plenty in my life, which is why I’m now dusted in a fine layer of shame.”
Okay, Jess. Too much information. We talked about this.
As you might imagine, that little tidbit about my past exploits perked the man right up. There was nothing like the promise of a woman with questionable virtue to get the juices flowing in a red-blooded male. His eyes slowly roved over me, letting it be known he was forming all kinds of preconceived notions. This was probably a good time to mention to him that the sprinkling of rebellion I’d once enjoyed had long since died. But the idea that I might actually star in one of his nighttime fantasies kept me from correcting his wandering mind.
“Quinn, wait!”
“Ah, shit,” my guy swore. “I thought I lost him.”
Suddenly another participant butted into our conversation, and this one was even more fancily dressed than the first. Pulling his head out of my window, my would-be carjacker turned to face the caller, tensing as the other guy grabbed his arm.
“Get your hand off me,” the hot guy demanded, jerking free.
Oh dang, I liked his fire. This showman was not the pushover his outfit suggested.
“Let’s talk this out,” the accoster replied, still gasping for air.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You sold me out. You sold my family out.”
“I can see how you might feel that way. Is this about the video? Because I agree. It was… unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?” my guy barked, his fists curling. “It was more than unfortunate. It was exploitive. You promised this wouldn’t happen, that I’d have a say, but then you, what… you just went behind my back? Was I just a ratings boost for you?”
I watched the exchange with unparalleled interest, wishing a tub of popcorn would miraculously appear in my hands. Whatever was going on here was better than any binge-watch on Netflix.
“Of course not, Quinn,” the man said, still trying to get his exaggerated breathing under control. “Your talent speaks for itself. Look, I’ll admit your last name was a big draw, but it wasn’t why you made it to the top ten. That was all you.”
Talent? Top ten? Last name? And the plot twists kept on coming. Pass the Milk Duds.
“Then why lie? Why try to change me?” Quinn pressed. “Why force me to cut my hair and wear these shitty clothes?”
Did someone say hair? Well, now, that was an interesting development. Had my boy toy, who I’d now determined was named Quinn, once been rough around the edges?
“Look, I’ll be honest with you. Yes—the haircut—that part was for the ratings. We knew the girls would freak.”
I nodded from my place of utter insignificance. Good call. I mean, I didn’t know what he looked like before, but the after was pretty spectacular, so I had to agree with Wheezy on this one. Even a mole rat could see Quinn was ratings gold, and although I was still in the dark as to what the two were discussing, I’d been around show business long enough to understand their dispute was entertainment-related.
It wasn’t until the other man turned my way and his face came into view for the first time, that all my questions were answered. Quinn was arguing with none other than Alan Forrester—the ultra-famous TV host of Next in Line. And, by way of logical thinking, that made Quinn a contestant on his show. A top ten contestant. A talented top ten contestant with a last name of some significance.
I needed a soda to wash this all down.
Quinn took a step back toward my car until his ass was flush with the window and his hand was again testing the doorknob. Still locked. Glancing my way, his nonverbal plea for help was just the push I needed to be his hero.
I unclicked the lock.
He spun around without a second’s hesitation as if instinctively he’d known I’d be there for him when he needed me most. In one fluid motion Quinn opened the door, shoved his guitar into the back, and slipped onto the seat beside me like he’d rehearsed it a thousand times.
Slamming the door shut, he slapped his hand on the dashboard.
“Go!”
Our getaway was epic, complete with the satisfying squeal of my speed-limit-rated tires. Darting a gaze to my rearview mirror, a rush of adrenaline shot though me as I watched Alan Forrester slip away into the congregating mob of tourists. Quinn was also focused on the scene playing out behind us, fully rotated in his seat to take in the action. Once we were too far away to see, he righted himself, and we both sat in silence as I drove.
Exiting right and off the boulevard a few blocks down, my rapidly beating heart began to slow. God, how I loved the thrill! Too much, some would say. I’d spent my life repenting for my wild ways, but if you dangled a string in front of me and wiggled it around, you could expect me to pounce. It was just in my nature, I supp
osed. I was meant for adventure and fun, and had my life not gone the way it did, I would have been out in the world really living it.
I glanced over at my accomplice, expecting to see the overconfident man from minutes earlier flushed with the same excitement. Instead, I found him decompressed like a wilted balloon, his body limp in the seat and the palms of his hands covering his eyes while he mumbled tidbits of doom and gloom.
“Shit. What have I done? What was I thinking? I’m fucked. Totally fucked.”
I continued to glance between Quinn and the road, wanting to comfort him with words of hard-earned wisdom but not knowing enough about his situation to give a qualified response.
“You all right there?” I asked, after he’d let loose another string of self-directed insults.
Not bothering to uncover his eyes, he said, “Depends on what you mean by all right.”
“Standard dictionary definition.”
“Then no, I’m not all right.”
More silence ensued, but the longer we went without speaking, the more questions I had. And really, if you thought about it, he owed me a little something. Sure, I was his driver for hire, but I was also his savior of sorts. Who knew what would’ve happened to him had I not unlocked my door? Maybe Alan Forrester would have dragged him back to the stage and forced him to perform like a puppet on a string. Or maybe the tourists on Hollywood Boulevard would have drowned him in a sea of drool. As far as I was concerned, he owed me an explanation before I left him in some undisclosed location and never saw him again.
“So, Quinn, I’m assuming you’re a contestant on Next in Line?”
He let his hands fall from his eyes as he turned to squint my way. “How do you know my name?”
Jesus, so suspicious. He acted like I was a stalker when he was the one who’d tracked me down. “Alan Forrester screamed it from down the street.”
“Oh, right.” He winced as if recalling the scene as vividly as I did. “And, yes, I was a contestant on Next in Line. As in, past tense.”
