Jonas smiled at the little redhead as he shoved the thick contract in her hands, even though he wanted to take Xan aside and pitch a bitch.
Another backup singer. Another sex scandal or fistfight on the tour bus waiting to happen. Yet another point of contention to rip this band further apart.
Rhiannon took the contract and thanked him like she didn’t even know that she was the hand grenade that had been tossed in the middle of the tour.
The hand grenade deserved to know the truth.
“You’ll join the show in San Diego,” he told her, “so you have two days to ditch your life here. You may want to throw everything in storage rather than keep your apartment, or you may want to sublet. I don’t keep an apartment at all, but I don’t mind being homeless. I have to warn you, I’m not sure if this is going to work out. The other guys all sing backup, but Xan has a bug up his ass that he doesn’t have to push his voice as hard if there’s a woman’s voice on the stage with him. If this works out, if you take some of the stress off Xan’s voice, then that’s great, but this may not be a long-term gig.”
She nodded, and her red curls swished around her shoulders. As her hair floated, a subtle scent flowed into the air, something sweet, something comforting. She said, “I understand. Thank you for this opportunity.” Her blue eyes got bigger, and she looked so young.
She couldn’t be much younger than most of the band, considering that Tryp had just turned twenty-one. The very last thing they needed was not just any sex scandal but an honest-to-God underage sex scandal. Jonas raked his fingers through his hair, just imagining that panic attack. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
Good.
“Read that contract,” he pointed. “Tomorrow, take it to the lawyers’ office. The address is at the top. Make sure you bring proof of identity, like your passport or your birth certificate and driver’s license.” That would make sure she was telling the truth about her age, because a lot of teenagers haunted the stinking streets of Los Angeles, looking for their big break and willing to do absolutely anything to get it, and lying to a rock band manager didn’t even make the top ten for that list. “And get it all there tomorrow, first thing, when the office opens at nine. They have a notary there, so you can sign the contract in front of him. We have a tight schedule to get you on the payroll and get the hell out of L.A. You’ll meet with the stylists tomorrow and get fit for costumes then, too.”
“Stylists?” Her bright blue eyes widened further, and he was struck by how cute she was, astonished at how the big time worked, but he shook that the hell off.
Jonas said, “Believe it or not, those rockers have all been carefully groomed, even though it all falls apart as soon as we get on the road. I’ll see you in San Diego.”
She thanked him again and walked toward the hotel lobby, clutching the thick contract in her fist.
Her ingénue astonishment meant that she was ripe to get into trouble, and Jonas would have to bail her out, just like he bailed them all out, figuratively and literally, and kept the band together and the tour on track.
Rhiannon’s three-month contract had a much more comprehensive non-disclosure agreement and an airtight morals clause, far tighter than any of the previous ones. If she screwed a band member, she was gone. Jonas didn’t need one of those guys weeping inconsolably when she broke his heart, or two of them fighting over who had fucked her first, or her turning up pregnant and paternity tests and child support in perpetuity, again.
He watched her walk away, her hips swinging gently and her glossy, auburn curls bouncing, so different than the gaggle of vapid singers, all of them getting by with minimal training, flashing their bony legs and silicone boobs, and waiting for their big break with a passive serenity stemming from knowing they could go home and be snapped up as a trophy wife if this didn’t work out. The band had auditioned over a hundred giggly vocalists during the last six hours until Xan had finally been satisfied with this one.
Finally.
And now the hard part began.
The Killer Valentine tour was a goddamned pirate ship, a leaky, rotting boat full of vagabond drunkards that pulled into port to purge fetid bilge water and pillage and fuck.
Women are always bad luck on a pirate ship, especially a pretty little thing like Rhiannon.