Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
This time, the record company had asked for, “catchy, fun, bubbly, with a hint of rock ‘n’ roll.” So of course my inner rebel wanted to dump a bunch of fourteen-minute tracks about politics and global warming onto their table. I didn’t even like politics, but I hated my record company more.
At the airport, we breezed past security and into the VIP lounge. The private jet was ready, and this was the part I despised the least about being Alex Winslow. I had access to the most ridiculous shite ever to be invented. Seven years ago, I’d drooled from the prospect of getting on a plane—any plane, fuck the destination or class—and now I was literally grousing about having one all to myself.
“Well, if it isn’t the mother of dragons.” Blake oomphed as I unloaded Tania, resting her guitar case against one of the tables. Blake often claimed Jenna had the ability to burn people alive if they disobeyed.
I wormed out of my leather jacket, looking around me to make sure my few valuable possessions—mobile, Tania, and wallet—were with me. “And you’re telling me this because…?”
“Because she ain’t alone.”
I looked up, watching my agent striding in her snug three-grand dress toward me. She’d brought sitter number eleven. New Girl was now standing in front of me, wearing a Mad Men type yellow dress. Tight and completely ridiculous for a daylong plane ride. Her blue hair was braided into an embellished chignon, and she looked like a color-blind fairy.
“New Girl,” I exclaimed with false enthusiasm, so that Jenna would think I at least tried before I gave her the boot. I refused to call her Indie because A) her name was silly, and B) that would be acknowledging she was a person and not an obstacle. I opened my arms and walked toward her, all swagger and easy smirk. “We’re thrilled to have you on board.”
New Girl’s smile transformed from timid to irritated. When my arms wrapped around her shoulders, I heard her wheezing out the remainder of her hope that this was going to resemble something civilized. Jenna was standing beside us, and I took the opportunity—again—to loom over New Girl and whisper into her ear, “Run, darlin’. One last chance to do so.”
Her body turned to ice, but she didn’t cower, and for that, I sort of didn’t hate her all the way. At least she had some backbone. So far, I’d treated her even worse than the rest. Because—unlike the rest—she hadn’t budged.
“Glad you guys are getting along.” Jenna eyed me, suspicion leaking from every syllable rolling between her lips. She knew something was fishy. But, like the majority of people around me, she didn’t want to open that can of worms.
I leaned back and threw an arm over New Girl’s shoulders, squeezing her into an embrace.
“Like, legit, we’re gonna be best buds,” I mimicked the whiniest, most valley-girl American accent I could scrape.
Jenna stubbed a manicured fingernail to my chest. “Write me an album, Al. One where you don’t throw shade at half the industry. Make it good. Behave. And just a heads-up—Bushell is doing a similar tour. Your European dates parallel. Stay away from him.”
My ears perked, possibly literally.
I wondered if Fucking Fallon—dubbed as such for ruining my life—accompanied him. Bushell, I never wanted to see again. Fallon? Now, that was a different story. Jenna saw the question on my face, because she was quick to answer it.
“Let me put you out of your misery—Fallon is coming with him. Listen carefully one more time—with. Him. Not with you. It’s over, in case you needed any more clarification.”
“Don’t tell me—” I started, which prompted her to bang her open palm against my torso. I was ninety-nine percent sure that most agents didn’t spend the better part of their time continuously smacking their clients in the chest.
“She nearly ruined your goddamned career! You almost snorted yourself to death. If you want to kill yourself over a girl, one who jumped from your bed to your ex-best friend’s without batting a pretty eyelash—be my guest. But if you pull any funny business on ‘Letters from the Dead,’ I swear to God, your tour title will become literal, because I will kill you.” She paused, took a deep breath, and then slapped on a Botoxed smile. “Metaphorically, of course. My lawyer said no more death threats to rock star clients until the Malibu house is fully paid off.”
I tipped my head back and laughed. A hearty, big, that’s-why-I-hired-your-crazy-arse laugh. Sure, I needed Jenna, but she needed me just as much. I was still the hottest shit since sliced bread in Hollywood, and even after Cock My Suck, which, admittedly, was a sugarcoated, mass-produced, Maroon-5-meets-Ed-Sheeran-in-a-Catholic-school-prom inspired album, I had enough star power in me to light up Vegas. If my next album flopped, maybe, just maybe, I’d be subject to that kind of threat. For now, I needed to make an effort, but definitely not to submit to Jenna’s every whim.