Goddammit. The last thing he’d wanted was to feel compassion for that psycho bitch. Bad enough that his loins ached for her, nonetheless.
“Even though I wasn’t talking about her, she did take it personally.”
“I wonder why.”
“Yeah, and she got revenge. But yesterday she said she wanted to apologize—and you saw how that turned out.”
“Actually,” Sam said, “we didn’t. After she asked to spend a couple minutes with you, we waited at the curb for the limo—and by the time we got in, the place was surrounded by photographers.”
“What the fuck was that about anyway?”
Brian raised his eyebrows and brought the bottle back to his lips. “We’re famous, guys.”
Sam tilted his head. “Not like that. We don’t get that kind of attention unless we’re at an award show or hanging out with actors or popstars.”
“Yeah,” Clay said, “so is this gal like Cookie? A famous supermodel?”
Not last Brian had checked. No way was he gonna tell the guys about cyberstalking Ms. Buckley after she’d left him high and dry—but, thanks to that research, he knew she was small potatoes compared to the likes of his ex. “I actually have a theory about that, guys…and I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”
Although Sam cocked an eyebrow, he didn’t say anything, nor did Dane. Clay, however, was happy to be vocal for the lot of them. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Sophia’s not super famous, not like Cookie. And it’s not like we were downtown Hollywood where those guys are just looking around for any B- or C-list celeb who might bring in a couple bucks. So what if someone alerted the press?”
“You think she did that?”
“It’s a possibility. But she seemed as freaked out as I was.”
“Maybe it was more effective than she expected.”
“Or maybe she wasn’t the one who called them.”
Dane had a confused expression on his face. “Do you think it was someone in the restaurant who noticed us?”
“Alerting the press without getting an autograph?”
“Anything’s possible,” Sam said.
“Sure. But I think—and, guys, tell me if you think I’m wrong—I think it was Mark.”
“Who contacted the press?”
“Yeah. It makes sense if you think about it. Who would benefit the most from paparazzi?”
Clay said, “If she’s a low-tier celeb like you said, your girlfriend would be my prime suspect.”
Although Brian refrained from rolling his eyes, he said, “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Then why you wanna tap that, bro?”
“Wanted. She no longer interests me.” That was a lie, but he couldn’t allow Clay and the guys to go there anyway. He didn’t want to talk to them about that night, and if they kept the conversation moving in this direction, it would wind up there. “But you have to trust me—she didn’t do it.”
Sam set his can down. “So walk me through your Mark theory. Why do you think it was him?”
“There’s all kinds of circumstantial evidence. Like how he made sure you guys got out of the restaurant quickly.”
“Which puts us back to your girlfriend. She asked for time alone with you.”
“But that was the whole point of meeting her in the first place—so I don’t buy it. Mark got up to go to the bathroom right after he was done eating.”
“So?”
“So he could have made a phone call.”
“It just seems a little convoluted. What’s the point?”
Brian paused for a moment, taking a slow breath in through his nostrils. “Haven’t you been listening to him? He’s been losing his shit.”
“He always loses his shit.”
“Not like this, dude. He’s freaking out about our reviews—and he’s checking all our upcoming venues constantly, stressing that they’re not sold out.”
“Again failing to see the connection.”
Jesus Christ. His friends were normally smart guys, but they weren’t connecting the dots here. So Brian tried to think what it was that really set his alarm bells off and he came up short. “Let’s say nobody likes our music anymore. Like this album starts tanking worse than it has been. Nobody’s coming to shows, that kind of shit. Who’s the first person to go? We’re not getting rid of the roadies.”
“We wouldn’t get rid of Mark, either.”
“But maybe he doesn’t know that.”
“Still doesn’t make sense, Brian. You need to stop watching those true crime dramas on television.”
It was a feeling, but if he told the guys that, they’d skewer him. And yet it was a bet Brian would lay money on if anyone asked. “I don’t give a shit. I’m telling you it was him.”
Sam stood. “Why don’t we ask him? If he did, we can ask him why.”
“I’m telling you why.”
But they were right—maybe asking their tour manager would be the best way to find out. And if he really did do it like Brian suspected, they could let him know in no uncertain terms that this shit was un-fucking-cool.
Completely.
* * *
With her new-found fame, Sophie had been hoping to get jobs with the likes of Dolce and Gabbana, Vera Wang, and Ralph Lauren. Instead, she received the most interesting offer of all—and this one hadn’t come from her agent.
But the pay was crazy, hard to say no to.
She and Mark Fraser hadn’t quite become friends. More like partners in crime. When she’d approached him about lunch with Brian to offer her apologies, the man had seen an opportunity. Although he’d said yes to lunch, Sophie had already figured out he’d been the one to sic the paparazzi on the unsuspecting couple.
And, God, she had to stop thinking of Brian like that, like they were a couple.
But her brain was going to all manner of bad places thinking about that man.
He really was sexy as hell—and, having all but simulated fellatio on the man, she had to admit he did have a nice member. Maybe not the biggest one she’d ever seen, but the myth that men had to be gargantuan or go home was overblown. Aside from slamming into her cervix, she didn’t know what difference a couple of inches could make—especially when the man knew what to do with himself. A man who could actually get her in the mood and bring her to climax was far more important than having a foot-long hot dog.
Sophie shook her head, trying to focus. She had a decision to make—and she had to keep attraction and desire out of it.
The question was…would accepting Mark Fraser’s current offer be a detriment to her career—or would it push her into the stratosphere?
She didn’t want to be a flash in the pan or just enjoy fifteen minutes of fame. She wanted a sustainable career, one where she was in demand with Vogue and designers begging for her for the runway during fashion week.
Rory sauntered into the room cocooned in a royal purple robe, his head wrapped in a fluffy white towel, and he made a beeline for the coffee pot. “Girlfriend, you are seriously the best roommate I’ve ever had. Coffee every morning when I get up? I feel so spoiled.”
Sophie scoffed, picking up her own mug of coffee and bringing it close to her lips. “I’m the only roommate you’ve ever had.”
“That might be true,” he said in his smooth voice, turning to open the fridge, “but I somehow knew you’d be perfect.”
If Rory really wanted to rewrite history, she wasn’t about to stop him. After all, they’d both been lifesavers for each other. Once she graduated college, earning a four-year degree, she’d run to NYC to pursue a dream after spending a tame childhood deep in the heart of Kansas, surrounded by lots of love but no future, trapped in a small town that cherished the fifties and never seemed to want to stretch.
She needed growth—even when it was detrimental.
Her naïveté had nearly killed her, but that was when she and Rory had found each other, and they’d made a pact. They had each other’s back through thick and thin. Even t
hough Rory had grown up in Hell’s Kitchen, he’d had a rough childhood. Like Sophie, though, he had dreams and, together, they were going to take on the world. They’d met while working at a restaurant in Manhattan that was now closed, but after becoming fast friends decided to move out of their shitty living situations.
One year in law school had just been too much. A fellow student had turned her on to a modeling gig and Sophie had dropped out of school just a week into her second year. She could see the potential in modeling and the idea had been to save up enough to pay for law school—but the student loans came due the next year even without finishing school, and she began trying to figure out how to make modeling pay the bills and more.
Three years later, she was beginning to see the results. Rory was, too. Finally, he was getting the roles he wanted. He’d even learned how to play straight men in order to open up the possibilities.
Next year, he was aiming for Broadway but, for now, he was enjoying the roles he got. And his part-time gig as a cabaret dancer at a bar downtown whenever he could fit it into his schedule brought him immense joy.
Now if only she could find that for herself.
Rory sat next to her at the table, the scent of hazelnut wafting from his mug, and he touched Sophie’s hand with his cool fingertips. “What’s bothering you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
He smiled, his thin lips curled without showing off his shockingly white teeth. Tapping a finger on her notebook, he said, “It always is when you’re writing it down.”
Crap. She had become predictable. That was okay with a close friend and roommate, though, and Rory was one of the sweetest people she knew. Letting out a soft sigh, she patted Rory’s hand before picking up her coffee cup. “I’ve been given an offer that I’m pondering.”
“An offer you can’t refuse?”
“An offer I should refuse.”
Rory’s smile sloughed off his face, a serious expression replacing it. “Why? Did you get an offer to model nude—or appear in a porn or something?”
Sophie laughed then. “No, nothing like that.”
“Good. Straight white men are notorious for getting women to do things that aren’t in their best interest.”
“Holy shit, Ror. Where’d that come from?”
As he touched the back of his neck with his slender fingers, he rolled his eyes. “I think this part is getting to me. When are you going to come to the show, by the way? That’ll explain it all.”
“That kind of depends on what I’ll be doing this week.”
“And that’s what you’re fretting over?”
“Yes.”
“Then spill.”
Sophie let out a long breath, glancing down at the sheet with two columns where she’d tried to write out the pros and cons of her decision—to no avail. But Rory always helped by giving her another perspective, one removed from her emotional state and tunnel vision. “Do you remember how I told you about Mark Fraser, the band manager of—”
“That awful metal band. Yes, I remember.”
Sophie started laughing. “You haven’t even listened to their music!”
“Neither have you. They’re metal, and that’s how I know they’re awful.”
“Yes, I have. Remember the concert?”
“That does not count.”
Sophie wasn’t about to admit she’d watched a couple of videos over the past couple of weeks—and they weren’t awful, but she wasn’t about to argue that point with Rory. If he knew where her heart was at the moment, he wouldn’t take any of the other factors into consideration. “Anyway, Mark called me.”
“To apologize for the paparazzi bullshit, I hope.”
“No—and, besides, you know that’s helped my career. I should be thanking him.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t need to know that.”
Shaking her head, Sophie tried to get back on track. Rory’s tangents and side conversations were the things she both loved and hated about him. He was always a load of fun and gave her good advice. It was just that sometimes it took a while to get there—and she didn’t always have the time to indulge his proverbial stops to smell the roses.
He called it the scenic route.
“And he won’t. But he asked if I’d be willing to appear in a video for the band.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“No, I’m not. Two days of work, flat fee, all expenses paid.”
“Did you agree to anything yet?”
“No.”
“Ask for more money.”
“Are you kidding? He already offered me hundreds of dollars.”
“What kind of expenses?”
“Meals. Hotel. Flight there and back. A rental car or cab, whichever I prefer.”
“What the hell did you do to garner this kind of attention?”
Sophie looked down at the brown liquid in her cup. “I’ve asked myself the same question. At first, I thought maybe I’d captured Brian’s attention—but after my apology at the restaurant, I know he hates me with a passion.”
“It’s fair.”
“Yes, I earned that.”
“You think their manager wants to get into your pants?”
“God, no.” Sophie started laughing but then paused. Could that be? No, no way. “Believe it or not, I think it’s all business with this guy. I think maybe the press wants to see another spat like he had with Cookie—and something like that would get the band attention.”
“They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
“Exactly. That’s the kind of vibe I’m getting from their manager. He hasn’t come out and said it outright, but I think he sees the possibility. Cookie was vicious—and she knows how to keep the press on her side. Maybe that helped the band back then and maybe that’s what the manager wants.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. It was clear to me at the restaurant that he hadn’t told Brian the purpose of our meeting, that I wanted to apologize. I had to explain it all myself. Plus, I’d wanted it to be a little less public, but he insisted the whole band attend. Just the entire thing was weird, and it felt like he was using the situation to his advantage.”
“So you’re thinking of turning it down and you want me to talk you into it?”
“No. I’m thinking of taking it—but I feel like I should run like hell.”
“When would it be?”
“Next week.”
“You only live once, girl. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Sophie had discovered long ago that a question like that was better left unasked—because it seemed to tempt the universe to try its damnedest…
Chapter Seven
“Goddammit. Whose fucking idea was this anyway?”
“Shut the hell up, Brian. None of us want to do this shit—but you know damn good and well that videos are good marketing,” Clay said, tuning his axe, even though it wouldn’t actually be heard in the video anyway.
Dane sighed. “No, he’s right. Why couldn’t they have done a lyrics video—or just release the audio? I haven’t seen Charlie in over a month.”
Brian grinned. “Oh, yes, you have.” Holding out one hand as if he were gripping a phone and then pretending to masturbate with the other, he said, “Oh, yeah, babe. I love you, too.”
“At least I have someone to enjoy phone sex with.”
Brian, clasping his hands over his heart, said, “That hurts, buddy.”
Sam didn’t appear amused. “Look, guys, did you ever think that if we kick ass on this thing, make it work, we could maybe be done early? And if we get done early, why couldn’t we catch a quick flight to Colorado tonight?”
Dane’s green eyes lit up. “I like the sound of that.”
Clay said, “What about you, Bri? Does that make you feel better?”
Frowning, he shook his head. “I would just appreciate a day off once in a while.”
“You’ll get a day off when you retire.”
“Fine,” Br
ian said, starting to pace again. “When the hell are we gonna get started?”
With a frown, Sam stood. “We’ll get started when we get started. Complaining isn’t gonna make it go faster.” As he started to walk toward the big metal door that led outside, he said, “You might consider switching to decaf, man.”
When the door slammed with a resounding clang, Brian half-grinned, shaking his head. “Is he on his period?”
Dane said, “He’s missing his woman, and it’s hard for him to act all tough and stoic when we’re bitching about—”
“Minor issues. Sure.” Brian could have been a dick, reminding him that at least the other guys had women to go home to in the first place but then thought better of it—because he knew this process was nerve-wracking to all of them. Back in the day when they made their first couple of videos, they’d expected to simply play the song a couple of times, do whatever other shit the director wanted them to do, and then wrap it up. They’d had no idea that there would be take after take.
After fucking take.
Not only that, but sometimes they’d film a lot of shit that wound up never being used—and that was frustrating. At least this was only two days, maybe because that was all the time they had in the schedule, but there had been one or two videos in the past that had taken almost a week—and usually Sam was the one most involved, because he’d be the “hero” in the video for whatever stupid storyline the writers had come up with. The rest of the band? Just sidekicks.
In a way, though, Brian was more than okay with that. Sam and Clay were recognized in public more often than he and Dane and, honestly, Brian had a pretty easy job comparatively. Unfortunately, all the guys usually had to hang around for the video unless the powers that be were absolutely positively done with them.
Which was rare.
Still, Sam was probably right. Videos were marketing, which meant money, and the fans loved them. Besides, some of the fans still weren’t on board with the new sound they’d been playing around with on this album, and maybe another video could rope them in. In some ways, though, Brian thought they were throwing good money after bad. People would either love or hate it, and all the videos in the world wouldn’t be able to change that.
Slow Burn (Feverish #4) Page 6