Damage Control

by M. S. Parker

  I’d worked my ass off, not just at proving I could make it in such a cutthroat business, but at making sure everyone saw that my mom had been right to put her faith in me. Despite my numerous tattoos and the bad boy image the studio crafted for me, I was as far from the stereotypical rock star as a person could get. No drugs. No all-night parties. No arrests. Discretion when it came to sexual partners.

  Well, at least until recently.

  I didn’t need to hear my mother say how disappointed she was in me because I could hear it in her voice, and that was worse than my hangover.

  I looked at the time and then pulled up my calendar to double-check when I needed to be at the fundraiser. As much as I hated myself for it, I was going to need some liquid courage before I’d be able to face my mother.

  I’d only planned on having one or two drinks before stepping into the ballroom. Just enough to take the edge off my headache and make fielding questions about my love life bearable. The kind of people who came to these charity events might have liked pretending that they were beyond such things as gossip, but they never had a problem asking me about the latest story as if I had the inside track to all of it.

  Unfortunately, my break-up had made tabloid headlines for a couple weeks, and even though it happened in June, I knew there’d be people here who’d want to ask me about it. Plus, based on the looks I’d gotten from strangers already today, I had a bad feeling that word had gotten around about me trashing the hotel room last night.

  With all of that in my head, I’d indulged in a bit more Four Roses than I should have, and now I found walking in a straight line to be a little problematic.

  My mom’s mouth flattened as I approached her, and as soon as I leaned down to kiss her cheek, she grabbed my arm.

  “You came here drunk?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear her displeasure.

  I straightened. “I’m fine.”

  She didn’t have a chance to say anything else because the president of some arts foundation was coming toward us, and we didn’t air our dirty laundry in public. I’d probably be in for it after the event, but for right now, I was safe. I gave people polite nods of acknowledgment as I made my way to the bar and ordered the most pretentious scotch they had.

  I’d made it through my second glass when a pale, weedy-looking guy stepped up to the bar next to me. I was prepared to ignore him, but as soon as he downed his drink, he turned to me and started talking.

  “You’re the rock star, aren’t you?” His voice was louder than it needed to be, which was infinitely more annoying than his question. “Mr. Hot Shot musician who lowers himself to come down and talk to the little people.”

  I pulled myself up to my full height, which was taller than most, and much taller than this guy, and glared down at him. “I think you should walk away and let me drink in peace.”

  His cheeks flushed, and a quick glance over his shoulder told me that he was trying to impress someone, but all that did was irritate me even more. I was not in the mood to deal with this.

  “Why are you even here?” he asked, either the alcohol or the people watching us giving him the courage to say things he shouldn’t. “You clearly don’t fit in. Sure, you may have money, but it’s not the kind that comes with class. The Whitehall name used to demand respect, but everyone here knows your mother lost it when she went slumming with some jarhead–”

  Anything else he would’ve said was lost when my fist connected with his jaw, and he dropped to the floor, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth to pool on the polished wood.

  Shit. That wouldn’t go over well.

  Three

  Paige

  “Near, far, wherever… Fuck.”

  I wasn’t sure if the elderly man in front of me shot me a dirty look because of the song or the curse. I’d caught myself humming that song all day yesterday, and I’d hoped it’d be out of my head by the time I got to work, but no such luck, apparently.

  I slipped my earbuds in and turned the volume up almost loud enough to hurt. I didn’t have anything against Celine Dion, but classical, and other instrumental pieces were my preference. The sort of music that didn’t get much in the way of recognition.

  By the time I got my Iced Caramel Macchiato, some Bach and Debussy had chased Dion out of my head. They also did wonders for calming my nerves, which was always important before I went to work. I hadn’t been lying when I told my mom that I enjoyed my job, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be stressful.

  As the elevator doors opened, I took a slow breath, turned off my music, and focused on the job ahead. I was the youngest full-time associate at the public relations firm, and I wasn’t naïve enough to think that everyone believed I deserve the position I’d gotten. I didn’t actually care what people thought in the sense of needing their approval, but I’d be damned if I proved the doubters right.

  I ignored the morning chatter as my co-workers swapped stories of the things they’d done over the weekend. Everyone had their own little group. The young singles who exchanged tales of dancing, drinking, and sex. The young marrieds who liked to talk about how wonderful their spouses were. The middle management men who were either trying to convince everyone that they were going to be moving up the corporate ladder soon, or that they were happy where they were because it gave them time to do all of the crazy things the twenty-somethings were doing. And then there were the women who either complained that they couldn’t get ahead because the men were sexist or insisted that any woman who did manage to get ahead was sleeping with someone higher up.

  I had neither the time nor the patience for office gossip. I didn’t really care who was doing what with whom. I wasn’t there to make friends, and even if I had been, I hadn’t met anyone yet who I’d want to make an exception for. I wasn’t a people person.

  “Paige!”

  I kept my face blank as I moved a bit faster. My boss didn’t get a smile or a grimace. Depending on what mood she was in, either one could earn me a lecture. Sybil Feldt wasn’t the easiest person to work with, but she let me do a lot more than the others like me got to do. Plus, I didn’t have to put up with any of the sexual overtures that many of the other women dealt with.

  “Good morning, Ms. Feldt,” I said as I handed over her Caffé Corretto.

  “Did you finish the notes from last week’s meeting with Grover’s Peanut Brittle?” She barely even looked at me as she sipped her drink, but that wasn’t anything new. She wasn’t a friend or a mentor. She was my boss, and I appreciated her brusque way of doing things.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said as I logged into my computer. “I emailed you a copy and filed a hard copy.”

  “Did you come up with anything new?” She tucked a strand of barley-colored hair behind her ear.

  “I caught something Mr. Grover said in passing,” I replied. “A memory of his father coming home after working all day, exhausted, but still taking the time to sit with him and listen to him talk about his day. I think that could be the emotional hook. Nothing big and flashy, but simple and family-focused.”

  To my surprise, she actually looked at me, hazel eyes shrewd. “That’s a great idea.”

  “Do you want me to write up a proposal?” I kept my voice even. If I could get a proposal to even be considered for a major project like Grover’s, it would go a long way to getting me a client of my own. Not something like repackaging the image of an entire company. Something simple, but mine all the same.

  “Yes, type that up first thing. Once you get it done, I’ll want to see you in my office.”

  Something about her tone made me look up at her, but she’d already gone. I finished up the sentence I was typing, sent off the email, and then hurried after her.

  As soon as I was inside, she started talking.

  “You know music, don’t you?”

  I stiffened, unable to stop myself. I didn’t talk about my personal life at work. No one here knew who my mother was, or the story behind who I was. My mom had been a gro
upie for several years, but it wasn’t like that was something she put on her résumé.

  “Why would you think that?”

  Sybil rolled her eyes. “You’re young. Don’t you keep music available like twenty-four seven?”

  The hand squeezing my lungs eased, and I could breathe again. “I don’t tend to listen to much in the way of popular music.”

  Again, a sideways look, this one with a raised eyebrow. “You might want to fix that.”

  I paused so I could make sure my voice was calm. “Is there a particular reason why, ma’am?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” She tossed her empty coffee cup into the trash. “You’re getting your first assignment, and how well you do on it will determine where your career goes from here.”

  I should have been thrilled. This was exactly what I’d wanted, what I’d been working my ass off for. Why I never questioned the fact that most of my job seemed to be doing Sybil’s work for her.

  Except my excitement was tempered by a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What’s the assignment?”

  “Ever hear of Reb Union?”

  Shit.

  “Yes, I have.”

  And I knew exactly why he was hiring a PR firm. He was everything I detested about most musicians, especially rock artists. Pretending to be some upstanding guy until something finally led to the curtain being pulled away to reveal that he was exactly like all the rest, caring only about partying.

  And my job would be to hide all that shit, so he came out like some repentant creative genius who’d never do anything like that again.

  Four

  Reb

  I considered turning my phone off when I got home. I’d barely missed getting arrested after knocking out the son of a senator, and I knew my mother smoothing things over was the only reason I wasn’t cooling off in a jail cell. I also knew I was going to hear it at some point today.

  That was the reason why I’d kept it on. If I turned it off or sent her to voicemail, she wouldn’t think twice about showing up at my apartment, and for the first time in months, I was actually there. After what I’d done to the hotel room, I knew better than to try to go back there, so I’d gone home.

  But I’d slept on the couch. I’d told myself it was because I didn’t want to chance throwing up on the bed, but that was only a half-truth. Even the guest room beds brought back memories of that night. For all I knew, she’d fucked guys on every bed in the apartment. Probably on the couch too, but it was easier to push that thought away because I hadn’t caught her there. Not entirely logical, but it worked.

  None of these things woke me up though. It was the jarring, shrill ringtone I’d assigned to my manager that pulled me out of a restless sleep.

  “What?”

  Shit, my voice sounded like I’d gargled with broken glass. I needed to be careful, or I wasn’t going to have a career left to fuck up.

  “What the hell, Reb?”

  I put the phone on speaker and set it on the end table. If I was going to be treated to a lecture, at least I wouldn’t have him yelling in my ear.

  “First you flake out on an important meeting, and then I get a call from a hotel saying you and two women trashed their penthouse suite. They’re claiming hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage.”

  “That’s a bit much,” I interrupted as I forced myself into a sitting position. “I cleaned out the mini-bar, but that wasn’t exactly the finest quality alcohol.”

  He actually growled. “You broke the television, two lamps, two crystal vases, two crystal bowls, four wine glasses…”

  He continued, reading from a list I assumed, and I put my head in my hands. It was sad, but I was almost used to waking up feeling like shit. I kept my eyes closed as I rubbed my temples, hoping to take enough of the edge off that I could walk without vomiting.

  “The cleaning service also found three grams of coke in the bedroom.”

  I jerked my head up and immediately regretted it. “Wait, what?”

  “Oh, that got your attention? Destruction of property, drunken disorderly, all that and you don’t say a word, but some coke, and all of a sudden, you’re the morality police?”

  “Those aren’t my drugs.” I ignored his sarcasm. “You know I don’t do that shit, Chester.”

  “I know you didn’t use to do that shit,” he countered. “You also never punched a senator’s son during a charity event before last night either.”

  I scowled at the phone. “That’s different. I don’t do drugs. Hell, I barely drink.”

  As soon as the last sentence was out of my mouth, I knew he’d never believe that the drugs weren’t mine. Because he was right. Up until recently, I’d never gotten so drunk that I couldn’t control my impulses. Everything that had been true about my behavior before could be called into question now, and that included the drugs.

  “I’ll take a drug test,” I offered. “Whatever you want me to do to prove that I’m clean.”

  “Nobody gives a shit if you can pass a drug test,” Chester snapped. “There’s ways around those things, and everyone knows it. It’s what people think that’s the problem now. Especially after the shit you pulled last night.”

  “He disrespected my parents.” I was grateful to hear the words come out steady.

  “You’re nearly thirty years old, Reb,” he said dryly. “And we both know that, no matter how good you are, music is no guaranteed future. We talked about this when you first signed with me. You get an image, and that gets you endorsement deals. That’s what can set you up for life, even after everything else goes down the crapper.”

  I considered telling him that my inheritance was large enough that I could live a decent life off of interest alone, but I kept my mouth shut. I’d been with Chester for nearly a decade, and loyalty kept me with him, but I’d never trusted him enough to share certain things about myself, one of which was exactly how much money I had.

  “What do my endorsement deals have to do with this?” I asked, suspecting I’d regret the question momentarily.

  “You had a reputation as being clean, the sort of rock star who could be sold to families as someone safe for kids to admire.”

  I didn’t miss the word had.

  “One fucking screw-up and I’m suddenly on the same level as Ozzy Osbourne or Marilyn Manson?” I had nothing against those guys, but they weren’t me.

  “Ozzy’s gone mainstream,” Chester barked, his voice growing louder by the second. “And you’ve just proven to everyone that you’re not as squeaky clean as you’d claimed.”

  I gritted my teeth to keep from reminding him that I hadn’t billed myself as squeaky clean. I hadn’t wanted to market myself as anything other than me from moment one, but Chester had sold me to the studio as someone who looked like a bad boy but behaved like the guy next door. I hadn’t liked it, but they hadn’t asked me to actually change who I was, so I’d just let it slide. It’d meant keeping certain preferences of mine a secret, but I’d always been a private guy when it came to that stuff. The people who mattered to me accepted me for who I was.

  Or at least I’d thought they had until Mitzi had proven me wrong.

  I pushed the thought of her out of my head as best I could.

  “Can’t you sell it as one day of bad choices? Come up with some sort of personal problem that got the better of me for twenty-four hours?” I hated myself for even asking it, but I had to ask.

  “It hasn’t been just twenty-four hours,” he reminded me. “This was definitely the biggest mess you’ve made over the last couple months, but people have noticed a difference in you, and not a good one. Fans are either saying that you think you’re too good for them, or that you’re spiraling into depression, neither of which is great for your image. Anyone who’s around you for more than a day notices that you’re drinking all the time. You might not look or sound like you’re drunk that much, but we can see the empty bottles and cans. You don’t even try to hide it.”

  “I’ve had a shitty summer
,” I snarled, well aware that I sounded like the spoiled rich kid I promised myself I’d never become.

  “Your girl cheated on you. Big fucking deal. If you’d listened to me in the first place, it wouldn’t have been a problem. You can’t get cheated on if you’re not in a relationship.”

  “Well, I’m listening to you now,” I countered. “Fucking random women without bothering to get their names, making sure they know where they stand.”

  “Yeah, well, a threesome with the niece of one of the studio heads and her friend wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Fuck,” I muttered. I rubbed my hand over my jaw, trying to remember if either woman had told me that they were related to a bigwig where my contract was held. “I didn’t know.”

  “You might have figured it out if you’d gotten your head out of your ass long enough to get sober enough to pay attention.”

  I stood and stretched. “Look, Chester, I’m expecting a call from my mom so she can lecture me on my bad behavior, so if that’s all you’re going to do, I’d like to get some coffee and a shower before I talk to her.”

  “That’s not the main reason I called,” he grouched, then sighed, loud and long. “I talked to the label this morning, and they’ve decided that you need to do damage control. I’ve already hired a PR firm, and they’ll have someone over to see you first thing tomorrow.”

  “You hired someone without talking to me?” I was too tired to put much heat behind my words.

  “I did. And you can fire her if you want, but if you do, there’s a good chance the label’s going to drop you.”

  I cursed under my breath but didn’t argue. There was no point. Technically, I had a choice, but Chester and I both knew that I was stuck. I had to do what was expected of me or lose it all.