Playing Dirty (Stargazer #2)(7)
Author: Jennifer Echols

“Thanks so much for coming!” Erin exclaimed in a chipmunk voice, the high harmony for the group. Sarah could see why the men loved this blond, tiny-voiced, big-breasted girl. And she felt that familiar envy from high school, fresh as yesterday, of beauty queens who were easy with boys.

Erin tilted her head to one side, long blond ponytail curling around one breast. “We’re sorry you came all this way for nothing. Everything’s great with us. And as you saw when you met Rachel, we don’t need any help with publicity.”

“Erin,” Sarah said pointedly, “the only publicity the Cheatin’ Hearts have had this year is bad publicity.”

The three men, whom Sarah could see dimly through the dusk, guffawed and clapped appreciatively. One of them yelled, “Better than nothing!”

“I disagree,” Sarah called back.

Erin gave Sarah a cute pout. But Sarah thought she detected a calculating look in Erin’s blue eyes as she chirped, “Well, have a drink while you’re here! Quentin makes a mean margarita.” She drew Sarah by the hand to the table. “This is Quentin, and Owen, and Martin,” she said.

“I’m Sarah Seville.”

The men stared dumbfounded at Sarah. Her heart raced. She was used to meeting celebrities, but it was strange to study them all day, then finally meet them, larger-than-life. Especially stars as handsome as these. And after spending years as a mousy jock and only nine months as a sexy PR diva, she still got a small thrill from being gawked at.

Quentin’s eyes met Sarah’s, then slid rudely down to her br**sts and back up. He meant to intimidate her. But he wasn’t doing a very good job. His wide green eyes gave him the look of a small boy at the circus for the first time. She felt her envy of Erin melting away, replaced by power.

All at once, the three men were scraping back their chairs and standing.

“Take mine,” a voice said in her ear—the strong melody from the albums, Quentin. A chill coursed from her ear down to her toes. “I’ll get you a drink,” the melody added.

By the time she’d turned to him, he was walking toward the house, ethereal in the strange light of sunset. All she could see were the ancient deck shoes that looked like he might have bought them the last time they were in style—middle school—and a pair of cargo shorts, and a loose green T-shirt. But she knew from the album cover that an incredible body was hidden underneath the ratty clothes.

“Play with us?” the big blond, Owen, asked in his baritone voice. His shirt was off, baring his muscled chest and the gunshot scar on his shoulder—his souvenir from Crete. He nodded to the table. In addition to margarita glasses in various stages of emptiness, poker chips were piled at each place. The center of the table was crowded with a stack of hundred-dollar bills and Erin’s jewelry—everything but the diamond cross.

“How much?” Sarah asked.

“Thousand,” Owen said.

Quickly Sarah considered her options. She needed to ensure Quentin’s stability and extract an album from the band, pronto. She couldn’t afford to waste time drinking with these reprobates. But partying with the stars was often the best way to get to know them and earn their trust. As long as she didn’t let things get out of control. And she wouldn’t.

Not this time.

Careful not to bat an eye, she sat in Quentin’s chair and pulled her checkbook from her bag. She had plenty of money in her account, but it would be nice if she could expense this. Making a mental note to ask Wendy about company policy on expensing bets, she poked her check into the pile of money.

“And when you’ve lost all your money, stripping,” Martin added. His thick-framed glasses were iconically crooked. Oddly, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt in the sticky humidity, and had opted to take off his shoes instead. Sarah glanced in the other direction and noticed the clothes floating in the pool.

Great. The Cheatin’ Hearts were trying to distract her, shock her, do anything with her but discuss their infighting and their missing album. That was okay. She would beat them at their game tonight, which would put her in a better position to threaten them tomorrow.

“All right, but my shoes aren’t going in the water,” Sarah said. “You don’t know what I go through to find comfortable heels.”

“Amen.” Erin half stood to high-five Sarah across the table.

A sharp crack sounded on the flagstones. Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. But she managed not to look around wildly for Nine Lives. He was in prison in Rio. He wasn’t following her around Birmingham, making loud noises.

Calmly, she turned with the rest of them to see Quentin closing the door to the house with one hand, carrying an empty margarita glass and a full pitcher in the other. He stooped to pick up the folding chair he’d tossed out the door.

“Where are you staying, Sarah?” Martin asked conversationally.

“The hotel at the Galleria,” she said. “Closest place to your public relations office.”

“I wish I could live at the Galleria,” Erin said dreamily.

“One more album,” Owen said, “and I’ll buy you the Galleria.”

Quentin scowled, but he didn’t say a word. He placed the glass on the table in front of Sarah, poured her a margarita from the pitcher, and unfolded his chair beside hers.

After looking uneasily from Owen to Quentin, Erin told Sarah, “I didn’t mean before that we don’t want you here. It’s just that we solve our own problems, as a band. We like Rachel handling our publicity because she knows us. You’re an outsider. We’re afraid you’ll learn some personal stuff about us that we wouldn’t want to get out.”

“Like what?” Sarah asked.

“If we told you,” Quentin said, shuffling the cards and beginning to deal, “it would be got out.”

Cards slid one by one into the wet ring on the table in front of Sarah as she sipped her margarita. God, it was good, sweet and sour and cold. After negotiating two airports, driving through traffic, and extracting information from Rachel about this troubled band, the margarita hit the spot. She could already feel the alcohol relaxing her tense muscles. She said casually, “Your employer’s contract with my employer stipulates that if I reveal private information about you during or after our time together, you can sue my ass off. I do hope you had your employees in the PR office sign the same sort of waiver.”

The Cheatin’ Hearts blinked at her.

She leaned forward. “Who’s the brains of this outfit?” she pressed them. “Did you have your employees sign a waiver—”