The Has-Been and the Hot Mess

by Isabel Jordan

  The photo used on the poster must have been taken late in the show, because his shoulder-length black hair had been matted and wet with sweat. He’d been shirtless—of course, because what rock god deigned to wear a shirt onstage?—and his skin had glistened under the glare of the stadium lights, proving just how hard the man worked while he was performing.

  And his muscles…

  Back in his Maelstrom days, Jackson Hale obviously hadn’t been a gym rat. He wasn’t at all bulky or muscle-bound. What he had been was long and lean and taut in a way that made young Kendall’s mouth water. His body had been absolute perfection.

  She’d gotten herself off for the very first time while imagining that long, lean, taut body of his pressing her down into her mattress. Right there on top of the old Star Wars bedsheets her frugal mother bought at a thrift store for a song and refused to ever replace. (“Sheets are expensive, Kenny,” her mother had said. “We’re keeping them until they’re so faded you can’t tell Princess Leia from Jabba the Hut anymore!”)

  And now, today, here she sat, next to Jackson Hale at his kitchen table, barely able to make eye contact with him because she’d molested him in her fantasies. If he knew some of the things she’d done to him in her dreams, he’d probably file a restraining order against her. Or at least have her brought up on sexual harassment charges.

  Kendall started to panic a little. How was she supposed to sit here and talk professionally to a man she’d violated in her mind? Over and over and over again.

  Jackson sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I can tell by your horrified expression that you remember at least some of the not-so-flattering parts of my career.”

  Kendall swallowed down a fantasy she’d once had about licking the tattoo that circled his belly button and dipped down into the low-riding jeans he always wore onstage—the ones that seemed to cling to his hips only by some kind of gravity-defying dark magic.

  “Um…no,” she began, then paused to clear her throat. “It’s not that. I …” Was completely obsessed with you for my entire high school career? Wallpapered my teenage bedroom with your image? Wrote bad poetry and even worse fan fiction about you? “…was a fan of Maelstrom. I guess I’m just a little…shell-shocked.”

  He looked like he didn’t quite believe her. “I don’t run into too many of those these days,” he said ruefully.

  She would imagine not. His career had started with a bang (sold out stadiums, world tours, Grammy nominations every year) and ended with a pained whimper (drug addiction, lawsuits for missed tour dates, rumors of brutal in-fighting between members of the band). It wasn’t an entirely unique rock star origin story, but it certainly wasn’t pretty, either.

  That’s when her teenage brain started to shut down and her professional brain took over. Maelstrom’s music still got some radio play, but not enough to have remained super relevant over the past fifteen years since they’d disappeared.

  If Jackson Hale wanted to stage a comeback and she was able to help him, her reputation in LA would be completely restored. It’d be the coup of the century.

  Getting him back on the charts would be like resurrecting the dead! She’d be a PR legend.

  Oh, if Ray was here right now, she’d kiss him on the mouth, maybe even with tongue, in thanks for this glorious opportunity.

  Jackson leaned back in his chair and side-eyed her warily. “What are you thinking? Because you just got an absolutely terrifying gleam in your eye.”

  Kendall gave him a critical once over. He was every bit as attractive as he had been over a decade ago when Maelstrom was at the top of the charts. At thirty-eight, he was a little more muscle-y than he’d been back then, a little tanner, and his hair was now close-cropped, as opposed to rock star long. He looked like he’d recently shaved, but he was already starting to look scruffy, which meant he was one of those guys who had a five o-clock shadow at noon every day.

  But all of those changes really suited him. Even the extra little laugh lines around his steel-gray eyes didn’t detract from his appeal. There was no doubt about it.

  Jackson Hale was hot.

  And if he really was clean and sober like he said he was, building him a new brand and a social media platform would be a walk in the park.

  “Stick with me for one month and I can get you whatever you want,” she said, completely confident for the first time since she’d heard the word Montana slip out of Ray’s mouth. “What are you thinking? Reunion tour with Maelstrom? A reality show? Judge on The Voice? You name it, and I can make it happen for you.”

  He looked so horrified she almost laughed. “Sweet Christ, no,” he said. “I don’t want any of that. I don’t really want to ever be famous again. Not like I was, anyway. I’m looking at something behind the scenes this time.”

  Well, that was unexpected. Every client she’d ever worked with had a need for fame that bordered on desperation. “In that case, what is it you’re hoping I can help you with?”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Have you read Fall from Grace?”

  Of course, she had. It was a novel about addiction and fame and a rising star’s, well, fall from grace. It was a gripping and harrowing tale of the aftermath of rock bottom, and how the young star was forced to rebuild a completely different life for himself. It was pretty much exactly what had happened to Jackson.

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Yeah. I read it and felt like someone had been filming my life from inside my head. Reading that book was pretty fucking eerie, but it was so—”

  “Powerful,” she finished. “Profoundly powerful.”

  His eyes locked with hers and he looked relieved that she seemed to understand. Then a horrible thought occurred to her.

  “Oh shit,” she began, “they’re making that into a movie! The rights were sold months ago, and the studio is fast-tracking it, lining up directors now. You don’t want to direct, do you?”

  Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

  Kendall had worked with way too many actors who thought they could direct, and nine times out of ten, they couldn’t. Expecting an actor to be a good director was like expecting someone who ate at Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant five days a week to be able to cook like him.

  It just didn’t happen that way.

  And musicians and models who wanted to act and direct? The list of times that ever worked out was ridiculously short.

  Again, Jackson looked appalled. “No fucking way. Working with actors all day long? You couldn’t pay me enough for that shit.” He shuddered.

  First of all, thank God. Second of all…what the hell? Jackson didn’t want any of the stuff her clients usually wanted. Why the fuck was she even here?

  “You’re here,” he said with a hint of humor in his voice, “because I want to write the score, including the official soundtrack, for Fall from Grace. And my brother says that without your help, I’ll never be able to get an agent or even be considered for the job.”

  Kendall forced herself not to cringe when she realized she must’ve asked him why the fuck she was even here out loud instead of internally as she’d intended. Yikes. She really needed to get her shit together.

  But Ray wasn’t wrong. Without some serious re-branding, no agent would take Jackson on. Brand new talent was preferable to a has-been. Or, that’s how most agents saw it, anyway.

  That’s when the wheels really started turning in her brain.

  Jackson was a great lyricist and musician. Kendall should know. She knew every Maelstrom album backward and forward and they were all fantastic. She’d also seen every behind the scenes special ever produced about the band, and she knew Jackson was the creative force behind every song, every album. There was no doubt in her mind that he could come up with a phenomenal score for the film.

  But even with a re-branding and PR push, would anyone give him the opportunity? He’d been out of the game for so long. Fifteen years might as well be a hundred in Hollywood. And as fa
r as she knew, he was out here living completely off the radar. No social media, no new contacts in the industry, no musical gigs whatsoever.

  Not that she’d spent hours searching for him on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and every other platform known to man. No, sir. Not Kendall Quinn. She might be a hot mess who got fired because she was dumb enough to sleep with her boss, but she wasn’t pathetic.

  Not much, anyway.

  Kendall cleared her throat. “Well, it won’t be easy. Every composer in the world is going to want that gig. God help you if the Star Wars guy wants the job. He can write his own ticket. And the studio will most likely want to go with whoever is hottest at the moment. No offense, but you haven’t been the hottest in a long time.”

  She reconsidered her statement almost immediately, because the slow grin he shot her was the hottest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

  “I’m aware,” he said easily, not a trace of offense in his tone. “I’m willing to put in the work to find an agent, and if I need a PR manager to do that, so be it. I can take orders. If you take me on, I’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”

  A bolt of heat shot right up Kendall’s thighs at his words. She had no idea if he’d meant that statement to sound so dirty, but it totally did. He probably meant he’d be the best client she’d ever had, but, yeah, the double entendre was out there and there was no reeling her mind in out of the gutter now.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not sleeping with you. Not ever.”

  He blinked at her. “I don’t recall extending an invite.”

  Admitting that she’d been telling herself she couldn’t sleep with a client and had accidentally addressed those thoughts to him out loud (again) perhaps didn’t paint her in the best light. So she opted for, “I just like to get that out in the open with all my male clients early on, just in case they get the wrong idea.”

  “Why would they get the wrong idea?”

  “Because in order for this to work, I’m going to have to get very close to you. I’m going to have to really get to know you—everything from what you like to eat for breakfast in the morning, to what you like to binge-watch on Netflix before bed. In fact, I’d like to stay here for the month, if at all possible. We’re about to become super close, Jackson Hale. Are you OK with that?”

  He met her gaze steadily and she thought she caught a trace of something there for an instant. Something that made her stomach tighten in response. Something like…heat, maybe? Desire?

  But then he licked his lips—which was totally distracting and made her eyes follow the motion like a hungry wolf tracking a baby bunny through the woods—and nodded once before saying, “I’m OK with that.”

  Great, Kendall thought uneasily. Now, am I OK with that?

  Chapter 6

  Jackson wasn’t OK. Not by a long shot.

  He wanted to score this film more than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time. But…

  Kendall Quinn.

  Jackson hadn’t had sex in, well, he really couldn’t even remember how long. Six years, maybe? The fact that he couldn’t even remember who he’d last had sex with was pretty pathetic.

  Had it been that waitress up in Butte? The bendy one with the pierced tongue who he was pretty sure stole forty bucks from his wallet before she snuck out of his hotel room in the dead of night? Probably, and that had only been a blow job because she’d passed out mid-blow. What a fiasco.

  He’d kind of gotten used to celibacy, if he was being honest. After the first year, he became numb to it. Started to forget how good it felt to have a soft, warm, sweet-smelling woman pressed into the mattress beneath him. Or against the wall, or bent over a table, or riding him like a mechanical bull, or…

  Jackson cleared his throat and gave his head a hard shake. The point was that he hadn’t even realized how long it had been since he’d last had sex or how much he missed it until he met Kendall.

  The real problem was that she was just so damned pretty. All that blonde hair, those big green eyes behind her black-framed glasses, her petite, lithe body, the way she smelled like Ivory soap and sunshine…it was all too much for his out-of-practice libido to handle.

  And even if he could ignore how pretty she was—which apparently, he couldn’t, judging by his current semi—there was still her personality to consider. Kendall was smart and funny and obviously hard-working. Her tendency to blurt out what she was thinking was ridiculously adorable.

  In other words, he hadn’t seen or heard a single thing from her so far that he found unattractive.

  And she’d come right out and said she’d never sleep with him. Not ever.

  That’d been a punch to the nuts, for sure. He understood it, though. She was a professional, and it definitely wasn’t professional to screw clients. And she was still recovering from whatever happened with her boss, so sex and romance were probably at the very bottom of her agenda.

  But still…it would’ve been less of a blow to his ego if she’d at least been tempted to sleep with him.

  Now he had to work with her, every day for who-the-fuck-knew-how long, and ignore how incredibly desirable she was.

  He blamed Ray for this. Didn’t his brother know any old, ugly, grizzled PR managers in LA who’d be willing to help him make the career move of a lifetime? Ray just had to recommend a woman who appealed to Jackson on every conceivable level?

  At this point, all he knew for sure was that there were going to be lots and lots of cold showers in his immediate future.

  Chapter 7

  Kendall was annoyed. Five minutes after promising that he was OK letting her into his life and letting her get to know him, Jackson sprinted out of the room like his ass was on fire, mumbling about something he had to do.

  That was three hours ago. Since then, she’d updated all her social media profiles to indicate her new (un)employment status and personal status (totally single, as well as bitter and angry, thank you very much), had a way-too-long conversation with her mom, and painted her toenails black. The color matched her mood perfectly.

  She’d spent some time exploring the house, too. It was nothing short of spectacular. Wide-open spaces, gleaming hardwoods, vaulted ceilings, multiple river rock fireplaces, soft, muted colors, and comfortable furnishings as far as the eye could see.

  By her estimation, the place was easily seven thousand square feet, with five bedrooms, six baths, a basement recording studio, a library, and an office so lavishly appointed that Kendall could imagine a senator or billionaire CEO working in there.

  But while everything in the house was obviously high-end and gorgeous, it was still comfortable. It wasn’t fussy or stuffy. You could put your feet up on the coffee table and not feel bad about it. This was a home, not a showplace you’d find in some design magazine.

  Kendall loved everything about it. If she ever got the opportunity to build her dream home, it was going to be an exact replica of this place.

  She’d ventured out of her room again late in the afternoon when she heard rustling in the kitchen. A personal chef—a lovely woman by the name of Florence who said she came in three times a week and cooked for Jackson (who she referred to as her “boy”)—had stopped by to whip up steaks, scalloped potatoes, and a cheesecake.

  Just the thought of homemade cheesecake made Kendall drool.

  Kendall had offered to help no less than twenty times, but Florence had flatly refused, insisting that she sit at Jackson’s fancy granite kitchen island and spill her life story.

  Florence, who was eighty if she was a day, reminded Kendall of her grandmother (God rest her soul), which made her extra easy to talk to. It had only taken about ten minutes for Florence to get Kendall to tell her life story in a big, messy, embarrassing way.

  Florence had patiently listened while she cooked and smiled encouragingly every now and then. She stopped once to pat Kendall’s shoulder, and gave her a Werther’s caramel when she’d started bawling about losing her job and her boyfriend and her townhouse on the same d
ay.

  She was really, really going to miss that townhouse.

  When Kendall’s sobs had quieted to occasional despondent honks into the handkerchief Florence had given her and she was pretty sure all her makeup had melted off like that Nazi’s skin at the end of Raiders of the Lost Arc, Jackson and Ray strolled in, looking innocent, as if they hadn’t totally abandoned her.

  Ray took one look at her and recoiled. “Sweet, merciful Dolly Parton! What’s wrong with your face?” Then he wailed like a little girl when Florence reached up, grabbed his ear, and dragged him down so that she could smack him on the back of the head with an open palm.

  “She’s upset,” Florence said while he rubbed his ear, frowning mightily. “Have some compassion.”

  He mumbled what could’ve been an apology—it was kind of hard to tell when it was that quiet and grudging. But Kendall ignored him. She was too busy looking at Jackson, who was regarding her with a thunderous expression that struck her absolutely mute.

  He stepped into her space, looking down at her like he was assessing her for wounds, and asked, “Who upset you? Was it one of my guys? Most of the farm hands are pretty good, but I have a few new ones I don’t know as well, and I swear to God, if any of them came in here while I was out and—”

  Kendall couldn’t remember the last time anyone had gotten super angry on her behalf. It felt really good. Warm. Tingly.

  Or maybe that tingly feeling was just because she was standing close enough to Jackson that she could feel the heat rolling off his skin, smell the fresh air on his clothes, and see the little specks of gold in his gray eyes. Huh. She’d never noticed those little specks before. Not in all her years of studying images of him.

  And boy had she studied those images.

  She shook her head. “No, none of your employees did anything to me. I was just telling Florence about everything that’s been going on in my life and I got a little emotional. It’s really no big deal.”

  That seemed to pacify him somewhat, but he clearly wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a woman crying—or fresh off a crying jag—in his presence. “You’ll tell me if anyone bothers you while you’re here.”