Playing Dirty (Stargazer #2)(16)
Author: Jennifer Echols

He kissed the top of her hair and said soothingly, “I’m sorry. I have a headache. Let’s start over. Tell me how you feel about the morning-after pill. I can call my car service for us, and we can go to the pharmacy right now. Actually, no, the paparazzi will follow us. We’ll figure it out, though. You tell me what you want to do.” He hugged her hard. “I’m so sorry. I’m a really bad drunk.”

She felt horribly guilty for lying to him. It was the only way she knew to shove him off balance. And she needed him off balance for the talk they were about to have. But oh, it was even worse to deceive a playboy who turned out to be a decent guy, or at least talked the talk. She didn’t like this side of Natsuko.

She looked him in the eye. “Quentin.”

He gazed back at her, green eyes sorrowful now through his glasses.

She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“I know this is an important moment and all,” he whispered finally, “but if we’re just going to stare at each other, do you mind if I lie down?” He flopped back onto the bed and pressed the palm of his hand to his temple.

“Quentin,” she started again.

“Ma’am.”

“We didn’t do it. You were asleep in five seconds.”

After a few moments of silence, he said calmly, “That’s a cold game of gotcha you’ve got going.” He sat up and said, “Excuse me while I go scrape my heart off the bathroom floor!” His hand was still pressed to his temple, shielding one eye. His other green eye pierced her.

Then he started to laugh, because he felt relieved, or because he could laugh at just about anything, it seemed. “What is the matter with you?” he asked.

“I was just trying to wake you up—”

“It worked!”

“—and give you back some of what you’ve been dishing out. You served me a big margarita glass full of bullshit last night.” She tried not to cringe at her own metaphor. Her mother would be horrified at the imagery.

Now he put down his hand and watched her with both green eyes wary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you’re a regular heavy drinker, I’m a horse’s ass. And I’m not a horse’s ass.”

“So you drank me under the table,” he said defensively. “But like you said, you’ve been drinking with Nine Lives, who eats brimstone for lunch and brushes his teeth with Drano.”

She raised one eyebrow at him. “I’m going to give you thirty seconds to come clean with me. And then I’m going to call Manhattan Music and tell them there’s no way you can have this album completed by July first. I’m going to tell them that they should look around for a more dependable country act that can deliver as per contract.”

“Okay,” he said quickly. He grabbed her hand and stroked his thumb across her palm as he spoke. This was strange. Usually when she had the inevitable adversarial conversation with a rogue musician, the musician backed away from her emotionally, even physically. Quentin came after her, drawing her closer.

It was also strange because she usually felt revulsion at these spoiled stars and their chemical dependencies. This one definitely wasn’t revolting. She tingled at the touch of his callused thumb.

“Normally we drink some,” he said. “Not a lot. We take turns drinking at big events.”

“I’m flattered that I qualify as a big event.” She considered grilling him about Erin not drinking at all. But she was reasonably sure he didn’t know this. She asked, “Why all the subterfuge?”

He looked confused. “Subter—”

“Why the big production of pretending to be an alcoholic and acting like a dumb hick who can’t tie his own shoes? You may not be a rocket scientist, Quentin, but that song you wrote in two minutes last night while you were plastered is going to earn you several million dollars. Why put on this elaborate show for me?”

Now, finally, he drew away from her, dropping her hand and folding his big arms across his pecs. “Because the record company sent you.”

“You want Manhattan Music to think you’re redneck drunks?”

“Of course.” He lay slowly back down on the bed with the muscle control gained from a million sit-ups. Then he patted the bed. Obediently she lay on her side. Now that her surprise attack was over, she ought to move to the leather chair across the room while they had this discussion. But if he felt comfortable with her this close, she supposed she could stand it.

Finding her hand again, he used his thumb to rub and gently tug the sensitive skin between her thumb and forefinger as he explained, “The band got together about five years ago. We worked at our day jobs all week and played gigs on the weekends. We scored festivals where we knew the record company scouts would be, and we sent in demo tapes, and it wasn’t enough. We had this terrific, sexy fiddle player—”

Sarah’s stomach turned over with jealousy. But this is what she wanted: for Quentin to be in love with Erin. This was good. It was part of the plan. Let go, said Natsuko.

“—and good songs,” he continued, “and a great sound, and we still couldn’t break down the door.

“Now, let me back up and say that my granddad was a banjo player, and my grandma played guitar. They toured all the honky-tonks in the South in the 1950s. Granddad always told me playing music wasn’t enough to bring people in. He and Grandma did some grandstanding. They might never have made it big, but because of their showmanship, they got on as studio musicians in Nashville.

“Course, that still wasn’t much of a living, and my dad resented getting dragged around the country and growing up poor. He always told me since my mom died from allergic asthma and I have the same problem, I didn’t have any business trying to make it with a band. I needed to hold down a steady job, get health insurance, and take care of myself. A little over two years ago, I was so frustrated with trying to get a recording contract I was about ready to agree with what my dad had always told me and quit the band. Then somebody in the front row at a show smoked a cigarette, and I had an asthma attack.”

“Oh no,” Sarah said gamely. She wasn’t for a second buying this asthma story the band had been feeding the press. Downstairs, Owen had mentioned Quentin’s inhaler. Probably more preplanned subterfuge. But she didn’t stop Quentin from telling her this tale. To protect the one lie, he might just reveal everything else.

“I had to go to the hospital,” he said. “A rumor started that I was on coke. All of a sudden, we got attention. More people came out to see us play. The newspaper wanted to interview us. I kept telling the truth, but of course the louder I said I have asthma and allergies, the surer everybody was that I was on coke.”