The two vehicles in the car park weren’t much better but one in particular drew my attention. I stared with equal parts revulsion and morbid fascination. It was a Ford pickup from the seventies, or maybe the forties—it was hard to tell with all the red rust gracing its body—and looked to be missing its passenger-side window. But never fear—a black trash bag, taped over the opening with silver duct tape, protected its precious interior.
“I know it doesn’t look like much…” My PA held up a hand as if he could physically ward off my next sentence. I’m sure my face gave away my mood. Pissed.
“It needs to be fucking demolished, Andy. What in the actual fuck were you thinking, booking me in a place like this?” My assigned driver, Clive, parked the SUV next to the rust bucket, and I sneered.
How could someone stand to drive around in that thing, knowing people were watching?
“I was the fucking singer of Angry Gods, not some new cover band guy looking for a minute of air-time wherever he can find it.”
“It’s the only place nearby that could fit you in.” Andy’s face flushed, and he pulled at the collar of his suit, beads of sweat forming on his brow and running down the sides of his face.
“Yeah, I can’t imagine why, can you?” I threw open the door and stepped into the heated air. There wasn’t another building or home for miles. Only desert, gigantic cactus plants, and rocks dotted the landscape. “It’s a goddamn wasteland, you imbecile. No one in their right mind would want to drive out here.”
“Please, Mr. Farrow, just give it a shot.” With a desperate grab to the door handle, he jumped out of the front passenger’s seat and faced me, hands clasped at his chest. He always reminded me of a little dog jonesing for a piss. “What’s it gonna hurt?”
“What’s it going to hurt?” I tried to breathe through the rising anger. “It’s going to hurt my fucking career. Look at this place.” I scowled. Surely this is a joke. But I knew it wasn’t. Again, I cursed the weakness that had brought me to such a low point in my life. Self-control. I’d always had issues with it, and at age twenty-three, when I’d become a real god—at least in my mind—I’d lost myself completely. And everything I’d ever cared about.
Andy twisted his hands together. His gaze darted from my face, to the building then to the sand surrounding everything in sight.
“Fuck,” I groaned. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? I want to get out of here as quickly as possible before the paparazzi get wind of how low I’ve sunk.” In a way, this was a fitting scenario. If I wanted to resurrect my career from the grave I’d dug with my indiscretions and poor life choices, then I’d have to start from the ground up.
And this was certainly scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Chapter 3
Angela Morales
Terri opened the door. “He’s here,” she whispered.
“Great. Can’t wait.” I turned to the computer and rechecked my time then removed my headphones. “Hope he’s not stoned out of his mind for the interview.”
“He is not,” a clipped, steady voice answered.
Well, shit. With an inward sigh, I twisted the stool and came face-to-face with Viktor Farrow. I’d only seen him on television, and that had been years ago. Despite his fast-paced life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, he didn’t look to be in his mid-thirties but closer to my age, somewhere in his late twenties.
Wavy, blond hair fell past his shoulders like molten gold, and he sported a darker, well-groomed beard. But his eyes were his best feature. Light brown and half-hooded, they were bedroom eyes that could make a girl go weak in the knees—if she didn’t already know he was a royal jerk.
Brightly colored sleeve tattoos of intricate designs and symbols covered his arms. A black, short-sleeved shirt with a sharp gray tie cinched at the neck made him appear every bit the arrogant superstar. Ripped designer jeans completed the ensemble.
He really is a beautiful man. Too bad he’s such a dick.
I pointed to the opposite seat. “We’re on in a few minutes.” Maybe I should’ve introduced myself, but big rock stars didn’t care about names or the little people who helped get them to where they were. All they cared about was fame, glory, and their next fix.
He eyed me coolly but remained standing next to the door, pursing his lips to the side as if he’d tasted something disgusting.
Feeling’s mutual, buddy.
Terri’s gaze bounced from me to him then back to me. She widened her stare and tightened her mouth.
I held back a giggle. She’s probably seeing the station’s one opportunity to garner new listeners and advertisers going up in smoke.
And if that happened, I’d be jobless. I sighed and rolled my eyes.
Without much enthusiasm, I held out a hand to Viktor and took a step in his direction. “Angela Morales.” I kept my words flat and even. “Nice to meet you.”
That lovely gaze traveled over my body, starting with my face then leisurely moving lower. Something flickered in the depths of his pupils, replacing the angry stare with interest—or at least less aggression.
Heat prickled my skin, and I fought an urge to flee. The way his eyes lingered on me, as if he were evaluating a work of art, raised alarm bells in my head.
Keep this professional, Angela. His unending line of women and constant drug and alcohol abuse were well-known when he toured. This thought, more than any others, cooled my heated blood, because it reminded me of my alcoholic ex-husband.
He moved to me and gripped my hand. “Viktor Farrow. It’s a pleasure.” His callused fingertips caressed my palm, creating a spark of heat that shot to my toes.
I tried to pull my fingers from his, but he held fast. A tiny smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
Exasperated with this little game, I quirked an eyebrow. “I know exactly who you are, Mr. Farrow. The coked-up singer who put his junk in anything that moved.” Oh, no. Sometimes, my mouth spoke before my brain had time to catch up.
Behind me, Terri let out an audible moan then the door clicked shut.
I threw a glance over my shoulder to confirm what I suspected. Terri was nowhere in sight.
Well, it’s true. Everyone knows he’s a druggie.
“Ouch.” He dropped my hand like it was a hot coal. “You really know how to cut a man when he’s trying to build himself back up. Let me guess—you’re a lesbian?”
“What?” I planted my fists on my hips. “What would that have to do—” Shaking my head, I glanced at the monitor. Just over a minute until show time. “Never mind. No, I’m not, not that it matters. But I am pragmatic and have no intention of trying out your community property, so you can put your eyes right back in your head.” Ah, the medicine was kicking in and the jitters fell away. I could handle this swaggering god of rock.
A deep scowl turned his full lips downward. “That was years ago. People change.” He paced to the guest station and sat. “Though I don’t understand why I’m explaining this to you. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m in your dumpy little studio. How many listeners do you have? Three, counting your boss?”
What. A. Jerk. But I had to remember I needed this interview, too, so I reined in my temper. “It’s in K-ROC’s best interest to see this happen. We’re as desperate to make this work as you are to jumpstart your dead career—”