Troy pauses, his wheels turning. But, finally, it’s obvious his ambition has won out over his fear of Reed. “Francesca Laramie.”
My heart is racing. “Francesca Laramie?”
He nods. “Tell your friend to look her up. It won’t be hard for her to put two and two together, from there.”
With that, he licks his lips and goes in for a kiss.
But I’m outta here. “Let’s not,” I say, popping up from my barstool. “It kills me to do this, Troy, since you’re so hot and talented, and I want nothing more than to go home with you right now and screw the living hell out of you. But if this label guy is as big a psycho as you say, then you have to be extra careful. There shouldn’t be any connection between you and me and this writer for Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I jut my chin at the bartender. “For all we know, he’s reporting back to the record label guy. We shouldn’t be seen leaving together.” I gather up my purse. “I’m going to tell this writer about you right now. Bye!”
“Wait! Georgia! Take my number, at least, so your writer friend can call me!”
“No, no, that’s way too risky. If this writer is interested in the story, she’ll come to Slingers on a night when you’re performing. That way, if Reed ever comes down here, after the article comes out—or God forbid, sues you for breaching the confidential settlement agreement—you’ll be able to swear truthfully, under oath, that’s how you first met her. She showed up at the bar.”
Troy looks vaguely convinced by that. “Yeah... Okay.”
I tap my temple and wink. “Bye now, hon. So awesome talking to you!”
And off I go, sprinting out the door, as fast as my devious little legs will carry me, and then laugh to myself like a madwoman as I sprint to my nearby car in the cool Los Angeles night.
Chapter 9
Reed
Wednesday 2:35 am
I roll onto my opposite side and look at the clock on my nightstand. This is pointless. I’m not going to be able to fall asleep while my brain is still wracked with images of Georgina having sex with someone else. Oh, God. I roll over again, feeling like I’m going to puke from stress.
After my horrifying phone call with Georgina ended, I drove straight to her hotel, thinking maybe she was lying to me about not being there, simply to keep me from coming. But she wasn’t there. So, I chatted up the concierge in the lobby, trying to figure out what nearby clubs or bars had live music. Specifically, what places might have featured a solo musician tonight, since Georgina said, “And when the musician is done performing...” But, unfortunately, the concierge didn’t have any useful suggestions.
After that, I drove around aimlessly, like a madman, scoping out random hotspots, in search of Georgina’s parked car. And when I didn’t see Georgina’s car anywhere—not surprisingly, considering I was looking for a needle in a haystack in a city of four million people—I simply kept going. Driving. Searching. Freaking out.
When my search of Hollywood came up empty, I drove to Westwood—the neighborhood immediately adjacent to UCLA—figuring Georgina might have gone back to her old stomping grounds. I even went into Bernie’s Place, looking for her. But, nope. She wasn’t there, either. At every turn, I came up empty-handed. No Georgina.
And that’s when I had a batshit crazy, paranoid thought: what if, when Georgina casually referenced “the musician,” she meant to do it? What if that wasn’t a slip or an incidental bit of information I’d cleverly picked up on? What if that telltale phrase had been the entire point of Georgina’s little speech to me? What if Georgina was actually calling me, specifically to tell me, in code, she was heading into a bar to watch a performance... by Troy Eklund?
The very thought of Georgina being in the same room with Troy nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. My rational brain knew I was being paranoid, and that the chances were slim. But then again, Georgina did know all about Stephanie Moreland. So, why wouldn’t she know about Troy, too?
I googled Troy’s name and quickly found out he was scheduled to play at some dive bar called Slingers in West Hollywood tonight. So, off I went, all the way back to that side of town. Even though I knew I’d literally commit murder, thereby ruining my life, if I walked into that bar and found Troy with his hands or