Page 2 of Behind the Lyrics
I dragged my purse into my lap and searched for the last of my Xanax. Since Jeff and I had divorced, I’d prided myself on not needing anything for nerves. With this news, though, the old familiar stirrings swirled in my veins, popping sweat on my brow and twisting my stomach into knots.
After washing down the pill with a bottled water, I replaced my headset and turned on the mic, lowering my voice to a soothing alto. I tried to ignore the dread settling around my shoulders like a heavy metal chain.
Chapter 2
Viktor Farrow
“What kind of shithole is this?” I peered through the tinted back windows of the Escalade to stare at the dismal, empty desert that went on forever.
Why would any sane person choose to live here?
Before me lay a small building, barely bigger than the bathroom in my home in England. Chipped in some places, the brown stucco looked like someone scooped a handful of shite, threw it at the walls, and called it a day.
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 actualfuckwere 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 tohurt?” I tried to breathe through the rising anger. “It’s going to hurt my fuckingcareer. 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.
