Chapter 16
Dominic
For a girl who only moments before had been approaching a full-blown panic attack, she had quickly adjusted to the idea of being on my payroll.
Not that I was surprised. The first rule of Hollywood is that money talks. You can have a fantastic product, but if nobody is willing to spend the big bucks, you’ve got nothing. In my case, the value of the product would increase if the scent of a scandal decreased. Otherwise my two best friends would happily kick my ass all the way back to Mexico.
Tim, Chris, and I weren’t interested in becoming a band where people think, “Oh yeah, them. They were really big for, like, a minute. I wonder whatever happened after the drummer got caught roughing up some girl in his room. . . .”
I couldn’t let that happen.
So if Holly needed a monetary incentive, that was fine by me. Most of it would probably have to be spent updating her look anyway. Not that she didn’t look good in my shirt with her tousled dirty-blond hair almost obscuring the collar. In fact, she looked downright hot. But slathering on the goop and the products would go a long way toward making her more acceptable to the public.
Whether she wanted it or not, I would have to supplement her wardrobe. And if the photographers happened to see me tilt a sunhat on her head for better access to her lips, well, that would just be an added bonus.
I had every intention of kissing Holly again. Repeatedly. Sure, I had done it on the deck primarily to shut her up and give the press their photo op, but I had also enjoyed it. Holly might be a walking disaster, but when her body was pressed against mine, that didn’t bother me too much.
My vacation was finally looking up. A few make-out sessions on the beach, holding hands, frolicking in the waves, and then returning to the suite where I could write lyrics and Holly could . . . do whatever she wanted. All we had to do was keep things light and casual.
But judging by Holly’s determined expression when she mentioned her birthday party, she wasn’t going to make anything easy for me.
Still, I hadn’t expected her to haul off and slug me as soon as we were alone in the suite.
“Ow! What the hell was that for?”
“That was for the uninvited oral assault.”
I did a quick translation from crazy talk to normal-people speak. “For the kiss?”
“Yes!”
“Really.” I settled myself lazily in one of the large sofa chairs. “Interesting. You seemed to be enjoying it. I think you might have moaned.”
The glare she shot me should have been deadly. Except her hands landed on her hips again and she looked more cute than ferocious. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t have smiled. The girl really did have a good left jab.
“I did not moan,” she said evenly.
“No, I guess it was more of a whimper.”
Her hands clenched and then after a tense moment she relaxed them. If my mother could see me right now she would have smacked me upside the head and said something about “raising me better.” But I couldn’t resist, especially since Holly always tried her damnedest to give as good as she got.
“There was no moaning, whimpering, or breathless sighing, and furthermore—”
“You sure about the breathless sighing?” I interrupted. “I could have sworn—”
“You were mistaken. I’m also accepting your offer to make me a publicist.”
“That was taken off the table.”
“Now that I’ve accepted, it’s back on. And as your publicist I get to decide when, where, and how we turn this fauxmance of ours into media fodder. Got it?”
Maybe she would do better in Hollywood than I’d originally thought. With the exception of her cousins, she didn’t let herself get bullied or settle for anything less than what she wanted. She would probably love interning with a real publicist since it would allow her to boss people around. She already enjoyed telling me what to do.
I crossed my arms. “The kissing is nonnegotiable. We need to sell the act, and there is no way that two people, in the beginning of a relationship, on a tropical vacation, wouldn’t make out in public.”
She seemed to consider this. “Fine. We can kiss.”
Her words hit me like a shot of espresso.
“With some requirements. One: All kissing must be for the cameras only. Two: Both parties must be fully aware of the situation at all times. Three: All kissing must be—”
“Under twenty seconds in duration,” I interrupted mockingly.
“No, but that’s a good one. As I was saying, all kissing must be—”
But I didn’t let her finish that time either. “This is ridiculous. We’ll kiss when we need to kiss to protect our cover.”
She shot me a stern gaze that had angry elementary school teacher written all over it. “If I ever feel like you’re using me I will make that punch earlier look like a love tap. I’m a publicist, not a prostitute. Are we clear?”
“Clear.”
“Good. I want a signed ReadySet poster.”
“And . . .” I prompted, waiting for the demands to start pouring in.
“Well, I’d really like to meet Tim, but I know our fake breakup might complicate that so . . . yeah, I really want that poster.”
I grabbed one of the cruise ship pens and pulled out a band picture from my backpack—I never travel without a few just in case I need something to distract our fans—then I hastily scrawled my name across it.
“Here you go.”
She took it from me but she didn’t exactly look thrilled. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”
“You said signed.” I shrugged. “It’s signed.”
“Yeah, but you don’t really count.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’m the drummer. Since when does that not count as being part of the band? I’ve got a Grammy sitting on my shelf at home to prove it.”
“Maybe if we had met under different circumstances you would count,” she said thoughtfully. “If you hadn’t pepper sprayed me and then acted like a crotchety old man, for example. But now you’re not Dominic Wyatt, you’re Nick. It’s hard for me to get all excited about having it signed by a celebrity when it’s you.”
I leaned back against the headboard, insulted even though I should have felt relieved. I hate it when girls keep stuttering, or cooing, or gasping, or whatever noises they make, when they come within fifteen feet of the band. Tim might get the brunt of the attention but Chris and I experienced more than enough.
But here was Holly, a girl who had only been at a loss for words once when I had mistaken her for a zombie . . . and she didn’t think I counted.
It rankled me since she so obviously had a thing for my best friend. It was only a matter of time before she started asking if Tim happened to be involved with anyone. That was one question I wasn’t at liberty to answer. As far as fodder for tabloids, getting caught with a girl in my room was nothing in comparison to coming out of the closet. It was stupid that anyone cared about Tim’s relationship status . . . or would withhold a job because of it. But homosexuality wasn’t part of the image that the entertainment industry wanted to promote—not when we appealed to such a large tween-age demographic. We needed to be good, clean, heterosexual, all-American boys who also happened to rock.
That, more than anything, infuriated me.
Chris and I had told Tim during at least fifteen band meetings that we would fully support him if he decided to come out. We would join him on the Ellen DeGeneres Show for moral support—whatever he needed: We’d be there.
Tim might prefer keeping his private life, well . . . private, but it wouldn’t take much to uncover that Timothy Goff was dating Corey O’Neal, currently a student at Smith High School in Forest Grove, Oregon.
I was surprised it had remained a secret for over two weeks, actually.
But since Tim wanted to wait for the right time to come out—although he never explained when this “right time” might be—Chris and I had developed a “no comment” policy that involved wide grins, expansive shrugs, and keeping our mouths shut.
So it should have been amusing that Holly had a thing for the one member of ReadySet who plays for the other team. But I didn’t exactly enjoy being told that I “didn’t count” as a rock star.
Or being compared to a crotchety old man.
“I’ll get Tim and Chris to sign it before I mail it to you. Now is that all?”
She nodded and then her expression turned thoughtful. “Actually, I have one last stipulation: You can’t leave me alone with my family. I came way too close to stabbing my aunt with a fork last night and . . . I could just really use a friend in the trenches. So lunches, dinners, excursions—if I have to be there then so do you.”
“I have no problem with that. Your cousins were very friendly.”
“You make a move and so help me—”
It was fun watching her get riled up all over again.
“Relax. I’m not going to do anything . . . much.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Let’s talk about my birthday instead, shall we? I’m thinking we go all out. Diamonds. Emeralds. Sapphires. What’s the going rate for a rock star’s fake girlfriend?”
I hoped she was kidding.
“Yeah, that’s not happening.” I started walking her toward the door. “You need to get the rest of your stuff before we try to make you look, uh—”
She glowered at me. “Care to finish that thought?”
Not particularly. My life would be so much easier with Tim’s ability to charm people.
“Better. More . . . polished. I’ll even pick up some . . . girl products for you. While you grab your suitcase.”
God, I would much rather face Tim’s and Chris’s punishment for screwing up their holiday plans, than spend my time shopping for Holly. But if I didn’t buy the junk, I doubted Holly would. When it comes to making sure everything gets done, it’s often best to handle it yourself.
She did a classic double take. “You’re going to what?”
“I’ll grab mascara and . . . stuff.”
Damn, that was painful to say.
“You plan on buying me mascara?”
I raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Did you bring any with you?”
“Well . . . no.”
“Okay, then. I’ll do it.”
Hell.
“Seriously?” She burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, you should see your face right now.”
“Look, just get your suitcase, all right?”
“Sure.” Her grin was out in full force again. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your shopping.”
And with that, she left.
Damn nuisance.