“The whole experience has been absolutely incredible,” he answers, the smoothness of his speech completely contrasting the almost rugged rawness of his singing voice. “And to end it here in New York City is the icing on the cake.”
“What about the rumors of you leaving the band? Any truth to that?”
I clearly hear Ransom huff out a half chuckle. “None at all. They’re just that—rumors. My bandmates are my family. We are absolutely devoted to each other and our music.”
Good answer. Maybe Ransom isn’t a lost cause after all.
“So the story about you and Cash Colby getting into a physical fight are untrue? And that you have supposedly slept with Striker’s wife? Rumor has it, you’re the biological father of her unborn child. How do you feel about becoming a daddy?”
An audible gasp escapes the lips of half a dozen groupies that have been hanging on to their rock god’s every word. I peer around Tucker just in time to see Ransom visibly freeze mid-step. He slowly turns back to the reporter behind him—the guy who’s itching for an ass kicking. And the way Ransom’s fists close at his sides and his angled jaw tightens, he’s just the one to scratch that itch.
“That’s enough questions for now. Please direct any further questions to my assistant sometime next week,” I find myself saying without fully thinking it through. I can’t fully justify my outburst, but I know the look on Ransom’s face was just a prelude for trouble. And the publicist in me couldn’t sit idly by and witness the press-provoked shit-storm.
Of course, every eye draws to me, wondering where the hell I came from and who the hell I am. Back straight, I step around Tucker and approach the group at the door. Yet, for all my confidence, I can’t find the nerve to look up at Ransom as I come to stand between him and the reporter.
“And you are?” the reporter asks. I recognize him—someone from VH1. He’s short, plain, and about as nondescript as you can get. But one tweet about how Ransom Reed violently accosted the press after the biggest show of his life, and he could successfully destroy the rocker’s already questionable image.
“Heidi DuCane.” I extend my hand and he takes it, just as recognition sets in.
“Ah, Ms. DuCane. I wasn’t aware that you repped the band. While I have you here, do you mind if I ask you about one of your other clients?”
I roll my eyes. These press assholes are fucking, life-sucking vampires. As soon as they smell blood, their fangs come out. And I don’t have to guess which client he’s talking about. Ever since the news broke about Justice and his relationship with Park princess, Ally—formerly Allison Elliot-Carr—my phone has been ringing nonstop, every vulture in town just dying to know the scoop on the two of them, and Oasis. My answer is always the same: “We refuse comment at this time” aka “Fuck off!”
And that’s exactly what I’d like to say to this little weasel of a reporter right now.
“I do mind actually. This is Ransom’s night. Let’s keep it about them and their music. The operative word being music. That is what the VH1 brand is based on, correct?” I reply, not even bothering to mask the annoyance in my voice. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to protect Ransom. And considering that I’ve never even met him, let alone don’t represent him, I have no right to feel that way about him.
Caleb and his shiny suit step up and, with a little more diplomacy, ushers the reporter out of the room, along with the crowd of awaiting groupies. A simultaneous, disappointed Awwww resounds from the other side of the door.
Without the distraction of the reporter, I’m forced to look up at Ransom, realizing that we are much closer than I’m comfortable with. Still, I stay planted where I stand, refusing to be intimidated. He must’ve gotten the same memo because he stares back at me, intensity simmering behind those dangerously dark eyes that seem to study me with rapt attention.
“Publicist, huh?” he says, his lips moving into a sly smile. “I wasn’t aware I had hired one.”
“Ransom, we talked about this,” Caleb speaks up, moving to inspect the spread of gourmet cheese, fruit, and premium alcohol. He picks up a bottle of champagne and proceeds to pop it open. “After Ingrid quit with your last social media snafu, I told you that you’d need to hire a replacement ASAP.”
That social media snafu being a very detailed, up-close-and-personal dick pic taken by some random hookup while Ransom was asleep. Ingrid Carlsbad, a pretty solid publicist and rival, was able to get it removed just hours after it made its big debut (pun intended), but the damage was already done. So she took the coward’s way out and quit, rather than appear incompetent by her peers.
“I know that, Caleb,” Ransom retorts. “I just don’t recall hiring this one.”
With that, he tears his eyes away from mine and walks to the back of the dressing room. Not in an act of retreat. It’s as if he’s dismissed me, yet I’m too goddamn dumb to realize it.
“Heidi DuCane is the best in the business. You need someone who is willing to protect your image, and at the same time, make sure Ransom stays trending. If you couldn’t tell from how she just handled that reporter, Heidi is who you want.”
Ransom pulls a beer from the fridge and pops it open, taking a long gulp. When he pulls the bottle from his lips, he spies Tucker quietly standing just feet away. Ransom frowns slightly, blinking his heavily lashed eyes rapidly before bending down to retrieve another beer. Then without a word, he offers it to Tucker, who accepts with a thankful nod. After that . . . nothing. Ransom doesn’t even glance in my direction.
Head high and shoulders pressed back, I go to stand beside my husband, the only person in this room who doesn’t have an interested stake in Ransom’s career. Yet, he’s the only one that seems to be gaining his attention. If I didn’t have built-in gaydar, I would totally be giving Ransom the side eye.
“Mr. Reed, you need a publicist—yes—but you also need someone who knows her shit and is willing to go to bat for you.” I take a step toward him and meet his gaze, which seems more . . . bored . . . than anything right now. Still, I soldier on. “I am that someone. I know this business like the back of my hand. I’ve made some incredible connections within the music industry and the press. And I protect my clients like my life depends on it. You won’t find a better publicist than me, I can guarantee you that. But I’m not here to beg for your partnership. I don’t need to. You know as well as I do that you need me.”
Ransom studies me for a long beat while he takes another sip of his beer. Even when he tips the bottle up, displaying his smooth, tanned throat, he keeps his eyes on me. When he’s swallowed his fill, he turns to Caleb, who is frantically texting while helping himself to Ransom’s rather expensive champagne.
“Where’d you find this one, Caleb?” he says, completely ignoring my whole spiel.
“I told you I’d bring you the best and I delivered,” Caleb answers without looking up from his phone. “Heidi is who you want. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Today?” Ransom laughs, the sound husky and deep. It causes the tight knot of irritation to unfurl in my gut. He looks back at me, regarding me with a look that I can only describe as contemplative, as if he’s analyzing everything about me. Self-consciousness snakes up my spine but I deny the urge to look down at the ground. His gaze quickly sweeps to Tucker for just a second, and then back to me. “Bring her to the suite,” he says to Caleb, his eyes still studying me intensely.
“You got it,” Caleb replies, stowing his phone in his suit jacket. “Ok, you’ve got the fan meet-and-greet and a briefing with the guys. We need to get moving.”