for you?”
“Well …” I set my drink on the bar and straighten, turning to face her fully. “You know my background. But what you might not realize is that I’m the one who’s wanted to get back to where we were. Not Jonathan. Definitely not Brendan. Me. And yet it’s Jonathan who’s been rocketed back into the spotlight, while I’ve been stuck being his gopher. I took the job when I was fresh out of high school. My mom encouraged it, saying it would give me valuable industry contacts so I could strike out on my own.” I stick my hands in my pockets to hide my clenched fists. “But it hasn’t worked that way. Jonathan only says I know all the same people he does when I ask for his help. But they all see me as an assistant, not an artist, so they don’t take me seriously. I need someone who’ll actually help me.”
She studies me for a moment. “And you think that person is me.”
I shrug, going for casual carelessness. “You could, maybe. In the future. If I help you get what you want. You can turn around and help me out once you have a foot in the door.” It’s a gamble. But that’s true of everything in life. It’s all risk, but sometimes if you play your cards right, you can win the pot.
Maybe hitching myself to her won’t get me where I want to be. But staying where I am sure as hell won’t. The longer I think about it, the better the idea feels. She’s pretty, intelligent, talented. Not drinking or doing drugs. I haven’t heard any rumors of her being a crazy bitch. This seems like a reasonably safe bet. And pretending to be her boyfriend won’t be a hardship by any stretch.
But she’s hesitant. It’s clear from the way her shoulders are still hitched up, the way she won’t meet my eyes. The melting ice sloshes around in her glass as she stirs it with her straw.
I ease closer, close enough to smell her lotion or hair products or both, vanilla and coconut, but not the cloying smell of suntan lotion. Light and pleasing.
Her breath catches, the soft swell of her breasts pressing against the deep V of her dress drawing my attention. No, being her boyfriend won’t be difficult at all.
She lifts her eyes to mine, her lips parted. “It’ll have to be serious.” She says it like it’s a warning, meant to scare me off.
But we’re on the exact same page. I nod. “Of course. It wouldn’t work otherwise. If we don’t look serious, that’ll hurt you. And it won’t make any sense why you’d insist on working with me for anything or would have any interest in my career at all.”
Her brows crinkle, just for a second before relaxing again. She’s got a good game face, I’ll give her that. Another point in her column for this crazy scheme I’ve conjured up.
“Besides,” I continue, my brain wheeling with the prospect of her agreeing, the possibilities of what that could mean for me, the logistics of how to make it all work. “I need to know you’re serious too.”
That flicker of concern crosses her face again, and her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips. “You mean … like … a contract?”
“Something like that, yes. I’m not sure it would be legally enforceable or anything, but I want to know you’ll live up to your end of the bargain.”
She frowns. Not just a flicker of a frown, either. The wrinkle between her eyebrows doesn’t smooth out quickly this time, and her lips have a distinct downturn at the corners. “It’s not like I can give you a guarantee. For one thing, I have no clout at this point. I’m out here trying to look the part and begging for scraps.”
“That’s where I come in,” I interrupt. “I help you look the part. I can help with bookings and buzz, even if you don’t have a contract. We can get you out there again. You made a splash online and built a following that way once already. You can do it again as a solo act. You have fans that will make the leap from you as part of Golden Enigma to you on your own, I promise.” Hell, if it worked for Jonathan after years off, it can work for Alexis. She’s prettier, and she still has frequent mentions in the press—granted, they’re not all positive, but all