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“But, still, Music Scout,” Reed continues, “we’ll press on. She’s not ‘out’ after only one strike. There could be other factors weighing in her favor. Next up, tell me about her numbers. How many followers?”
I look down. “Almost ten thousand. That’s good, right?”
“Is it? You tell me, Music Scout.”
“Yeah, ten thousand seems like a whole lot to me.”
Reed shakes his head. “Nope. It’s not impressive. In fact, it’s anemic and highly un-impressive.”
Well, fuck. My stomach is churning now. Alessandra barely has a thousand followers. If this girl’s following is anemic and unimpressive, what’s Alessandra’s? Pathetic? Laughable?
Reed says, “But that’s not the end of the road for this girl, either, Music Scout. If those ten thousand followers are actual people—not bots or ghosts set up to make her look good—if it turns out they’re genuine, enthusiastic, and highly interactive fans—then that’s something to consider.”
“How do we know if they’re real or not?”
“You’d have to audit her account. Look at the interactions on each photo and video. Click on the profiles of the interactive ones and see if they come off like real people with real lives, or fake accounts. Once you start looking closely, you can usually tell fairly easily.”
I make a move to swipe at my screen, like I’m going to get started on what he’s just instructed, but Reed stops me with a gentle touch.
“Not now, Music Scout. I’m just educating you, for later. That job could take a while, so we’ll put it on the back burner for now. There’s no point wasting our time on auditing her followers if she’s got no talent. Or if she’s got talent, but she’s not a good fit for us. For now, we’ll put a pin in that, say she looks meh on numbers, certainly not great, but there could be extenuating circumstances that will give her more of a platform in the future than the average bear.”
Reed stops walking, and I follow suit, right in front of a breathtaking, gleaming black sports car. It’s the kind you’d see on an actual racetrack, or in a spy movie. And, suddenly, I realize... this is Reed’s ride. As in, the car he drove to get here today. On actual city streets. Holy shit.
“This is your car?” I blurt lamely.
Reed smiles. “One of them.” He presses a button to unlock it, and a gentle chirp echoes throughout the empty cement structure.
“What is it?” I ask, slack-jawed.
“A Bugatti Chiron.”
“A Bugatti... ?”
“Chiron. They vastly improved the Veyron with this model. It’s got exponentially more pick-up.”
“Well, thank God for that. I always say the Vey-whatever was a piece of shit.”
He snorts.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, in genuine awe. “A work of art.”
“It is.” He assesses his baby for a long beat. “If I didn’t already have a hard-on because of you, Georgie, I’d have a hard-on looking at this car. I’ve got a thing for fast cars.”
“And fast women,” I say, like we’re in a poorly written action movie. Because, come on, who could resist inserting that cheeseball line into this surreal moment, in front of this car?
Luckily, Reed gets my offbeat humor, apparently, because he laughs at my stupid joke as he leads me around to the passenger side. But just when I think he’s going to open the door for me, he slides his palm onto my cheek, pins me against his gorgeous car, presses his hard-on into my clit, and kisses me deeply—this time, with even more heat and greed than the last time. And, once again, I’m instantly ravenous for him. My heart exploding, I slide my arms around his neck and grip his hair and kiss him the same way I’m going to fuck him at his house: without holding back.
“You drive me crazy,” Reed whispers into my lips. “I can’t resist you.”
“Please don’t.”
His burning eyes scan my face for a long, heated, delicious beat. “Damn, you’re gorgeous, Georgie.”
I take a deep, steadying breath. “Damn, you’re... mildly attractive, Reed.”
He laughs—and so do I. Because, as we both know, Reed Rivers is drop dead gorgeous. His features aren’t objectively perfect, by any stretch, in terms of symmetry. But the way they come together, the way his face is animated by his intelligence and wit and charm and confidence... the overall package of him is like catnip to this particular kitty. And I’ve got to think any other kitty who happens to cross his swaggering, strutting path.
After one more kiss, Reed opens the passenger door for me, gets me situated in the luxurious leather seat, and shuts me in with a soft click. And the minute I’m alone in Reed’s car, as Reed makes his way around the back to his door, I quickly google the car name he mentioned... and then gasp at the crazy words on my screen: Bugatti Chiron. One of the fastest cars ever manufactured. Approximately 45 units sold worldwide per year. Price tag: $2.9 million.
