Page 34 of Fame and Obsession

“Look, man, you made some bad decisions following some devastating shit with the most vindictive bitch in the world. The best thing you can do is move on.” Still clenching one of the posters in his hand, he closes the distance between us before shoving it against my chest. “Use this one. You look like a chick in the others.”

Before I can say anything, he walks out, leaving me with a crumpled promo poster and conflicting thoughts.

I hope he’s right...

Because ready or not, the ball has been set in motion—and the pitch is coming tonight.

Eleven

Phoebe

Gage shakes his head. “I still can’t believe he said Eric didn’t have the right equipment.”

“He’s a chauvinist bastard,” I huff, eyeing the celebrities packed in the small room.

“Baby doll, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but it is cryptic,” he admits, at least attempting to appear apologetic.

“Et tu, Brute? Seriously? You think I’m banging for assignments too?”

I know I’m pouting, but I can’t help it. My ego has taken quite the beating lately.

“Pheebs, I couldn’t care less if you got your happy hump on with every byline in the Village,” he says, straightening his collar. “But how do you explain it?”

“I have no idea.” Crossing my arms, I move out of the direct line of a rapidly moving tango. “Maybe the promoters actually read my articles and—”

“Back up, bitchzilla,” he says, resting his hands on my shoulders. “I’m not the enemy. Whatever the reason, you got the prime gig. It’s just too bad your cheese dick boss won’t be here to see you blow this interview out of the water tonight.”

I smile. Gage has an uncanny way of refocusing my derailing moods. “I thought you said I didn’t need to prove anything?”

He sneers and pats my bare midriff. “You don’t. But with this outfit, on that body, the band won’t see the other reporters. You’ll scoop Rock World, baby doll.”

Although I ignore his other comment, he’s right. The only way to prove my boss wrong is to hold my head high and walk into this press conference like a boss. This interview is going to get me noticed by MetroGroup Publishing.

My book deal is in the bag.

I spend the next half hour of the press pre-party watching my best friend work the floor. Gage charms and schmoozes Grammy legends with ease. Contrary to what he tells everyone, that kind of smoothness can’t be taught in acting classes. You either have it or you don’t.

To look at the suave social charmer he is now, no one would guess his past is a tragic Lifetime movie.

Gage spent the first two years of his life in group homes, abandoned by a drug addicted mother. Adopted by an older devout Christian couple, his uneventful suburban upbringing came crashing down at age fourteen when he came out as gay to his parents. The judgment he received for the second time in his short life almost destroyed him. Within three weeks, they’d disowned him and kicked him out, refusing to speak to him.

He’s been on his own ever since.

Maybe that’s why we protect each other as fiercely as we do. Other than my sister, I’m just as alone in the world. But together, we’re our own dysfunctional family.

Not wanting him to feel like he has to babysit me, I walk like a newborn baby deer to the freestanding bar. I’d let Gage talk me into wearing stilettos again, but at least tonight’s suede Jimmy Choos wrap around my ankles and tie halfway up my calf. They’re still a recipe for disaster, but the edgy look is perfect for a Surge Records party.

The indecently short leather mini-skirt is a different story. It’s edgy all right, but impractical as hell. I have to hold onto the hem while leaning over the bar to tip the bartender so as not to flash my goods to the entire room.

At that moment, a quick succession of flashing light blasts my peripheral vision, and a figure ducks behind a potted plant.

Photogs.

It’s not me they want on film, but instinct has me sucking in my tummy and standing up straight. Tiny belly shirts and paparazzi make me more than a little self-conscious.

“Phoebe!”

Confused, I glance back at the photog still hiding behind the tree. Something about the whole scene makes me uneasy—as if I’m being watched.

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