“Look, you’ve got inside access. What can you give me that really feels like an insider is there? Because I can’t believe it’s all roses. What about the band dynamics? Maybe there’s a seven-year itch, like Gavin going solo?”
I shake my head. “He’s not going to do that.”
“Did you ask him?” Heath presses.
“No, uh, not really. But I get the sense that they’re sticking together.”
“Getting the sense and reporting the story are different, Stella. You either get in there and dig for the answers I want, or forget writing and just drool over them like a little fangirl. Got it?”
I recoil as if he’s slapped me.
“Who are you closest to?”
“What?”
Heath’s voice rises. “I said, who are you closest to? Which member of the band will give you what you want?”
“I don’t—I don’t know.”
“Bullshit!” Heath’s face is red. “There’s always a leak. There’s always someone who’s pissed off with the way things are and willing to spill their guts if you ask the right questions. If you give them some incentive.”
The way he says the last word sends spiders crawling up my spine, the sickening realization that he’s basically asking if I can sleep my way to a story.
“The question is, how far are you willing to go to get what I want? Because if I don’t get what I want, you don’t get what you want, Stella. And I thought you wanted to be our lead music reporter.”
There it is. The quid pro quo. If I can get a provocative story on the band, something that drips with sex and scandal, Heath will give me—what, exactly?
Heath pulls open his bottom desk drawer. “It’s five o’clock. Drink?” The speed with which he changes gears astounds me.
He pours amber liquid from a whiskey bottle into his coffee mug and I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“Loosen up, Stella. You act like a kid sometimes. I know what happens backstage, the drinking and the drugs and the sex. If you didn’t act like such a”—he fishes for the word—“prude, I’ll bet the band would be a lot more forthcoming.”
I bark back a laugh. Prude is something I’m not. And I’m not a kid, either, but Heath’s offer of a drink feels like a test. How far am I willing to go to get a story?
One little drink won’t hurt anyone.
“Pour me one.”
“Good girl.” Heath pours and I hate him even more for praising me like a puppy. “So when are you seeing the band next?”
I drink the shot of whiskey in one gulp and it slides like fire down my throat. “Tomorrow.”
“And can we agree you’re going to make sure that this next story is not something I could fucking read in a church newsletter?”
“I get it.” My voice is edged in steel. “I’ll dig for better facts.”
Heath growls. “Not facts, Stella. The story. Readers don’t give a shit about the facts if you’re giving them a great story.”
Heath taunts me at work the next day with little snide comments about how much he’s looking forward to my next story. The weight of his expectations—and the threat of what will happen to me if I don’t deliver—hang over me.
I rush through a series of quick write-ups for our website that are mostly cobbled-together press releases fleshed out with a few easy phone calls.
I’m always, always aware of my inch count for the week, and honestly it’s easier to fill my unspoken quota with half-assed journalism like this than with the in-depth features I really want to do.
I file five articles before the end of the day, then take the subway to Gavin’s penthouse on the Upper West Side to get ready for the premiere with Beryl. I’m nervous and wishing for a few shots to calm my nerves, but I remember my promise to Tyler and resist.
I’m trying. Really. I felt so guilty about the whiskey in Heath’s office yesterday that I window-shopped SoHo and ate at a hot dog stand instead of heading back to Tyler’s. He was out when I got home, and I never heard him come in.
The next morning, I found a note on the kitchen counter: Go to Gavin’s tonight to get ready with Beryl. I’ll pick you up there.
No signature. No warmth. Just the command. My heart sinks with the knowledge that my sudden departure Saturday morning—especially after he told me he was crazy about me—created a deep rift between us.
Beryl opens Gavin’s door and her face is flushed. “You ready for this?”
“Not hardly. How about you?”
“Still freaking out. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to appearances. When Gavin walked us out of The Late Show, I practically went blind from all the camera flashes.”
I balk. “Tyler said all I have to do is sit with him and watch the movie. Are we going to have to walk by the press? Like on a red carpet?”
Beryl shrugs—she’s almost as new to this as I am. “Maybe? It’ll be whatever Tattoo Thief’s label wants. Gavin said usually the guys run through the press together and the girls go in separately.”
I relax. As much as I wanted to be in the spotlight when I came to New York, I don’t want to be caught by the business end of a camera lens. For one thing, I’m not with Tyler. And for another, Heath’s going to expect a hell of a lot from me if I show up on Tyler’s arm.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Beryl reads me perfectly.
I nod. “But I promised Tyler I’d be there. And it’s too late now to back out.”
If I did back out, who would Tyler bring? Teal? My jealousy and curiosity trump the smart move—staying behind the scenes.
Gavin’s intercom buzzes.
“Jemma Townsend is here for Beryl Sutton.” The disembodied voice crackles through the speaker.
“Hair and makeup,” Beryl tells me, then presses the intercom button. “Send her up.”
Whoa. First the dresses and now a professional ’do. Once again, I’m out of my depth. Beryl opens the door and a striking blonde sweeps in, offering us air kisses.
“Look at you two! You’re gorgeous!” She cups my chin between her thumb and index finger, turning my face left and right to see me better. “Your eyes are stunning.”
I’m speechless. Jemma could be on a magazine cover and she just called me gorgeous. Beryl leads us to the same bathroom that she and I got ready in a month ago, when I was on a mission to get over Blayde and I thought she needed to get over her old boyfriend Jeff.
Now we’re dating rock stars. It’s surreal.
Jemma deposits a large, lumpy bag on the floor and opens a massive tackle box filled with makeup.
“Hair first, then makeup. Are you going up or down, Beryl?”
Beryl fingers her long, curly brown hair. “It’s hot. Up?”
Jemma nods. “Perfect. I’ll start with your hair then. Stella, what do you think?”
My bob feels like it only works with one style, but I want to try something new tonight, something that Tyler hasn’t seen before. “Do I have a choice?”
“There’s always a choice, honey.” Jemma’s bubbly attitude gives me confidence. She curls, twists and pins Beryl’s hair into a wild nest that looks effortless.
When she gets to me, her fingers filter through my hair and scoop it up from the nape of my neck. I close my eyes as she works, feeling her pin and spray my bob until it’s high at the crown and smooth at the sides, an almost-up-do I never thought possible.
Beryl and I giggle and gossip through Jemma’s makeup session, speculating on whom Jayce is bringing and if he’s even capable of seeing the same girl for more than a few dates in a row.