Pleasure at Midnight ; His Pick for Passion

by Pamela Yaye

  “Demi, you’re a lifesaver. Can you email this video to me, and all of the other footage you have?”

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “No worries. It’ll give me something to do while I wait for my boyfriend to call me back.” Standing, she wore an apologetic smile. “Roderick, I have to go, but—”

  “Where are you rushing off to? You just got here,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I know, but I have to pick up Geneviève’s costumes for tonight’s show at a nearby boutique, and if I’m not at the arena by noon she’ll flip out.”

  “Really? That’s so unlike her. She’s so chill, and easygoing.”

  “Yeah, well, ever since you rejected her she’s been a bear to live with.” Demi punched him in the forearm. “Thanks a lot, Roderick.”

  Wincing, he rubbed at his upper shoulder. “Have you ever considered a career in boxing? You should because you have one hell of a jab.”

  “And don’t you forget it. I think you’re mad cool, but if you hurt my sister again I’ll give you the worst beating of your life,” she warned, shaking a fist in his face.

  At first, Roderick thought Demi was joking, but when her gaze narrowed and a scowl twisted her lips, he realized she was serious. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are, but blood is thicker than water, and I’ll do anything to protect my sister.”

  Roderick slowly nodded. “Point taken.”

  “Good!” Waving, her eyes brightened and her smile returned. “Adios, Roderick! See ya!”

  Hanging his head, Roderick rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. He sat on the bench, deliberating over lifting weights inside the enclosed gym or returning to his suite to prepare for his one o’clock web conference with a country singer he represented. The petite powerhouse needed legal guidance, and Roderick was glad she’d reached out to him for advice after receiving her first spokesperson deal with a cosmetic company.

  His cell phone rang, and Roderick stared down at the screen. Fear coiled through his body. It was his boss. Again. It was the third time Mr. Welker had called that morning, and although Roderick had nothing new to report since their last conversation, he knew if he didn’t answer, his boss would be pissed. His mind returned to Saturday night, to the exact moment he kissed Geneviève, and every muscle in his body tensed. He knew why Mr. Welker was blowing up his phone, why his boss was desperate to speak to him. He’d bet everything he owned that Ms. Harris had called his boss to complain. She’d done it before, but this time, Roderick was guilty. He’d fooled around with Geneviève inside his hotel suite, and even though he doubted she’d confided in Althea about their argument, it wouldn’t have been hard for the momager to put two and two together.

  Roderick swiped his finger across the screen, then put his iPhone to his ear. “Hello, sir, how are—”

  Before the question was out of his mouth, Mr. Welker cut him off. His voice was stern, colder than ice, and Roderick knew he was in trouble with his longtime mentor and ally.

  “Roderick, have you been making sexual advances toward Geneviève?”

  His thoughts scattered, and sweat drenched his sleeveless nylon shirt.

  “I just got off the phone with Ms. Harris, and to say she’s upset is an understatement.”

  “Sir, I’ve never harassed anyone. I’m a professional, and I act as such at all times.” He paused, decided it was important to speak his mind and said, “Ms. Harris isn’t upset at me. She’s upset because Geneviève has a mind of her own, and won’t be controlled or pushed around anymore.”

  “I figured as much but I thought it was important I touch base with you,” he said. “I’m just glad you were able to convince Geneviève to finish the rest of her European tour. It would have been a nightmare if she’d made good on her threat and returned to Philly, but thanks to you, a crisis was averted. Good work, Roderick.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I was just doing my job.”

  Mr. Welker cleared his throat. “For the sake of peace, and to get Ms. Harris off my back, Elliot will handle all of Geneviève’s legal affairs from here on out.”

  Old man Elliot? He can’t work with Geneviève! He’s senile, short-tempered and he hates pop music! The golf enthusiast wanted to retire but couldn’t afford it, and the last time Roderick spoke to the silver-haired attorney, he’d admitted to being burned-out. “Sir, with all due respect I don’t think that’s a good idea. Geneviève needs an attorney who has the stamina to keep on top of her demanding schedule.”

  “Are you questioning my decision making?” he asked, raising his voice. “I hope not, because it would be a mistake on your part. This is my law firm, and you’ll do as you’re told.”

  Roderick stared down at his cell phone. Mr. Welker was unlike his usual calm, unflappable self, and he suspected that Althea had gotten under the senior partner’s skin. It didn’t surprise him. The momager was a force, and his aging boss was no match for the ballsy Philly native.

  “We have a problem, Roderick...”

  Another one? he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. What now?

  “I need you back here pronto, so pack your bags and head to the airport. The company jet is waiting for you, and I expect you to be on the aircraft within the hour.”

  His shoulders slumped. He wanted to see Geneviève’s final show, and even though she was mad at him, he wanted to speak to her before he left Madrid. “Sir, what’s going on?”

  “An Italian fashion designer contacted Darla Day’s agent about her being his celebrity spokesperson, and Darla wants you to handle the negotiations. You know just what to say, what strings to pull and buttons to press, and she’s confident you’ll secure another million-dollar deal for her,” he explained. “The meeting is tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. sharp, so you’ll need to go straight to the company’s headquarters after landing at JFK.”

  “I thought Theodore was filling in for me during my absence.”

  “He is, but Darla says he’s softer than a tissue and refuses to work with him...”

  The joke tickled Roderick’s funny bone, but he didn’t laugh. Didn’t want his boss to think he was making light of the situation, or rejoicing in his colleague’s suffering. Roderick liked the single dad and thought he was a good attorney, even though he wore his heart on his sleeve.

  “And Darla’s not the only one who’s complained about his lackluster performance. All of your clients are eagerly awaiting your return, so shake a leg. The firm needs you.”

  Roderick chose his words carefully. After being reamed out by Ms. Harris, his boss was in a bad mood, and he didn’t want to antagonize him. “Sir, you can count on me,” he said, nodding to underscore his point even though his boss couldn’t see him. “Tell Elliot to hang tight. I’ll meet him at the airport, and we can discuss the Sánchez case before I take off.”

  “Elliot’s not in Madrid. He’s here, hard at work in his office.”

  “Then who’s going to meet with José Sánchez and his attorney tomorrow morning?” For effect, he spoke in a somber tone. “I shudder to think what will happen when Ms. Harris finds out we canceled at the last minute. As you can imagine, she’s still upset about the video that was posted online, and anxious to have this issue resolved.”

  “Yes,” he conceded. “She told me that when we spoke earlier today, among other things.”

  Roderick wanted to say more, to remind his boss that Althea had threatened to find another law firm several times, but held his tongue. He’d said his peace and needed to be patient, didn’t want Mr. Welker to know he was desperate to remain in Madrid.

  “It’s imperative you strike a deal with Mr. Sánchez before you leave town, so stay put.” Raising his voice, he spoke with authority, like the president addressing the Senate. “We can’t afford to lose Geneviève as a client, so do whatever it takes to k
eep her mother happy...”

  Roderick scoffed. There wasn’t enough money in the word to make that happen, but he didn’t tell his boss the truth. Didn’t want to argue with his mentor. Making peace with Althea was a tall order, but Roderick was up for the challenge. Would do anything to get the job done.

  Loud noises seized his attention. He saw couples laughing and tracksuit-clad seniors power walking around the track. He heard animated conversation and the distant sound of Spanish music.

  “Also, meet privately with Geneviève to ensure you haven’t done anything to offend her.”

  With pleasure. Roderick had two more days in Madrid, and he planned to make the most of it. A prisoner of his thoughts, he relived his argument with Geneviève, and wondered how she was faring at rehearsals. Smoothing things over with her was his top priority, and he would, even if it meant apologizing a hundred times.

  “You’re the boss,” Roderick said, pleased that his plan had worked. “Once we get off the phone, I’ll call Ms. Day and touch base with her about the spokesperson deal. If we can’t reschedule the meeting for later in the week, I’ll Skype in from my hotel suite.”

  “Excellent work, son. Keep it up and you’ll be senior partner in no time.”

  Guilt stabbed his conscience, and his tongue was so heavy in his mouth he couldn’t speak.

  “Remember what I said about Ms. Harris. Losing her as a client would be a huge blow, and the firm would hold you personally responsible.”

  Gritting his teeth, Roderick gripped his cell phone so tight a sharp, searing pain shot through his hand. He couldn’t believe Mr. Welker could praise him and threaten him in the same conversation, but instead of lashing out at his boss he said, “I understand, sir, and I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

  Ending the call, he pocketed his cell phone and stood. Raindrops were falling, splashing on his sweaty face. Exiting the rooftop gym, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Geneviève was in trouble, and with each step Roderick took his fears grew.

  Chapter 12

  “Geneviève! Geneviève! Geneviève!”

  The crowd at WiZink Center chanted, shouted and screamed Geneviève’s name, and as Roderick glanced around the darkened arena, he was blown away by the love and adoration the Madrid fans had for the American pop star. The air in the arena was electrified, the noise deafening and the energy so infectious Roderick joined in the revelry.

  Standing backstage beside Demi, who was furiously Tweeting, posting and blogging about the sold-out show, Roderick watched Geneviève rock the stage. Whip the crowd into a frenzy. Prove to everyone in attendance that she was an icon, one in a million. A dynamic entertainer and an equally incredible woman, it was impossible for Roderick to take his eyes off her. He’d been an entertainment attorney for almost a decade, but he’d never met anyone like her. Never heard thousands of people lose their collective minds over one woman—a vibrant, mesmerizing woman with jaw-dropping vocals and stellar dance moves. The special effects, the dazzling light display and the home videos and pictures playing on the JumboTron caused the crowd to gasp, then cheer. Geneviève was exciting her fans with every flip of her hair and twirl of her hips.

  Roderick whistled. Her stage presence and her blinged-out costumes were eye-catching. There was no denying it—Geneviève was a legend in the making. Impressed by her performance, he decided to capture the moment on his cell, and took it out of his back pocket. Roderick didn’t know how Geneviève danced around the stage in a frilly, one-shoulder dress, and heeled, over-the-knee boots, and was blown away by her stamina.

  Snapping his fingers, he bobbed his head to the music and tapped his feet on the floor. The strong, pulsing beat made him think of making love to her, and the way she moved seductively across the stage caused an erection to rise in his boxer briefs. Having been to the previous three concerts, Roderick knew “Savage” was the last song on the set list, and when Geneviève bowed, Roderick cheered louder than anyone.

  She was more than just a pop star with stunning looks; she was a humanitarian who wanted to change the world. She visited sick children in hospitals, took social issues to heart and used her platform to draw attention to worthy causes. Geneviève was the kind of person he’d love to bring home to his family. Smart, independent women, who cared about others, were hard to find, and everything about her captivated him.

  “Good night, Madrid. I love you!” she said into the microphone, waving at the audience. “Thanks for the support! I couldn’t have done any of this without you—”

  In a blink, a scrawny man with spiky hair grabbed Geneviève’s ankle and yanked her toward him. Fear flashed in her eyes, and her lips parted in surprise. The microphone slipped from her hand and dropped on the stage with a bang. Her legs slipped out from underneath her, and Geneviève fell flat on her back.

  Roderick lowered the camera from his face and shoved it into his pocket. Blood rushed to his brain, filling him with anger. He wanted to run to Geneviève and scoop her up in his arms, but her bodyguards slid in front of him, blocking his path. Security personnel rushed to Geneviève’s side, helped her to her feet, then escorted her offstage.

  Wanting to comfort her, Roderick stepped forward, but Althea pushed him aside and wrapped her arms around her daughter’s hunched shoulders. Tears streamed down Geneviève’s cheeks, splashing onto her designer outfit, and she was shaking uncontrollably. Her sadness was so profound it oozed from her pores, and listening to her cry broke Roderick’s heart.

  “Sweetie, don’t cry,” Althea said in a soothing voice. “You’re okay. Mom’s here now...”

  Inclining his head, Roderick watched mother and daughter with growing interest. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Althea wiped Geneviève’s cheeks, then stroked her long, wavy hair, and slowly rubbed her back.

  Maybe I was wrong about her, he thought, following behind them. Maybe there’s more to Althea than meets the eye.

  “Gigi, what do you need? What can I do to help?” Demi rushed to the dressing room, unlocked the door, then threw it open. “Come in, Gigi. I’ll get you some ice for your head.”

  The trio disappeared inside the dressing room, and the door closed in Roderick’s face. He wanted to settle the score with the overzealous fan in the front row, but people were filing out of the arena, and Roderick couldn’t find the man in the crowd. He wasn’t leaving until he saw Geneviève, even if he had to stay at the arena for the rest of the night. She had a week off before traveling to Berlin, and if he didn’t have an important function to attend on Friday, he’d stay with Geneviève in Madrid. One of the artists he represented had written the lead single for the soundtrack to an Avengers movie, and Roderick wanted to support the rock singer at the LA première. He was expected to attend all of his clients’ press conferences, parties and concerts, even if it conflicted with his free time, and often spent his weekends driving from one social event to the other.

  Janitors swept the corridor, and staff cleaned the empty arena. Supervisors clutching wooden clipboards shouted orders, and security personnel marched about, glancing over their shoulders. Geneviève’s band, bodyguards and crew members stood in the hallway, chatting while they waited for their fallen leader to emerge from her dressing room.

  Leaning against the wall outside of Geneviève’s dressing room, he blocked out the noises around him and listened to the conversation the Harris women were having inside. For the first time ever, Roderick agreed with Althea. The momager was right; Geneviève’s fall was no big deal. In his seven years at Welker, Bradford and Davidson, he’d seen worse—bandmates fighting, drunken artists getting sick onstage, an indie singer destroying her boyfriend’s sports car with a baseball bat—and knew in a couple days the story of Geneviève’s fall would die down and social media would find someone else to hassle.

  “Gigi, it’s no big deal. Singers fall onstage all the time,” Althea said, her tone matter
-of-fact. “I know you’re upset, but I wouldn’t be a good momager if I didn’t tell you the truth. Forget about what happened tonight, and move on. It’s not worth fretting over.”

  “That’s easy for you to say!” Geneviève shouted. “You’re not the one being roasted online! Do you know what people are saying about me?”

  Demi spoke up. “No, and we don’t care. Sweetie, you’re a star. Who cares what the haters think? Ignore them—”

  “You guys don’t get it. This isn’t just about the fall,” Geneviève said in a shaky voice. “I’m exhausted. I need a break. Why can’t you see that?”

  Footsteps pounded on the floor, then a door slammed and silence fell across the room.

  Roderick yawned and rubbed at his eyes. After leaving the rooftop track earlier that day, he’d returned to his hotel suite to prepare for his one o’clock web conference. He’d contemplated ordering room service, but had decided to call Demi to check up on Geneviève. Her sister had reported that Geneviève was good, and he’d sighed in relief. All afternoon, he’d worked in his suite, tackling every challenge that came his way, and even though Roderick was tired, he couldn’t leave the arena. He went the extra mile for his clients, no matter what, and would do everything in his power to help Geneviève, to cheer her up.

  Roderick took his iPhone out of his pocket and punched in his password. To pass the time, he checked his email, answered messages and surfed the internet. Several media outlets had posted the video of Geneviève’s fall, and the comments posted were cruel and malicious. Two hours ago, her Madrid fans were applauding her, and now they were making fun of her online. Roderick couldn’t imagine what Geneviève was going through, and hoped the carnations he’d had delivered to her dressing room that afternoon brightened her mood. It bothered him that she was upset. Geneviève should have been basking in the worldwide success of her sixth studio album and her sold-out European tour, not hiding out in her dressing room.