European Tour (Rocking the Pop Star Book 1) (3 page)

“Try eight years. I’ll be twenty-nine in October.”

“So, you were a musician when you were a toddler?”

“Funny,” I say. “Actually, like you, I began as a teen. I was in a rock band, though, and I didn’t win any Emmys or Oscars.” I figure I could stick as close to the truth as possible…without revealing my GRAMMYs, American Music Awards, and Billboard Music Awards.

“Why did you give it up to do this?” She cocks her head to one side in that adorable way she has when she’s talking to me. “Mind you, I’m happy to have you on-board. I can’t imagine ever giving up my singing career.”

“There’s a seamy side of the music business I hope you never have to experience, Sky.” I look out the window at the cars zipping by. “I lost someone very dear to me and the music ceased to matter at that point.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cue awkward silence. Nothing like the subject of death to kill the buzz.

“A significant other?” she asks after a few beats.

“Yes.”

She nods and picks up the folder again, tapping the edge of it on the leather seat, unnecessarily straightening the papers inside again. I know this is her discomfort with us having veered inadvertently into personal territory. She replaces the file on the seat between us.

“So…what’s in that concoction you gave me, anyway?” she asks.

I’m grateful for the change of subject. “Caffeine-free tea, ginger root, honey, lemon, and a couple other secret ingredients.”

She flashes me a playful smile. “It’s like that, huh?”

I shrug. “I figure I’m only one-up over Amber because of my miracle tea remedy. If I reveal all my secrets, you won’t need me.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep you for your tea.”

“At least for the European tour.”

“Speaking of the tour, have you been to any of the cities?”

“Yeah. But you know how it is when you’re on tour. You fly in, do your gig, party, fly out.” Lather, rinse, repeat. This tour will allow me to see some of what I missed the first time.

“I’ve been to each of these cities multiple times,” Sky muses, “But I was a minor. My schedule was totally at the mercy of my mother.”

“She kept you under lock and key at your hotels?”

“Not quite. I could go out with my security detail. That gave me away as someone famous more often than my looks. You saw me yesterday. I look nothing like Skylar the pop star without makeup.”

“True.”

“So you agree that girl didn’t look like me, or are you saying she isn’t attractive?” Her tone is a mixture of miffed and probing,
but the look on her face is one of calm control.

Oh shit, that was one of those trick female questions and I totally fucked it up. I need to fix that shit with the quickness or I could be out of a job before we leave US soil.

“Definitely, the former, Sky. You’re beautiful either way because you’re a beautiful person inside and out.” It was true. Her manner was kind and thoughtful toward all her staff. I had yet to see her in studio, but thus far I’d seen no hint of stone cold diva in her.

“Said like a true Renaissance man.”

I laugh. “That’s a stretch. I love music, I’ll give you that, but I’m just a jack of many trades, and a master of only one.”

“Then you’re likely a genius.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I’m going to find out what makes you tick if it’s the last thing I do, Brody Kent.”

On one level I find it flattering that Sky has the makings of a crush on me. She is my type—sweet and petite, with just a tiny bit of sass. Her interest also scares the hell out of me on another level, because she has the wherewithal to throw some money behind her curiosity which could blow my fucking cover wide open.

SKYLAR

DAY FIVE

“He’s only been my P.A. a week, Alyssa.”

I’ve spent the last twenty minutes on the phone trying to explain to my best friend, and sister in the music business, why I haven’t jumped Brody Kent’s bones as I plod away on the elliptical in my home gym.

I made the mistake of sending a cell picture of him to her on Monday and she’s been calling every day to see if I’ve put any moves on him. Sometimes I dislike how socially inept I can be with the opposite sex. I’m traditional in the extreme, and frozen by inaction unless a guy makes the first move. I went to a Catholic elementary school, and had a nun for a tutor who drummed 1960s etiquette into me. It has been difficult breaking the mold. My sexy alter ego is an illusion I can’t perpetuate well one-on-one.

When I’d told Alyssa about how hard it’d been finding a replacement for Amber, she’d recommended I’m Your Man, Inc.  She’s used them in some capacity before and I trust her judgment. Of course, I didn’t tell my mother about the “uncontracted services” Alyssa swears they provide, but what Elaine Samuelson doesn’t know certainly won’t hurt her.

My last relationship with country singer Connor Weatherby ended as badly as it could six months ago. TMZ had gotten some rather telling video footage of him entertaining two groupies in a pool.  I believe the words “ménage a trois” and “tandem underwater blow jobs” had been used. My humiliation had been very public—as was our breakup—but his cheating ways turned out to be a real boon for my career. My only regret had been cashing in my V-card with the bastard.

Then again, I
had
made him wait two years. Too bad his skills turned out to be not worth the wait. I haven’t had another lover since, which is unfortunate—and a situation I am desperately trying to remedy now.

I’m going on tour in a matter of days and my smoking hot P.A. hasn’t made a move. I’ve flirted all week like a hooker having a fire sale and, despite the bad boy vibe he has going on, he’s been the perfect gentleman. That sucks like a Dyson for me because I’m way overdue for a rebound hookup to show Connor I’ve moved on and I’m not as devastated by his actions as he’d care to think. There is also the matter of my neglected libido. I selected I’m Your Man because
I
needed a man. Okay?

“My I.Y.M. guy took me to the AMAs and then treated me to a private party after the after party, if you know what I’m saying…” Alyssa’s voice trails off.

I brace myself. I have a pretty good idea of what she’s going to say next.

“In my dealings with them I’ve learned to make my expectations crystal clear upfront. Did you ask for the deluxe package like I told you?”

I adjust my ear buds so I can hear Alyssa better. “Is that a real thing? Amber made the appointment, and I couldn’t very well stress my interest in their unwritten services with my mother in the room. She would’ve picked up on it pronto. She was already not down with Brody’s looks. If she’d known he sometimes doubles for all intents and purposes as a high-priced escort, she would’ve blown a freaking gasket.”

“When is your mother going to accept that you’re an adult with adult needs?”

“When she’s six feet under—and maybe not even then. I can just see her now reaching for me with her cold, bony limbs every time I try to get my freak on.”

“Yep. I can see it. The undead cockblocker.” Alyssa howls. “So, listen, Sunday is your birthday. You need to serve Brody up some of your birthday cake.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“It’s known by many names. Nookie, afternoon delight, making whoopee…”

“I’m well aware of the term in all its variations, girlfriend.”

I go silent on my end as the primary topic of our conversation enters the room carrying his ever-present iPad. Alyssa goes on with several other terms, but I’m not listening. Brody spots me on the elliptical. His blue eyes light up. I swear, they look like he stole them off a CGI video game. They’re not just bright, they’re vivid. If he looks at me like he’s the slightest bit interested in me being more than just his boss, I’ll have an orgasm where I stand.

“Gotta go, Alyssa,” I say absentmindedly—anxious to get off the phone to engage in my new favorite pastime: looking into Brody’s eyes. “Duty calls.”

“Don’t you mean booty calls?”

“Shut up.”

“Later.” She ends the call.

I pull my earbuds out, and let the cords dangle over my shoulders. Brody is staring at me when I look up.

“What you got?” I’m trying desperately not to look as if I’ve been talking about him…or fantasizing about him all week.

“First pictures of the tour stage set and props.” Brody thrusts the iPad in front of me. With that move, I get a whiff of his aromatic cologne. The citrus and spicy notes emanating from his skin are enough to make me salivate—Pavlovian style. I take short shallow breaths to avoid making an idiot out of myself with a deep inhale.

I look at the screen and slow my pedaling considerably to start my cool down. My set designer has pulled out all the stops. The stage looks like a surreal version of
Candyland
with more mature themes and visuals. It’s not risqué, but strikes a balance between pre-adult and Madonna-esque. Something for all my fans. I love it.

“Perfect.” I hand the tablet back to him. “You’re riding with me to sound check, right?”

“Okay.” He smiles as he turns the iPad off. “Meet you out front at 3:30?”

“Sure.” I stop the elliptical and hop off. I eye my waiting towel on the warming rack against the wall and move to retrieve it.

Brody turns to leave.

He’s already near the door. After that call with Alyssa, I’m motivated. I cast off my badge of traditionalism and call out to him, “Do you have plans? Later, I mean.”

“Later as in after work?”

I nod.

A deep wrinkle appears between his eyes, and he seems perplexed by my question, but moves back toward me, a definite sign of interest.

“Would you like to come back here for dinner?” I ask.

He cants his head slightly and folds his arms over the iPad, posture relaxed, his biceps flexing as if they’re winking at me. He licks his lips, quickly flashing the pink tip of his tongue. “Is this a working dinner?

“Would you be disappointed if I said no?”

“Not in the least.” He smiles. His electric blue eyes smolder wickedly, and my girly parts take note.

Nope. I don’t think Brody Kent will be at all reluctant to taste my birthday cake.

Brody arrives, and I answer the door myself. Having sent all my staff home—except Malik, who resides on the property in one of two guest houses, and Della, the cook, because I have no such discernible skill—I don’t have much choice. Anyway, I prefer it this way. Fewer witnesses who’ll tell my mother what I’m up to.

I’m not egotistical enough to play my own music as the backdrop for an attempted seduction. Instead, I’ve put on a mix of contemporary ballads to set the mood. I’m already there, but this is in case Brody needs a little help.

Brody’s hair is down tonight and I’m not sure which I like better: the messy man-bun or the blond tendrils touching his broad shoulders.

The light blue linen shirt paired with darker blue linen trousers accentuate his eyes, making them seem an unreal shade of blue, and I have to swallow a couple of times before I can speak.

“Hey…you,” I say lamely. I roll my eyes at myself.

“Hi.” He enters with a smile he doesn’t brandish often enough. His gaze lands on my form without making the obvious sweep most men employ. I’m wearing a black soft knit jumpsuit that plunges in the front and back, sans bra, and he's still respectful. I need to do something to change that. In a hurry.

He turns and hands me the bottle of wine. “My neighbor is a sommelier at a fancy restaurant in Beverly Hills. He says it’s good.”

“You haven’t tasted it?”

“No, I don’t really drink much,” he says.

“How is it that a former musician just shy of thirty doesn’t drink much?” I motion for him to follow me to the dining room where the table is already set.

“I try not to ingest anything that makes me lose control anymore,” he murmurs. “I make terrible choices when that happens.”

“Are you a recovering alcoholic or something?”

“Or something is about right,” he says cryptically.

I silently berate myself for asking such a pointed personal question right out the gate. I don’t know if I want to pry into that subject further.
Yet
. We all have limitations—things we have to be cautious about. Mine is chocolate truffles. Can’t eat only one to save my life. I’ve binged and purged more times than I’m willing to admit on chocolate all for the sake of keeping this svelte size four figure that photographs and videos well. Do I want to admit this to Brody? Not tonight.

I gesture toward the table and we both take a seat.

Della enters with a steaming tray of food before we can continue the too-weighty conversation.

“Dinner is served, Ms. Skylar,” she says with aplomb, and she
should
be confident. She’s a fantastic cook.

She arranges the various serving dishes before us. “If there isn’t anything else, bon appétit, and I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Della,” I say.

“Thanks, Mrs. Armstrong,” Brody says.

“My mother-in-law might answer to that name if she were still alive, God rest her soul.” She laughs at her own attempt at an often-used joke. “I’m just Della, baby.”

“Della,” Brody says with a grin. “I’ll remember that.”

She leaves discreetly as always through the kitchen door that opens into the cavernous garage.

Sometimes I wonder why I bought such a big-assed house. My accountant calls it an investment, and that many of the expenditures for its upkeep are tax write-offs. It’s going to be a damned lonely place tonight if my seduction routine with Brody backfires.

Since Connor’s abrupt departure from my life, I’ve been bereft of male companionship. Malik doesn’t count, because he views me somewhat as a surrogate niece who pays him to keep her safe. My male band and dance team members are either married, have significant others, or are gay. And I work so much, I have little time to meet anyone of the opposite sex the way most women in their twenties do.

We tuck into Della’s summer salad, rack of lamb, new potatoes and grilled asparagus, and nerves make me feel as if the food is hitting the bottom of my stomach like lead. My body too anxious to digest it.

Making a small sound of enjoyment upon taking the first bite, Brody eats Della’s cooking like a man who doesn’t get a home-cooked meal very often. I suppose the onus is on me to keep the conversation flowing.

I take a sip of my water and dive right in. “Do you like your job?”

He looks up at me, a dribble of salad dressing escaping from his delectable mouth. When he licks his lip to capture it, I’m jealous that I didn’t get a chance to remove it for him.

He dabs his lips with the napkin. “Yes.”

I wait for him to expound more, but he moves on to attack his portion of lamb and potatoes. I give him a chance to put a dent in his food, while picking nervously at my own. Adele is saying hello to her lost love through the speakers, and that is the only sound in the room.

“Is the food okay?” I say after a few minutes of no conversation.

He takes a sip of his water. “Yes, thank you.”

Eyeing the bottle of wine Brody brought to the table, I sigh.

“Would you like me to open it?” he asks.

“Is it going to be too much of a temptation for you? I wouldn’t want to cause your downward spiral into copious imbibing, which would lead to obvious debauchery, and the consequential shame in its aftermath.” I’m nervous. Nerves always cause ridiculous streams of words to fall out of my mouth. Sometimes they’re nonsensical. Other times, they make perfect song lyrics…if I’d been a country music star instead of a pop singer.

Brody laughs and wipes his mouth with his napkin again. “What did you just say?”

Mortified, I cover my face with both hands, careful not to smear the little bit of makeup I’m wearing. I’m flubbing this in more ways than one.