Kitty Valentine Dates a Rock Star

by Dodd, Jillian

  And who knows? If Grandmother had introduced me to this rarefied world from a young age, I might have become that person. I might’ve resented my parents for not being able to give me what she could. But who’s to say?

  All of this goes through my head in a flash as I step onto the elevator. Dustin told Hayley he would leave word at the front desk that I was coming up. All I had to do was tell them my name, and they’d direct me to the elevator. Maybe they could’ve asked for identification, but I guess they have more important things to worry about than a has-been being accosted by a fan.

  I’m not exactly feeling charitable toward Mr. Grant as I ride up to his floor, and the feeling doesn’t improve as I walk down the hall and knock on his door.

  He wastes no time, and when he greets me, it doesn’t come as a surprise that he’s holding a glass of whiskey in one hand. He’s clearly had time to break into the minibar since returning from his show.

  I don’t know what I expected. Maybe an apology? Maybe for him to reach out and grab me and pull me to him? Maybe for him to swear that he had no idea what Todd was thinking and that he’s been falling for me since we met?

  I should really know better by now, shouldn’t I?

  “What the hell did you think you were doing, walking out on me like that?”

  As if that’s not bad enough, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone in the hallway. I decide to take this as an invitation to enter, so I do.

  The suite is huge and beyond gorgeous, or I guess it would be if there weren’t clothes and bags and boxes lying everywhere. Either he’s been shopping recently and hasn’t bothered to put anything away or he emptied out his closet the way I sometimes do … and hasn’t bothered to put anything away.

  “Do they not have maid service in this hotel?”

  There’s a stack of dirty dishes on the kitchen counter and a slew of empty bottles, cups, and glasses lying around. Like he’s ordered room service but never placed what was left of it outside the door, the way any normal person would.

  “I don’t like them coming in and going through my things. If you had any idea what it’s like to live my life, you’d understand.”

  Wow. He’s feeling incredibly conceited right now.

  I follow him to the bedroom, where he’s currently looking through what’s left on the hangers in the open closet.

  “I thought I came here, so we could talk.” I’m standing in the doorway, watching him go through the row of shirts and jackets. “So far, you’ve gotten mad at me for leaving the show when I did. We haven’t actually talked about anything.”

  “So, talk. After that, we’ll go someplace. Wherever you want.”

  Meanwhile, he hasn’t taken his head from the closet yet. I’m talking to his back.

  “Hang on. Maybe I don’t want to go anywhere with you right now. I thought you understood I’m upset, which is why I didn’t even answer the phone when you called.”

  “Todd said you were pissed after he talked with you.” At least he pays me the compliment of looking at me over his shoulder, frowning. “I should know better than to let him talk to anybody. Unless he’s working out a deal for me or something like that, he’s useless.”

  “Did he happen to tell you what we were talking about?”

  “Not really. He said you were getting mobbed by people and he got rid of them for you. And that you got pissed and left.”

  Well, that explains a few things.

  “Could you please stop rifling through the closet and look at me for a second? Because he left out a whole lot of what happened between us, and I think you need to know about it.”

  He turns with a sigh, shrugging. “Okay. I’m looking at you. Which is more than I want to do right now because you embarrassed the hell out of me by leaving after I sang a song for you. I didn’t have to do that. I didn’t have to announce to everybody that I wrote that song for you.”

  “I’m sorry. Am I supposed to fall on my knees and weep for joy? You know what’s funny? I might have—well, maybe I wouldn’t have gone that far, but I would definitely have been proud and happy and honored. But it’s too late for that now because I spoke with your agent and he told me why you’ve been spending time with me. Because you think I’m writing a book about you.”

  His face falls, but he recovers quickly. “He must’ve been confused about something.”

  “I don’t think so. He talked to Hayley’s boss, who told him I’m writing a book about a rock musician. Which is true. I am. But not you. And I really wish you had come to me with this because we could’ve talked about it before now. How long have you known about this?”

  “I told him about your friend when you told me about her. Almost three weeks ago—that night you brought her to the show.”

  “So, for almost three weeks—since just a few days after we first met—you’ve been thinking that I’m writing a book about you? Is that right?”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  God, he’s wearing the goofiest smile right now. And what I hate the most about it is that I can’t help but see the person I used to think I was madly in love with in that smile. Because it makes him look younger. I can almost fool myself into thinking he’s the kid he used to be—and heck, for all I know, he might be. Maybe he never matured past that point. Maybe all the good qualities I’ve tried to ascribe to him were all in my head from the very beginning.

  I might’ve told myself I separated fact from fiction, but it looks like I never really did. And I know there’s nobody to blame for that but myself.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but no. There is some confusion here. I’m not writing about you, Dustin Grant. I’m writing about a fictional musician who’s trying to rehab his image, and his publicist falls in love with him. And guess what. He actually falls in love with her for real. He doesn’t write a song about her just so she’ll include it in her book.”

  He rolls his eyes, blowing out an exasperated sigh that doesn’t quite ring true. It’s almost too dramatic. “That’s not why I wrote the song.”

  “That’s a load of bull, and I think we both know it.” The more I talk, the angrier I get. It takes real effort to keep my voice at a normal volume for the sake of anyone who might pass in the hall. “You want to play the big, romantic hero. Todd basically told me so. This is all supposed to be for your image. Isn’t it? This is going to boost your visibility and improve your brand. Do me a favor and don’t lie to me.”

  It’s like I might as well not have said any of that. He’s still stuck on what I said before.

  “So, you’re not writing about me personally.”

  “Why would I even do that? Do you know all the legal problems tied up in something like that?”

  He waves a dismissive hand, snorting. “I would sign anything you want me to sign. Whatever kind of contract your publisher wants. I would give complete permission to use my name and even real-life situations we’ve been through.”

  It’s like we’re not even on the same planet. My jaw drops as I struggle to keep up with his warped train of thought.

  “But it’s not about you! It never was! Yes, I admit, I needed to learn what it’s like for somebody in your shoes. But if you don’t think authors go around all the time, using the people in their real life for inspiration, you need a dose of reality. After the first night we met, I’ve only been in this for you. Because of you. Because I like you. Because I wanted to spend time with you and hear your music. Not for a book, which I could easily write without you. And definitely not because I wanted to tie my name to yours in any way.”

  He bursts out laughing, plopping down on the king-size bed. “Right. Like that’s not a complete lie.”

  “It isn’t!”

  “You mean to tell me that you wouldn’t get an increase in readership if readers knew you were writing about situations inspired by me? Like you wouldn’t get a single boost from my fans hearing about that and picking up your book?”

  Here’s the thing: if he had approached
this as an adult instead of a spoiled child, I would probably react a lot better to that comment.

  But he’s been nothing but nasty and dismissive, and he hasn’t even bothered denying anything Todd said. As far as I’m concerned, niceness is off the table.

  “Do you honestly think I’m so desperate for new readers that your name would be the key to unlock some new level of fame? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  I have to say, he looks genuinely stunned. His eyes go wide, and his mouth falls open. Maybe it was the tone of my voice that did it; I didn’t try to sound pleasant. In fact, I sounded disgusted. Which was exactly the effect I was going for.

  “So, that’s how you felt about me all along? Like I’m what? A loser? A has-been?”

  “You know what, Dustin? I never once thought about you that way until now, right this very minute. Now that I take a look at you and really see you, I feel sorry for you. The only pull your name has comes from the past. If it wasn’t for those days, you wouldn’t be here right now. Trashing a beautiful hotel suite by being lazy and gross. And if it’s true what Todd said and you have all these women falling all over you and wanting to get into your pants, you would’ve done better, screwing around with them and leaving me alone.”

  That gets a reaction, and I should’ve expected it.

  “Who says I didn’t screw around with them?”

  That hurts. That hurts a lot. No, we were never seeing each other exclusively, and I should’ve guessed he was sleeping around during all those nights we weren’t together. But he doesn’t have to be so cruel about it.

  “What?” he sneers. “You think I’m that pathetic? That I’d save myself for you? No, babe. You were a challenge. I wanted to prove to myself that I could get you because you made it so hard for me. But there’s always somebody around, wanting to fuck a rock star. So, I give them what they want.”

  My God. How disgusting can he be? How did I not see it? Was he really trying that hard to cover up who he is inside?

  “Well, I’m glad for you. And for them. I guess they lived their teenage fantasy. Congratulations. Maybe, one day, you’ll grow up and figure out how empty that is.”

  His face hardens into a bitter, loathsome mask. “I hope you know that unless you agree to include my name somewhere in your promotions for this book, you don’t have my permission to write it.”

  “I never asked for your permission to write it.”

  “Right. And you don’t have it. So, that’s that.”

  “You know, it’s sad that you think that means anything. It doesn’t. The book’s only a few scenes away from being completed, and I intend to have it finished in the next day or two. And I never planned to include you in it by name, and I was never going to use you for the promotion. I don’t use people that way. I’m not like you.”

  “You use people all right. You just don’t see it.” He’s a little wobbly when he stands, which tells me that’s not his first glass of whiskey. By now, I know better than to think it was. “You used me, so you could write a book, and now, you’re going to profit off that book. I deserve part of that profit. If I don’t get it, then I want payment in some other form.”

  “The fact that you think I would add in some way to your popularity is actually sad, Dustin.”

  “Why? You write sappy love stories for frustrated stay-at-home moms and lonely career women. Most of my fans fall in that age range now, so it only makes sense.”

  “You don’t have the first idea what I write, so don’t even pretend you do.”

  For some reason, that’s what bothers me the most. It’s not how quickly he turned from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. It’s not even finding out that he’s been sleeping with various women throughout the course of our pseudo-relationship.

  It’s the fact that he thinks I’m a joke.

  He! Thinks I’m a joke!

  “You write romance. It’s not exactly rocket science.” He brushes past me on his way out of the room, headed for the minibar. “Let’s just admit we’re both going to get something out of this and move on, okay? I really do like you. I don’t want to fight.”

  “It’s a little too late for that. And if you liked me so much, you wouldn’t sound so nasty. At this rate, you’re lucky I don’t want to write a book about you because you wouldn’t want your fans to read it.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Even bad press is good press.”

  “Oh, believe me, it would be deeply unflattering.”

  He slowly turns away from the bar. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. I’m not that sort of person. But what I am saying is, if you don’t think my publisher is going to have a word or two to share with your lawyer, you can think again. This isn’t their first rodeo. And if you think you can get by on the power of name recognition alone, I hate to tell you, but aside from a certain, very narrow demographic of people, you might as well not exist. Romance is a billion-dollar industry, on the other hand, and you already know how many best sellers I’ve written.”

  He waves me out, splashing whiskey on the floor. “Get out of here.”

  “Gladly.” Then, as an afterthought, I turn back toward him. “And by the way? That song you wrote isn’t all that good.”

  “I didn’t even write it about you,” he spits. “I wrote that song a year ago.”

  I should’ve known better.

  I should’ve known better about a lot of things in fact. I don’t know whether I want to cry or scream or throw something as I leave his room.

  All I know is, I never want to see him or hear his name again. Not ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I’m so sorry.” It’s probably the seventh or maybe eighth time I’ve said that since Maggie called, but it doesn’t seem like I could possibly say it enough. “Seriously, this is all my fault.”

  “Like I’ve told you already, this is nothing we haven’t seen before.”

  “So, what’s going to happen? What can I do about this?”

  “You can finish the book,” she says with her usual snappy attitude, very direct.

  And because she’s so no-nonsense, I can breathe. The weight on my shoulders and chest eases. I imagined her taking this out on me, blaming me for this, telling me I should have been smarter or more careful. The fact that she hasn’t done that yet bolsters my confidence a little.

  “Okay. I mean, I was already planning on doing that.”

  “Good. Full steam ahead. His lawyer can say whatever he likes. There’s nothing in the book to identify him in any way, so he can claim all he wants that it’s about him, and we can just as easily say it’s not. And even if it were, there’s nothing derogatory about him. Nothing to tarnish his image.”

  I have to laugh at that. “His image. Give me a break.”

  “Honestly, Kitty, I would’ve chosen someone a little higher up on the food chain if it were up to me.”

  Yep, she had to find some way to remind me how I’d messed up.

  But here’s the thing: I’m only doing this because she told me I had to if I wanted to keep getting published.

  “I’m sorry. I lost my address book with the names and numbers of every popular musician in the world. What was I thinking?”

  It takes a second for her to get it together. Understandable since that’s the first time I’ve ever taken a tone with her. “Excuse me, I think you forget who you’re talking to.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. But how was I supposed to find a famous musician to date? The best I was ever going to do was somebody trying to stage a comeback.”

  “Perhaps, from now on, you should stick to normal people. Regular people. Firefighters, police officers, members of the military. People who aren’t going to try to bleed us dry.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Honestly, it’s not worth the hassle. That entire lifestyle. I could never be part of it.”

  “But you are part of it—at least, somewhat. You aren’t a nobody.”

  “That’s the beauty of being a writer. Unless you
’re a complete superstar, you can enjoy a little bit of anonymity. I like my life the way it is.”

  “What a shame this isn’t the plot of some feel-good movie of the week.” Maggie laughs. “We could all sit back and say we’ve learned a lesson from this while stirring music swells in the background.”

  It wouldn’t be a good idea to get snappy with her again since I called her just as soon as I got home last night and left the most rambling voice mail she’d probably ever received. It’s not even noon, and she already has the situation under control.

  She’s difficult at times, and I never quite know how to read her, but Maggie’s one of the best for a reason.

  “And hey! If all else fails, we can always get Blake to take care of things.”

  Yes, she would have to remind me that I once dated the owner of the publishing house.

  “Good-bye, Maggie. More writing to do and all that.”

  When the call’s over, I slump in my chair with my eyes closed, saying every prayer of thanks I can come up with. I spent the night fearing the worst, which means I got almost no sleep.

  And that’s just fantastic since tonight’s the Halloween party at Hayley’s firm.

  Frankly, I can’t believe she’d expect me to show my face now. By now, I'm sure people have heard about the whole thing with Dustin since Todd wants lawyers to get involved. It’s all too complicated and embarrassing.

  After begging her to let me off the hook, she assured me that everyone knows how stupid those two are for thinking they’ll get anything out of it. She promised we’ll only hang out long enough to be seen since not showing up would make it look like I’m hiding and embarrassed.

  Which I am, for heaven’s sake, but she refuses to sympathize.

  I don’t get her sometimes. I was a devastated wreck last night—not because of any feelings for Dustin, but because of how deeply he’d wounded my pride. How he’d lied to me, pretended to be somebody he wasn’t.