“You're supposed to be promoting your album,” I grit out. “That means interviews.”
“Bullshit. The only reason to make an album is to tour, and we’re sold out at every venue.”
“You're doing the interview,” I say. It's a struggle not to scream my frustration. “If you don't, you'll gain a reputation as a flake, and as your manager, I'd strongly advise against that.”
“Fine, whatever, now get out.” He shows me his broad back. “And next time, fucking knock.”
Mentioning that I did actually knock won’t change the fact I’d barged in on him sleeping naked in the first place. Really though, what choice did I have? There are less than ten minutes left until the interview—there hadn’t been time to keep knocking and hope he woke up before it was too late.
I slam the door behind me, shouting through the wood. “They’ve tried to call you half a dozen times, so if you redial the last missed call on your phone that isn’t me, you should be golden. And now would be good.”
I hear muttered curses. But shortly after, I hear the beginning of a one-sided call and, satisfied, I leave his suite.
Probably, he’s going to be a dick about this later, but I am only looking out for his best interests. I silently wonder how Colin would have handled this. The months I’d interned for him had been when Drew was in hiding writing his first solo album, so I never really saw any of their interactions apart from overhearing one side of the occasional phone call.
I wished I could have seen him with Colin, could have witnessed for myself how his ex-manager had coerced or coaxed or pleaded his way into compliance. Maybe Colin would know the secret Avery handling techniques that would yield results. Then again, if Colin were around to ask, I wouldn’t be here.
I sometimes get the sense Drew resents me for that, for taking his place. Not me, exactly—
he knows he needs a manager. I know they were close, and I really don’t think Drew is taking his death well, but there’s also not much I can do about that aside from small gestures and trying to make life as easy as possible for him career wise.
And the last part I’ve done pretty well, if I do say so myself. Though maybe Drew hasn't even noticed.
The fact that he hasn’t fired me is a good sign.
It doesn’t take me long to walk back to my own small suite in the same hotel and order up some breakfast. I go with a crab cake eggs benedict because it sounds good and I deserve it—I’ve just gone above and beyond the call by yanking his ass out of bed for an interview. I throw in a mimosa for good measure because I can already tell it’s going to be that kind of day.
I click on the suite radio to tune into the interview. It’s begun, but just, and I want to make sure Drew isn’t going to put his foot in his mouth in a way I’ll have to clean up after later.
“—some say this album isn’t up to your usual standards. What would you say to those detractors?”
What? This was supposed to be a fluff interview. Furious, I’m already reaching for my phone to call the station manager.
Drew's voice is a purr. “I’d say they need to pay more attention. I’d say they’re stuck in the past. They all expect more Fever Dream, more of that sound, but I’m not the same person I was back then, and you evolve or die in this industry. This album is more a reflection of me, of who I am, than any I’ve done before. I’m proud of it.”
I frown. This isn’t what I had expected at all. It’s a thoughtful answer, a good answer. The type of answer likely to endear him to fans and to intrigue outsiders enough to give him a listen. Maybe I don’t need to call just yet.
“Are you saying this is your best album, then?”
“People have this constant need to compare, but I think it’s a waste of time. Enjoy things for what they are. You can like the Fever Dream stuff and the stuff now. It doesn’t have to be a choice.”
“Well, Drew, we played some of the old stuff leading up to this interview. We’ll be playing a few tracks from your latest album a little later, so I guess we’ll let the fans decide. But new music aside, how is life for Drew Avery these days?”
I listen on as Drew talks about the tour and his music writing and what it’s like to travel so much, avoiding discussing his personal life as always. He manages to sound confident and witty without coming off as cocky, just like he always does when he’s at his best, and I breathe a sigh.
Avery can be very charming when he feels like it. Sitting there, listening to him talk, I'm lulled by his warm voice. It makes me think of soft cloth and strong arms.
It makes me think of seeing him nearly naked this morning.
Burning red, I nearly knock my mimosa off the breakfast cart. With a deep inhale, I chug the drink down. I want it to erase the dirty thoughts. It doesn't.
Don't think about him like that! But it's there, solid in my mind like age old concrete. Drew has a sizzling body, there's no wonder women fall for him. It's almost a relief when the interview ends and I can be free of his luxurious voice.
The rest of the day goes by without a hitch. While immediate action hadn’t been required, I do have to call and remind the station manager that if the local talent can’t stick to the script, they won’t be booking interviews. For as well as Drew had handled it, I refuse to be undermined since it’s my job to make sure he knows what to expect.
I’m in a pretty good mood as I arrive at the new venue, this time a large local concert hall that seats twenty thousand. Drew doesn’t love the bigger venues, but he could fill a stadium.
I hardly see Avery before the show starts, which is for the best since from the grin he levels my way when I offer him a brief greeting, he’s still getting off on our interaction this morning.
Sliding into the shadows backstage, I gather myself. It's not easier on my nerves since watching him work is breathtaking.
In painted on denim and a tank top, he struts and belts and strums, emotion raw in his voice. Drew owns the stage. I'm absorbed. There aren’t many things I can afford to lose myself to, but I'm helpless while looking his way and it's liberating.
Letting Drew’s music take over is safe, a guilty pleasure I can afford as long as I keep the line between us firmly professional, and I’ve been very careful to do just that. But as I watch his throat straining, his torso twisting with power and fire and an energy that could stop a train . . . I ask myself why I'm so entranced.
And I ask myself if I'm not being as careful as I think I am.
Because the tension between us is starting to splinter, and our time together has been so short. When we're alone, the air crackles and I nearly buckle to his confident aura. I need to stay away. I know distance is smart.
That means I shouldn't go to his dressing room after the show.
But I do.
Because sometimes—sometimes—I make stupid decisions.
When I walk into his dressing room, I'm stunned. It's full of groupies. There are two women practically draped over Drew, and several more are huddled around, waiting for an opening to get closer. They’re just talking, flirting really, one girl giggling as the other strokes his shoulder, each sitting on either arm of the plush stationary chair he inhabits. The girls are attentive, eager to be near the great rock star.
I can't help it, I'm pissed.
All of them are young, somewhere in their twenties, and dressed to kill in short, slinky dresses and stilettos. And too much lipstick. Way too much lipstick. They make me feel both under and overdressed in my short black business skirt and silk blouse. I grit my teeth. Why am I letting this get to me?
It’s not like groupies bother me, not really. They’re fans and fans are money, and if fawning over a rock star makes them happy, who am I to judge? Hell, if sleeping with a rock star boosts their self-image, it seems like an equal exchange to me.
My only problem with groupies is that they make things chaotic. I prefer to regulate the when and the where when I'm holding the reigns. That's why early on, I suggested that groupies not be allowed in the inner sanctuaries backstage be
cause they’re a distraction. I told Drew that if he must engage, he can do it in the outer areas and, when it suits him, take it outside the venue.
I haven’t seen him do more than talk to those lucky fans with backstage passes since, so finding this group here is a surprise and not a pleasant one.
I shouldn’t care.
I really, really care.
“I didn’t realize I was interrupting a private party,” I mutter. “If you’re too busy to pay attention to your career, I’ll just be going.”
Drew looks up and meets my gaze. There’s a wicked darkness on his tongue. “Feel free to join the party, it’s just getting started.”
The women around him titter at that, and it’s so fake.
“Oh, Drew, such a bad boy,” one next to him says with a light slap to the arm. “You should play nice.”
“Thought I was playing nice.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “Aren’t I?” He looks around to the crowd he’s gathered, who laugh and affirm his niceness.
“They leave or I do,” I speak over the noise. I’m furious and it’s stupid, so stupid. I’m just his manager, but I hate the thought of him—of him—
I expect him to dismiss me, for us to hash things out in the morning. Drew never does what I expect.
His face is stone. Firmly, he nudges the women off of him as he stands. He's tall enough to overshadow me and I get the crazy idea his head might touch the ceiling any second. “Well, you heard the lady,” he growls. “Time to go.”
The glares leveled my way as the groupies leave could probably melt steel if intensity was matched with heat.
But it isn’t them that I fear.
I'm alone again with the man who keeps breaking me down. The rock star king himself—my teenage fantasy and first real crush.
As Drew whirls on me, the fire in his eyes tells me that tonight, I may just burn.
Chapter 4
Drew
No one has ever pushed my buttons like Lucy. No one has ever had the gall to tell me to kick people out of my dressing room. Why did little miss perfect tits and ass think she could?