“And he doesn’t charge for this?”
“Not a penny. It’s all free.”
“So how does he make money?”
Alaina laughed. “I mean, the details are private, for which you’d have to ask him yourself, but he owns the masters for Bright Bones’s entire library, all the rights, everything, and he has his own label, so distribution and all that is him—well, Jeremy.”
“I’m beginning to see why Titus is buying Jeremy a two-point-six-million-dollar house.”
“Exactly. There’s also the fact that on top of the pop-up tours he does, Titus records as Bright Star and publishes that work for sale, and he’s selling very, very well.”
“So does he get his various featured artist friends at these pop-ups?”
“Oh, sure. All the time. This show in Chicago is one of those. Kanye and…god, I forget her name. An R-and-B bassist, a woman. Tiger something? Something Tiger? I don’t know. He was very excited about it. I don’t handle those details, though, that’s Jeremy. I handle Titus’s personal affairs.”
“I see. Sounds like Titus is very progressive.”
She laughed. “Well, it is, but it’s also that the whole touring and playing stadiums business reminds him of Tommy, and that’s just too hard. Those two were like brothers, closer than brothers, and Titus is still very broken up from his passing.” She huffed. “Why on earth am I telling you all this? I shouldn’t have said any of that.”
I wondered myself. “It’s okay, Alaina. I won’t repeat any of it to a soul. I won’t even tell him you told me.”
“Thank you for covering my indiscretion.” She laughed. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what possessed me to say those things—I’m normally much more tight-lipped about Titus’s affairs. It’s my job, after all. You just seem…I don’t know—”
“Call it realtor-client privilege,” I cut in, “I’d never discuss a client’s affairs with anyone. We’re good.”
Friday, 8:55a.m.: the meeting to sign all the closing documents was scheduled for nine. I hadn’t heard a word from Alaina or Titus. I was sitting in my car, sipping a triple venti caramel macchiato, munching on a chocolate biscotti that was the entirety of my breakfast. Which possibly, maybe, potentially, could be a contributing factor in my ever-increasing trend toward bottom heaviness. I mean, I know I should switch to, like, almond milk or some shit, and cut the caramel, and have real food for breakfast instead of what is, essentially, a dessert. But who has time for that? And besides, big asses are in, right? Can I get an amen? Because mine is going to have its own area code, soon.
I finished the biscotti, checked my makeup and adjusted a few strands of hair, and then said fuck it and added a layer of deep, violently red lipstick of a shade which I personally referred to as “Lady of the Night Scarlet,” and while I knew in the pit of my stomach why—by which I mean who—I was putting the extra red lipstick on for, I refused to let the forefront of my mind know.
I was keeping secrets from myself, and we were fine with that.
Tilting the rearview mirror down, I checked my cleavage: bangin’. Most supportive pushup Wonderbra, lifting and separating and displaying my all-natural 32DDDs to maximum effect, within the confines of a custom-made white button-down—an expensive as hell shirt but worth it so I could wear a button-down without the dreaded boob gap, which was otherwise impossible for someone as busty as me. The rest of my ensemble had been—if I was being honest with myself, which I was assuredly not—chosen with equal care to emphasize my curves: a pleated, crimson leather mini skirt, and my tallest black Louboutin stilettos, because even though I frequently bemoaned the expansion of my derriere, it did look pretty damn hot with the lift-and-tighten effect of four-inch heels and a killer skirt.
Hair done in loose spirals, makeup on point. Nails freshly French manicured. Rocking my favorite purse, my vintage black crocodile Birkin.
#Winning.
It was all in the name of looking my best professionally, of course.
It had nothing to do with anyone else.
Nope, nope, nope.
8:58. Time to go in. No one else in the lot except the ladies who worked here and me. Whom, shit, I hadn’t forewarned that they were about to host a document signing with one of the most famous and infamous humans on the planet. Have to do that before he gets here.
Notably absent, a particular classic truck—I’d done some research and discovered his truck was a 1948 Dodge Power Wagon. Sexy as hell, is what it was. I wanted a ride in it.
I wanted to drive it.
I wanted to be drilled senseless in the bed, under the stars, somewhere up in the Sierras.
Oops, I forgot, I wasn’t allowed to think those things. I’d gotten my ride on the Titus-mobile, and there was one ride per customer. Done, done, on to the next one, done, done—as Dave Grohl once sang.
Inside, I greeted Linda, the receptionist, and then called a brief meeting of the rest of the girls in the office, preparing them for the man they were about to meet, and insisting they keep their heads and not ask for autographs or photos.
Moments after finishing the talk with them, I heard the distinct growl of an old straight-six engine, and saw the massive red pickup park beside my car. The driver’s side door swung open, and a remarkably shitty black flip-flop extended to the ground, followed by the rest of Titus.
Fuck, he was gorgeous.
Today’s don’t-give-a-fuck rock star outfit: real, actual, unironically worn, baggy-as-hell black cargo shorts held up by a chrome-spike studded belt, a black, ribbed, wife-beater style tank top, a black slouchy beanie pushed back on his head to reveal a few inches of hairline with the rest of his hair tucked up into the hat, and of course his mirrored aviators. Lip ring glinting in the sun, a different set of beaded earrings running up the shell of his ear, heavy silver rings on his fingers, spike-studded black cuff on his left wrist and a heavy silver watch hanging loose around his right wrist.
Effortless perfection, rough, hard, ripped, and glorious with cheekbones you could cut glass with. The god of all rock stars.
Sigh.
Once was enough, and holy hell that once was epic. But it was over, done with, not to be repeated.
I heard several sighs behind me. I turned, noted the drooling expressions on the faces of every woman in the entire office.
I let out a sharp breath. “Okay, ladies. Let’s wipe the drool away and be professionals.”
There were laughs, but everyone straightened their backs, lifted their chins. I also knew I wasn’t the only one who may or may not have adjusted my top in the wrong direction—to be lower, rather than higher.
The passenger door opened, and another figure descended—tall but shorter than Titus, black, with a shaved head, neatly trimmed goatee, and thick-framed black glasses, wearing a tie-less suit with a casual air that said he wore a suit every day, maybe even on Saturday.
Must be Jeremy Mullins, the recipient of the house Titus was about to buy.
They entered together, Titus holding the door for Jeremy. Titus spotted me immediately and beelined for me.
A dozen questions fluttered through me all at once: did we hug? Kiss? Shake hands? Pretend we didn’t know each other? Was I capable of looking him in the eyes without having to resist the urge to shove my hand down his pants and see what popped up? Could I do this signing without every other thought in my being a sharp, vivid memory of the things he’d done to me in front of that mirror?