Those green eyes sharpen on my face. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
I tense. Why would he think I’d recognize him? “No. Should I?”
The guy shrugs. “What landed you in here?”
“Fomenting political insurrection. You?”
“Jerking off in the gym.”
It is hard to tell if he is serious or just trying to shock me. Masturbation is a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation at PP Academy. PP Academy…I laugh, stare at him hard and say, “I’m glad you didn’t offer to shake my hand.”
The boy doesn’t smile and I bite my lip to stop my laughter.
“You look and sound just like your dad. Sans accent, of course,” he says in a heavy, all-knowing way, irritating me and sounding as though he’s irritated by his own discovery.
OK, it’s time to stop this now. The boy is messing with me, but unfortunately I’m a little off-kilter from my bizarre internal response to him and whatever it was I heard in his voice when he made that annoying assumption on my parentage.
I snap, “How would you know?”
“I just saw him a month ago in Munich,” he replies casually, twirling his own pink paper around his finger.
“Did you really? Do you have a psychic hotline? Do you speak with the dead as well as see them? Neil Stanton has been dead over ten years.”
The guy shrugs again, leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “You’re funnier than Alan Manzone. He’s a real prick these days.”
Before I can stop myself, yet again I respond to his baiting. “Alan Manzone is a prick every day.”
The boy just shakes his head. “No, he’s actually a really cool guy.”
“He’s a narcissistic asshole.”
“You really hate him, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you if you were me?”
“Probably,” he says. “Do you want to get out of here? If we stay, Williams will keep us until after six cleaning the bleachers. We won’t get in trouble, you know. No one wants to deal with my mother so they won’t call her. I don’t think they’ll call your mother either. I never stay for detention. Do you want to get out of here?”
I stare up at him apprehensively. Who is this guy? He says everything with such an air of knowing unenthusiasm. Debating with myself over whether to leave with him, I ask, “If you don’t stay why were you on the bench?”
“I saw you leaving class with the pink slip.”
That pleases me more than I want to be. Direct and honest in a no-bullshit type of way. Another rarity at PP Academy.
I give him the stare. “You know, you could have just said ‘hi’ to me in the halls. You didn’t have to be a stalker about the whole thing.”
“Sure, I could have. But meeting on the detention bench makes a more interesting story, don’t you think?”
“Interesting for who?”
“My mom and dad, who by the way, think that I am gay.”
That level of honesty wrapped in self-confidence is too appealing. I don’t want to get close to any guy, something tells me especially not this guy, but somehow I feel myself being drawn to him.
I sink farther back into my seat. “And are you gay?”
“Hell no. I just like to fuck with my dad.”
I find myself laughing again and I really don’t like it.
“Well, do you want to get out of here or not?” he asks, starting to collect his things.
I let out an aggravated sigh and rise to my feet, jerking my heavy tote bag over my shoulder. In the deserted hallways he doesn’t talk and just kind of lumbers indifferently beside me. There is a scattering of students in the parking lot when we get there, and I continue purposely toward my car, thinking maybe he intends to cut out here.
I fumble in my shoulder tote for my keys to keep from looking at him, but when I lift my face I find him standing by my passenger door even though I haven’t invited him to leave campus with me. “Are you going to tell me who you are? I’d have to be an idiot to let a complete stranger in LA into my car, even here.”
He looks amused. “We already know each other.”
Over the roof of my car I give him another sharp study. “Drawing a blank here. Can you give me a clue?”
He leans with his elbows on the roof and fixes those interesting green eyes on me. “I know your dad. More importantly, I know Alan Manzone is your dad.”
Impatient now, irritated and showing it, I snap, “Why do you keep saying that? How the fuck would you know what I don’t even know for sure? You are some strange stalker, aren’t you?”
“Yep, you’re Alan Manzone’s daughter. I know because my parents say you are. My dad is Len Rowan. I’m Bobby Rowan.”
CHAPTER 2
Oh fuck!
Bobby Rowan. Shit, how could I have not recognized him? He was practically my only friend when I was little, a card-carrying member, just like me, of that strange insider circle I’m forced to live in.
The son of Blackpoll’s legendary bass player, Len Rowan. He’s part of my prick of a father’s neat, tight little elite rocker universe that used to include Mom and me until the asshole got tired and walked out on us when I was eight. Bobby’s mother, Linda Rowan, is still friends with my mom, but hell, I haven’t seen Bobby since my dad banished us from his world, and my mom quickly jumped into marriage with husband number two, Jesse Harris, a bestselling novelist.
Fuck, Bobby Rowan.
Yep. It’s him. I shouldn’t have missed that one, because even as hot as he is now I can still see my childhood playmate somewhere in those intense green eyes.
Then I cut myself some slack because it has been ten years since I’ve seen him and he has changed. Crap, how the hell did a geek like Bobby Rowan grow up to be one hot motherfucker?
Shit, he’s hot, but I shouldn’t let myself forget who he is.
He’s danger, Kaley. Danger.
Being friends with him would not be a good thing.
What should I do?
“Hey, Bobby. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” a chubby blond girl sitting on the hood of a Mustang next to my Lexus SUV shouts out none too softly.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who she is, Zoe,” Bobby says. “And if you want to talk to her, get off your ass and walk over here.”
She grabs her things, slides off the hood and bounces across the parking lot. “I was trying to be polite,” she says, annoyed.
“Too late for that,” he counters, but there is a change to his tone that tells me they’re friends and he likes this girl. He looks at me. “Don’t be rude. Zoe is OK.”
That comment prompts me to give the girl a more careful study. She’d be pretty if she just lost twenty pounds. But she is very attractive even plump and doesn’t seem malicious in any way. The way she smiles at Bobby makes me wonder if they are more than friends, if she might be his girlfriend.
“Kaley, this is Zoe Kennedy,” Bobby says. “Her dad’s Ian Kennedy the music producer. She is the other corner of the Bermuda Triangle of industry brats here.”
Oh crap, this day just keeps getting better. Is everyone I meet today going to have parents who are friends with Chrissie? Way to suck the fun out of my life, Mom. Drop me in a school surrounded by the children of your warped universe.
Fuck, at least in Santa Barbara I didn’t have to deal with this shit: newbie at school, fucked-up home life, and a shitload of things I’ve been ordered not to tell anyone.
Great fucking move, Chrissie. Yep, Pacific Palisades was a good call when you decided to relocate.
I shake off my irritation and frown. “Bermuda Triangle?” I hate feeling like I’m totally left out of the joke. “What are you talking about?”
Zoe smiles. “There are only three of us now, music industry brats. Last year there was a herd of us and they were definitely out of control. The faculty expects us to be hell-raisers. That’s why the teachers call us the Bermuda Triangle. Given who your dad is, I think they were in terror of you coming here. Why do you think they are all terrified of you? The actors’ brats do drugs. The rich are pretentious wannabe-famous stalkers. But the music industry kids—”