Page 68 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Tess kicked off her shoes in one sharp motion, asif shedding a burden, and strode toward the desk. “Because you never give men a point of reference. Never. We have to stay mysterious. Independent.”
Behind her, Bernie had already collapsed fully dressed on the bedspread, snoring softly with one arm dangling off the side and a shoe half untied.
Tess grabbed a piece of hotel stationery and a pen. “And remember this: what is the one thing a groupie wouldneverdo?”
“Uh… stay with Bernie and ditch Ryder?” I guessed.
She ignored me, scribbling quickly:I’d love to see Montana and hear your next song.Then she paused, chewing on the pen cap, and slowly added one final flourish beside her name: a lipstick kiss.
She straightened, admiring the note like an artist contemplating a finished canvas. “Never stay after the first invitation,” she declared with the solemnity of an oracle. “Leave only the echo of desire.”
“Countess Éloïse?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Tess gave the faintest smile. “The very best.”
40
The glamour of the limousine and the suite had evaporated in less than twenty-four hours. Now we were crammed into three economy seats, with the constant drone of the engine and the faint smell of tuna sandwich wafting from the passenger behind us.
Tess sat in the middle, legs crossed, staring straight ahead like a queen in exile. I had the window seat, forehead pressed to the glass, while Bernie occupied the aisle: head lolling, mouth half open, and a hotel scarf—probably stolen—draped over him like a blanket.
“Couldn’t we have flown back on the jet?” I asked.
“Only figurines stay on pedestals,” Tess said. “Muses… vanish. And besides, I don’t like the idea of being chauffeured around in his jet, as if I somehow depended on him. I want him to see that I’m mysterious, unpredictable, independent.”
“And now?” I mumbled, my voice thick withexhaustion.
“Now we wait again. Seduction is a game of waiting, if you haven’t figured that out yet…”
Bernie let out a grunt and dropped an empty gin mini-bottle, which rolled down the aisle until it stopped at the flight attendant’s feet.
Unfazed, Tess went on: “The one who wins is the one willing to lose everything… the one less involved… the one who stays silent the longest…”
“And the one who snores loudest?” I whispered, glancing at Bernie as he launched into a full nasal symphony in three movements.
Tess allowed herself the faintest smile. “He already won from the start.”
41
I had just hit the final period and pulled the sheet from the roller of my Olivetti, the paper still warm. The last chapter told of Bernie’s grand entrance — who, in my version, had become“a drunk saxophonist dragged around like a ragdoll from bar to bar, with the same enthusiasm of a lost suitcase that’s stopped hoping to be found”— and our lavish detour in Florida.
Afternoon light filtered through the window, slicing the room in two: half in shadow, half in a golden rectangle that lit up the pile of pages and a cup of cold coffee. The smell of ink and paper mingled with the faint tang of furniture polish. It was my little kingdom.
Then Tess burst in — like a Michael Bay trailer spliced into a documentary about bees. She was wearing a tailored suit — the kind that tells you“day off”doesn’t exist in her dictionary — and held a white envelope as if it were the scroll of destiny.
“It’s here,” she declared, planting herself in thecenter of the room like a royal envoy.
“What is it?”
“The invitation for the next leg of the tour. Montana. Luxury cottage, mountains, fireplace... Ryder in ‘chalet man’ mode.” She paused, her smile sharp. “And it says I can bring Bernie.”
I read the line:“Feel free to bring your… musician friend.”
“He’s playing it cool,” Tess said. “Pretending Bernie’s presence doesn’t bother him. Classic move from someone secretly chewing on his own pride. And I adore when they reach that boiling point.”
“If you say so…”
“I can see it,” Tess went on, eyes glazed as if she were projecting a private movie. “Ryder, in his hotel suite, naked in front of the mirror with a towel around his waist. He touches his sculpted abs and suddenly doubts: too perfect. Too poster-boy. Too… conventional. Then he thinks of Bernie. Bernie, who embodies everything Ryder only pretends to sing about. And not just because of his physique, which is somewhere between a sloth and a thrift-store mannequin. Bernie is the pure essence of nonconformity. He’s rebellion with dark circles, artistic torment in slippers. A tiny worm has already started gnawing at Ryder’s brain… and guess who planted it there? Me, Bea. Me. And the most delicious part is, he has no idea. He thinks he’s a tortured genius reaching his truths on his own.”
