Rock Bottom. Cate Masters

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СКАЧАТЬ When would he realize: the show parodied real life. It didn’t enrich it.

      Stepping near, Stu murmured something inaudible, something sounding like an urging. Or a warning.

      Jet threw down the pages. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” He shot a sharp glance at Billie.

      She slunk behind the nearest cameraman. Why focus on her? An innocent bystander? A neutral observer?

      Well, not so neutral. Not after her remark.

      A few minutes later, the producer said they couldn’t hold up shooting any longer, and counted down from ten. Jet paced, his expression blanking more with each step. By the count of one, he smiled rather stiffly in the direction of the pool.

      Season two had begun.

      * * * *

      All morning, Jet had given himself pep talks. It would just be another performance. A very long performance. It has nothing to do with my music, no matter what Stu says. He’d have to work it in somehow. And stick it out until the contract ran out. But after this, no more.

      The alarm on his cell went off. Ah, hell. Time to get on set. Ironic how claustrophobic he’d become in such a big house. Literally nowhere to hide that the cameras couldn’t follow, starting today. Already it chafed his nerves. Bad enough he had to endure the microscopic attention of the cameras, but now her too. Worse than a video, Billie Prescott would interpret. Opine. Slant. Her audience would listen–the very people who mattered. The ones who loved music.

      At least he’d found out her true nature. Walking into the editing room at precisely the wrong–no, right–moment. He might not have believed she could be so cruel otherwise. Until he’d read the blog. Yeah, if anything drove home that she was just another leech, the blog post did it. Funny how she separated herself from those sucking his blood dry when she made her living from it.

      He glanced over and the sting came back fresh. He had to remind himself again: just one more bitch to deal with. But one who had no stakes in any of this. His career rode on it.

      “All right. Let’s do this.” He tossed the script aside and let the producer position him. On with the farce.

      He plastered on a smile. The six contestants had endured a lot to get here, and they deserved his consideration. None appeared well-to-do, and he pegged all as high-maintenance, but each looked upon him with true excitement, eager to get a turn with him alone. Oh yeah, and a shot at a hundred grand.

      They waited together, and their competitive electricity permeated the air. Competitive beauty. That brought a chuckle, and he relaxed as he called the first girl.

      “Hello, Cat.”

      The mocha-skinned beauty whose father hailed from Cuba and mother from Malaysia. No age provided on the spec sheet, and impossible to tell from studying her. Tall and lithe, she walked with the grace of Cleopatra, dark almond-shaped eyes focused on Jet as she approached. She slunk toward him like her feline nickname, her sexual confidence sizzling. Sliding her arms around his neck, she drew him to her in a kiss much longer than any introduction.

      Holding her waist, he gently moved her away with a grin. “Save some for next time.” Might have to change the rating on the show for this one. A glance at Billie heightened his attention. Arms folded, her nauseated expression appeared tainted with something more. Jealousy?

      Couldn’t be. She must want to get back in his good graces. Too bad.

      Relieved when Cat sidled away, he turned to the waiting group. “Ashley.”

      The only blonde, surprisingly. Her pale blue eyes brightened when she approached, beaming. In her late twenties, the report said, but brittle hair and laugh lines made her appear older. Jet wondered what hard life she’d led. Sensing her fragility, Jet spoke softly as he welcomed her, but sent her off quickly too.

      Next, he called Brianna, who might have been Ashley’s brunette alter ego. Brianna mimicked Ashley’s movements, her appearance, everything but her high-voltage eagerness. Oh, she smiled at Jet, but without the giggly exuberance. Or desperation.

      Terry, another exotic beauty, had a full mouth graced with wide lips. Her smile filled her face. Dark brows arched into a peak above dark eyes. Like the others, long hair cascaded down her back.

      If Jet had to describe Amber, he’d be hard pressed. Nothing set her apart from the others.

      Of all the contestants, Julie baffled Jet the most. Fresh-faced and pretty, she appeared younger than twenty-four. Something about the way she carried herself suggested a better upbringing. When Jet spoke her name, she went to him without undue haste or excitement, as if the line had been for a restaurant table. What the hell was she doing here at all?

      No matter. None of them interested him. To be fair, he’d try to dig beneath the surface of too much makeup, generous doses of perfume and hair product. Maybe a real person lurked, for one at least.

      And he’d get a kick out of teasing Billie with the act. The way she fanned herself, his taunts already got to her, adding a little extra interest to this season. The best way to rid himself of leeches was to burn them.

      * * * *

      Watching Jet fawn over each woman, kiss her cheek as she said hello, grew more nauseating each moment. Billie scanned the handout, but it gave sparse biographical details for all the women. Intentionally glossing over their pasts? Or did no juicy details exist to fill in the blanks? Billie bet the former.

      During the introductions, Billie fanned herself, wrote some notes, wondered how long she’d have to endure this crap. Wandering down the walkway, she texted Zin: Rescue me.

      Zinta replied, That bad, huh?

      The pits. If only the series would be cancelled. Slight chance if the ratings slipped any farther. How’s everything there?

      Oh fine, Zin messaged.

      Right. And I’m Mick Jagger’s love child. No, but she could have been his lover for an hour or two. Another mega-ego she’d neatly ignored. Scar tissue made for a strong protective barrier.

      Billie hated texting, and called Zin. “Spill.”

      “You won’t like it.” Zin’s voice cracked, and not from the bad connection.

      “I thought Everett loved the blog?”

      Airily, she said, “Oh, he did. It’s difficult to elaborate at the moment.”

      “He’s nearby?” Damn him. Always in the right spot at the wrong time.

      “Exactly. It’s along the lines of Jet’s old song Don’t Know Where You Been.”

      Racking her brain, Billie ran through the lyrics in her head, but came up with sparse lines. “I remember the video better. One of Jet’s best.” Shot in black and white in a small club, the video showed Jet sidling up to the microphone. He shone with a mercurial glow in the spotlight, lips curled as his voice growled and grinded against the sexy backbeat of the drums. He stroked his guitar like a lover, and no one heard the lyrics.

      Zin bubbled with curious enthusiasm. “Yeah, what’s he like? Is he as hot in person?”

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