by Joanna Blake
Nick cursed under his breath.
"How hard?"
"Eh?"
He turned to stare at his addlebrained cousin.
"How hard was she crying?"
Marley had the grace to look away.
"Pretty damn hard, Nick.”
"Christ. I'll have to send her flowers then. Do the same as last time, eh?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm bloody sure! Just take care of it! Make sure it's roses this time. Red. And send someone up with more champagne."
He held up his glass.
“I’ve finished this lot.”
Chapter 6
Sabrina
Sabrina went straight home instead of back to the office as she'd originally intended. She always worked late, always came in early. How else had she become the youngest rep in the entire A&R department at twenty-six? She worked constantly, to the detriment of her social life.
Tonight though, she wanted nothing more than to be alone and away from the cutthroat vibe at the label.
Nick Falcon had really thrown her for a loop.
She thought of those roller coasterrides that went in a full vertical circle, leaving people hanging upside down for a few seconds at a time. She'd always thought they were ridiculous, watching other people ride during a class trip her senior year of high school.
Sabrina had stood on the sidelines as her more reckless classmates had spun through the air, screaming their heads off. Loop de loop de loop. Her stomach had clenched nervously just thinking about strapping herself into the seats.
So she'd wisely stayed on the grounds with the teachers, feeling sick as she watched the ride reverse itself and go barreling backwards through the same plummeting spirals and enormous circles.
She felt like that now, totally thrown off balance by her meeting that afternoon. Woozy. Sabrina never let anything throw her. Why now?
Nick Falcon had thrown her for a triple reverse loop with a twist.
That’s why she was wrapped up in a blanket and eating ice cream, mnidlessly channel surfing for something to watch. She paused on Bravo, watching mindlessly as three blond women bickered about their dogs.
She had to admit, she kinda loved reality TV.
But that was fake and this was real life. She was screwed. She had no idea how to recover her equilibrium and do her job.
What was she supposed to do?
If he wouldn't do the PR appearances she'd be forced to trim the fat off his concert tour. Maybe even book him into smaller venues.
And he wasn't going to like that.
She had no desire to go toe-to-toe with a perennially drunk rock star with bedroom eyes. Really nice eyes, even if they appeared to be permanently bloodshot. Especially not one the label wanted to keep happy. His last few records had charted, but it was his early stuff that kept raking in the big bucks.
Movie soundtrack requests came in at a steady clip, as well as new artists wanting to cover his greatest hits. Of course, Nick almost always said no to selling the rights for anything but A-List projects. He’d even gotten a few cameos in the films he allowed to use his music. The studios ate it up, and so did the public.
Even if he was pretty much playing himself in nearly every film. He was charming, with his thick East London accent, and far too good looking for her peace of mind. Plus, he always had a model or twelve on his arm.
The man rivaled Hugh Hefner for goodness sake!
Everybody loved Nick.
Everyone except her.
And she had a pretty good idea that the feeling was mutual.
She sighed. She knew she had to put together a proposed an alternate plan. She had to stay on track. She could show it to her boss in the morning.
No, that would feel too much like tattling. She wasn’t a rat.
She'd simply send a copy over to Mr. Falcon's estate and call Marley to let him know. She'd let him be the one to convince Mr. Falcon that it was in his best interest to let her do her job.
She wouldn't tell anyone about his other offer. She cringed at the thought of anyone finding out about that. No one would take her seriously again if they knew she'd just been treated like a stripper.
Or worse yet, a groupie. At least strippers were working. Doing a job. But Sabrina was doing neither. There was no way she was going to continue to let him make her feel like this.
Useless.
She made a list of smaller concert venues, most of them iconic music houses with a long and storied history. She made a separate list of contacts at those venues. She would call in the morning. She was sure she'd be able to get him into most of them, even with the late notice. After all, sliding sales or not, Nick was one of the biggest music names in the business. Never mind that she secretly thought he would be better off doing one night concerts in big cities several times a year. Touring was a big money maker for the label and the artist, but the crowds just weren't there anymore. Better to make the fans wait and pile them into a sport stadium to worship.
And pay through the nose of course.
It wasn't the sort of strategy one proposed so early in your tenure though. Eventually she would bring it up. That's if she still had a job after this fiasco.
It was almost nine PM when she stepped away from her laptop. She pulled on her running shoes and did a preliminary stretch. She’d run varsity track in high school, it being one of the few extracurricular activities her parents approved of.
As long as she won, anyway.
She opened the door to find a delivery boy blocking her path. He held an enormous bouquet of red roses in one arm. It looked like about fifty long-stemmed roses. No… a hundred. At least.
"Sabrina Newton?"
"Yes?"
"These are for you. Sign here, please."
He held out a slip of paper and a pen. She scratched her name on it.
"Hold on, let me get you a tip."
"It's been taken care of. Good night."
She accepted the heavy roses and carried them back into the house, using her foot to shut the door behind her. She set the heavy crystal vase down on the dining room table. She stared at them perplexed for a moment before plucking the card from the wrapper.
She read the card and a genuine belly laugh burst out of her. It was part shock, part horror and part grudging admiration.
The roses were from Nick Falcon.
But the card was for her predecessor.
'Condolences Wendell. You will be missed.'
Whether it was a mistake or not, it certainly got the point across. If she didn't keep the rock star happy, she'd be dead in the water. She turned up the volume on her iPod and ran into the hot LA night.
Chapter 7
Nick
Nick rolled over and shielded his eyes from the bright light that suddenly filled his room. He squinted and saw Marley standing by the windows. The cold hearted bastard had raised the shades. Nick glanced at the clock, cursing Marley under his breath.
He'd raised the shades before noon.
"What the hell, Marley?"
"I just got off the phone with Sabrina."
"Who?"
"The girl from the label?"
"Oh right, the Ice Goddess. What did she want?"
Marley just shook his head.
"It's not good Nick."
He sat up abruptly.
"Come on, I need coffee before I get any bad news."
Nick padded barefoot through the mansion toward the kitchen. The marble floors were chilly and it was a good thing.
The skinny maid was in there cooking something. Eggs. And coffee. God that smelled good.
"Good morning Mr. Nick."
"Good morning, love. Can I get a spot of that delicious coffee there."
"You want sugar, Mr. Nick?"
He gave her his best wicked smile.
"Always."
She giggled and made him a cup of coffee, setting it down in front of him.
"Mr. Marley?"
"I'll just make it myself. T
hanks, Margarite."
Huh. Marley knew the gel's name. That was impressive.
He sipped his coffee as Marley made himself a cup and then leaned against the white granite island. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth. Nick held up a hand in protest.
"Not yet. I need at least a full cup mate."
Marley nodded and drank his coffee in a few gulps. He looked like he needed the strength. Nick had a bad feeling. He was very intuitive sometimes. He'd learned a long time ago to trust his gut. He finished his cup as string bean- or rather, Margarite- took it from him and refilled it, stirring in a spoonful of raw sugar. She set it down in front of him.
"Thank you, love. Alright, what's the hullabaloo?"
Marley pursed his lips and gathered his thoughts. Oh God, that was a bad sign. Marley wasn't much of a deep thinker.
"The label has come up with an alternate touring schedule."
"So?"
"It's- fuck man, it's a B-List tour. Half the dates and the venues are smaller- some tiny places, mate. It's-"
"Show me."
Nick sipped his coffee calmly. Inside he was seething. He didn't care about much in this world, but don't mess with his music. If this girl had done that, there would be hell to pay.
No matter how shaggable she was.
"Alright, hold on."
Marley walked into the hallway to the office. He was back in just a few minutes with a stack of papers. At the last second he pulled the top sheet off.
"What's that?"
"It's nothing. Just the cover letter."
"Give it here."
Marley sighed and ran his hands through his hair.
"Fine."
Nick grabbed it from his hands and stared down at it. The cheeky little bitch had signed the note. But not as herself.
Mr. Falcon,
Please approve the updated concert schedule within. These dates are approximate and will depend on venue availability.
Best,
Wendel Cass
Bloody hell.
He raked his hand through his hair. She had gumption he'd have to give her that.
"What the hell is that supposed to be- a joke?"
"I think we made a mistake when we sent the flowers."
"We made a mistake?"
"You said to send her the same as last time- well, last time we sent flowers was for Wendel's wake."
"Christ Marley, we need this girl to toe the bloody line! Not go all militant on us."
He sat down again and started reading.
His face cracked into a huge smile as he flipped through the proposed schedule. It wasn't a bad plan actually. Some of the smaller venues were part of rock history. It would be great for a limited tour- he kind of missed playing that sort of intimate venue and really getting off with the crowd. Some of these places were part of his old stomping ground. But if he played them exclusively, he knew what would happen.
People would say he was a has been.
"What do you want to do, Nick?"
"Call her and set up one of those promotional events. Pick the best one. Late night TV. Oh and tell her I’ll do some of the smaller venues. But not all.”
Marley let out a huge sigh of relief.
"Okay Nick."
"Get that skinny redhead. I like him."
"Right. Will do."
"And Marley. Tell her I said, knight to queen's bishop."
"What?"
"She'll understand."
Chapter 8
Sabrina
Sabrina had just pulled off the freeway when the phone rang. She knew it wasn't likely to be anyone from the office. Her heart skipped a beat. She glanced down at the flashing screen expecting to see her aunt's phone number.
Aunt Petra hardly ever called with good news.
A horn sounded behind her and she jerked her eyes back to the road. The light had turned green while she was staring at the name that appeared on her phone.
Nick Falcon.
A soft tone sounded a minute later, indicating she'd gotten a voicemail.
She forced herself to concentrate on the road. She always left work early on Thursdays. It was her weekly shift at the Gilda's Club headquarters. She did a lot of fundraising for the cancer resource center, as well as visiting patients who didn’t have family to support them.
She never looked forward to the shift, but she never missed it either.
It didn't feel like charity though.
It felt like penance.
She pulled into the lot and parked. She took a deep breath and checked her voicemail. The key was still in the ignition so Marley's voice filled the car via blue tooth. It always startled her when it did that.
"Hello Sabrina! It's Marley. Nick has agreed to do one promotional appearance. He wants it to be that red headed fellow- Conan something. He wants to do some of the new venues, but most of them are off the table. He still wants his stadium shows. Oh, and he said to tell you 'knight to queen's bishop.'"
She leaned her forehead against her hands where they rested on the steering wheel. He'd given in. Her tactics had worked.
She'd won.
She'd actually wrangled one of the most notoriously difficult personalities in the music industry and come out on top. Her mother would be so proud.
If only she could tell her.
That's something she used to do when she was younger. Pretend she could just call her mother. Dial a random number and just talk. Finally her father had caught her. He'd been furious. Confused and hurt.
But worse than that, he’d been worried,
It hadn't stopped her from compulsively calling people. She’d been desperately hoping to hear the voice of a kind woman. She secretly believed that if she called enough times, her real mother would answer.
This time, she knew her mother would be proud of her. The hard-working immigrant's compliments were always hard earned, but all the sweeter because of it. Yes, her mother would be proud of how she'd bested Nick Falcon.
Then again, his chess comment told her two things. First, that Nick was smarter than he looked. He obviously understood strategy and was familiar with the complex game of chess. Secondly, he was telling her that he wasn't done yet.
He wasn't going to just roll over and be a good boy. Or become like some of her other clients who didn’t require a lot of hand holding. The trouble was, she didn’t think it was his hand that he wanted held. He was going to continue to be difficult, no doubt about it. Not that she’d really expected anything else from him.
In fact, she might have even been disappointed if he made it too easy.
She smiled grimly. She'd expect nothing less than open warfare. Polite warfare, she hoped. But a battle all the same.
After all, a game of chess played well takes time.
Chapter 9
Nick
Nick paced back and forth on the deck with a bottle of water. He was desperately trying to get his head together and give his liver a respite, even if it was a short one. According to Marley, he had to hydrate to make up for all the brutal drinking he'd been doing lately.
Lately? Who are you kidding?
Hell, it felt like he'd been drinking this hard forever. But he had to clean up his act. Lose the bloat and the bloodshot eyes. He was going to be on bloody TV in two days. He had to look sharp.
And not like the drunken, bloated fool he’d been lately. Even too much champagne could make a bloke look puffy. He had taken a good hard look in the mirror when he woke up earlier that afternoon.
He did not like what he saw. And he definitely did not want to be that person on national television.
Not a lot of people knew it, but Nick hated doing live TV. Movies were much easier. There was a script involved. And he could do as many takes as it took till he got it right. Usually, it didn’t take too many.
Even filming live concert was easy for him. He loved it. He made sport of messing with the censors, slipping a fair number of F bombs in as he interacted with the crowd.
Fuck, standing in front of fifty-thousand people with only a pair of skin tight leather pants on was fine too. That was a bloody walk in the park. These broadcast bastards wanted him to actually talk!
He had to make sense on top of it. No cursing or blathering on about this or that. And they expected him to be charming for God’s sake!
Funny, even! Nick found himself hilarious most days, but in a ‘hell with it’ sort of cynical way. Not TV funny! He needed anecdotes or some shite.
Lord save him, this was a disaster.
Give him a screaming crowd of thousands, keep a steady stream of drinks in his hands, he could hold forth all night. But just sitting there and talking with all those invisible eyes on him? Now that made him fucking terrified.
Even worse, he had to do it sober.
At first his rock star persona had practically demanded that he misbehave. The ladies wanted a bad boy, and by God, that’s what he gave them. They expected him to party like, well, a rock star.
He’d loved it. He’d never given a toss for convention and now he had license to do whatever he bloody well pleased, and people would accept it.
Not just accept it, either. They ate is up. Called him unique and unconventional and eccentric.
Now things were different. If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, getting smashed was just a habit to dull the loneliness and boredom. The bloom was most definitely off the rose.
Sometimes Nick thought that having things come too easily had made him permanently discontent. He'd always wanted more more more. More success, more money, more women, more booze.
But sometimes, he wanted less.
Most of it was crap after all wasn't it?
Still, he couldn't complain. He might be trapped in his opulent over the top lifestyle, but the average bloke would trade a body part to have his problems. Which model to sleep with, what fabulous destination to fly to, which house to spend the weekend in. Really, he should be so happy his feet hardly scraped the ground.