“Sure,” Emily said. “Do you think you will be able to get Road Assist out here?” “I don’t know. It is not the sort of neighbourhood where I want to wait around forever in either,” he replied pulling the limousine to a stop so that the trunk faced towards a building and away from the street. “I might have to change it myself.” “I have done that a time or two but not on something this big,” she said easily. “I might stretch my legs whilst you do it, and see if there is a discrete spot that I could squat in. Sorry, so embarrassing.” He laughed. “No worries, Emily. I guess you are used to making do with less-than-ideal bathroom situations on the road.” “Yes, there are some places where using a bush is preferable to the toilet,” she replied. “I have learnt not to be too delicate over it.” If she did not call emergency services, and Nathan kidnapped, raped, and killed her, she would be the celebrity who did not call for help. The rock chick bimbo who did not see danger until it was too
“Perfect,” Aaron gave James the thumbs up through the glass as James shook DJ Cooper’s hand and started for the door. “He was perfect for the job.”“If he ever decides to give up music,” the producer agreed, “he could have a career in radio.”“Don’t tell him that,” Owen said with a grin. “He will get cocky.”“So, how did I do?” James danced a little and preened as he joined them. “Nailed it, right?”“You made me sound good,” Emily kissed his cheek. “Thank you. The truth was,” she added to the producer. “I was an absolute mess. But James’ version is better.”“And will make anyone else think twice about trying the same,” Owen added darkly.“It is part of public life,” Aaron shrugged. “You get the good fans, and you get the bad ones. But that is a good publicity spin and renews interest in the album, so everyone will be happy with that, James, good job.”They headed out of the radio station and were met by their security guards at the entrance and escorted into the limousine, with the se
“This is a bad idea,” Victor complained, swinging on his chair as the pop artist moved across the screen before them. They had spent the day researching the artist, and a simple internet search had popped up a seemingly endless litany of drama. “She is a live wire.”Vice blew out a breath. He did not disagree with his business partner, but their manager, Aaron, had offered them the opportunity, and they would be fools to turn it down. “She has been in the top ten for pop for six years, produced four multiplatinum albums, and one which went diamond, which is more than we can say,” he pointed out. “She has sold out eight tours in that time as well.”“She has also been on every gossip mag cover for the last twelve months because of her lifestyle habits,” Victor argued. “Drugs, alcohol, rehab, eating disorders.” He ticked them off on his fingers.“So, she is a hard-working screw up,” Vice shrugged. “She is pretty.”Victor laughed out a sigh. “Filters.”“No, I saw her briefly on the red-ca
“Alright,” he gestured for Victor to bring him out a drink; he sensed he was going to need one. So, the girl was angry, and probably with good cause. She had the eyes for it, a fine edge between vulnerability and hardness was contained within those blue-green depths.They would make a good cover image, he speculated, but the entire package was nice. On the edge between curvy and athletic, as if she fought hard against her body’s natural inclinations and lost more than she won. Plenty of woman, he thought with a flare of heat that caught him by surprise, for a man to hold onto. “But there are different types of pissed off,” he added.She struck a chord and then ran through it a string at a time. “Girl anthem, pissed off.”“Okay,” he took a seat across from her and wished he had brought a notepad or a phone out with him. “There have been a few different types of girl anthems recently, many successful, all with a different feel to them.”“A call to arms,” she said as Victor placed a bott
Victor was lifting weights in the gym when Mirage entered in the morning. She paused in the doorway, as if debating entering and then shrugged and did so.“’Morning,” she said, and stuck a bottle of water into the holder of the treadmill before setting a gruelling pace that had him drooling within five minutes of watching her run.After thirty trialling minutes for them both, he thought wryly, she finished her run and moved to the pull up bar. She had her earbuds in, and whatever she listened to, it certainly motivated her. She pushed herself beyond tolerance, and he grimaced seeing the shake in her muscles as she lowered to the ground after the last set.He followed her into the infrared sauna. She had taken out her earbuds and left them on her phone on the bench outside. They sat together, sweating, and panting, and, in his case at least, lusting, he thought. She seemed indifferent to him. It was not something that he was accustomed to, a woman being disinterested.“So, Vice doesn’t
“Oh, hey,” she glanced over her shoulder. “I am making omelettes.”“We will set the table,” Vice offered, pulling a lustful face at Victor as Mirage turned back to her cooking. “Did you sleep well?”“Great,” she replied lightly. “It is so quiet here. I have been bouncing around hotels and motels for a few months now, and they are never quiet.”“You don’t own property?” Vice set the table as Victor brewed coffee.“I do,” she flipped the omelette. “But the addresses were leaked to the press. I move around a lot, to avoid, you know,” she shrugged. “Photographers.”“You have had a lot of publicity over the last year,” Vice prompted taking the opening.“Yeah,” she was grim in her response, sliding an omelette onto a plate and beginning another. “I can’t seem to avoid it. That saying: no publicity is bad publicity? So not true. I go to a club, and I am battling alcohol. I visit my doctor, and I am being checked into rehab. I go to a hot yoga session, and I am having a meltdown in public – w
Mirage drifted on the inflatable pool lounge, one hand holding a mocktail that Vice had mixed for her, and the other trailing in the water, as she watched the two men from behind the shield of her sunglasses. There were worse ways to spend a hot summer afternoon, she thought, and there couldn’t be a better view.If there was a God, she definitely was a woman, Mirage concluded, because only a woman would have crafted Vice and Victor. They belonged on the covers of the romance books her mother used to read. Victor was a sun-kissed idol of a man, all broad shoulders, bronzed skin, strong jaw, and almost white-blonde hair, reminding her of movie superheroes, and Vice was lean, his hair like thick black silk, all sharp cheekbones and smouldering eyes, reminiscent of the models that sulked their way across the billboards, hands in pockets, and moody darkness in their eyes.A man for every taste, she joked to herself, except for hers. She was done with men. She was not into women, either how
“Should we get out of the pool?” She did not want to. It was nice floating with Vice’s hard body against hers. “No,” he lifted his sunglasses, watching the inside of the house. She heard voices and saw a group of people enter. “Ah, they brought the whole band,” he added, unbothered by the additions. “Hey!” Two-Way Street’s drummer James’ hair was an overgrown ash-blonde, and he wore a scruff of stubble on his face as if he had not bothered shaving for a week. She recognised him from the promotional videos and gossip pages. “No fair, Vice,” he complained already stepping out his shoes and pulling off his designer-faded t-shirt. He had the sort of physique that was naturally given to skinniness, she thought with envy, and with lean muscles that were reflective of his instrument’s demands. “I want to float with Mirage.” He shoved his jeans off his hips and waded into the pool in his underwear, completely uninhibited by the fact that he wasn’t wearing swimwear. “Beat you to it, James,