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Jealousy explodes inside my veins like a Molotov cocktail tossed onto a puddle of gasoline. “Tell me where you are,” I say, trying, and failing, to keep my voice calm.
She scoffs. “Why would I do that?”
“What’s the name of the fucking bar?” I shout.
“Calm down,” she says, and I can hear the smirk on her sultry lips. “All I’m going to do is have a drink—only one, because I’m driving—and listen to some live music to unwind. I might chat with a nice-looking stranger, if the opportunity falls into my lap. But when the musician is done, the plan is for me to head back to my hotel and go to bed, all by myself.”
I exhale the equivalent of the Pacific Ocean. “Thank you for telling me that. I almost had a heart attack, imagining you—”
“Although... you know what they say about plans, right? Make one, only if you want to make God laugh.”
“Georgina.”
“I suppose it’s possible I could meet a handsome stranger at the bar tonight who charms my pants off... literally. In which case, I might find myself at his place later tonight, screwing the hell out of him... while thinking of you and Isabel.”
My head explodes. I feel like I’m stroking out. I’m literally blinded by my panic. “That’s enough! You’re going to head back to your hotel right now to wait for me. Do you hear me? I’m leaving my place now. Meet me at your hotel!”
She giggles with glee. “Goodbye, Reed. I’m hanging up now, and then I’m going to turn off my phone until morning. So, don’t blow up my phone all night with texts and voicemails, ya freakin’ psycho. Ciao, stronzo! Sleep tight!”
I’m stumbling. Tripping as I race to my walk-in closet to throw on clothes over my sweaty body. Forget showering. My house is burning down around me, and I need to grab only my most valuable possession. I need to grab Georgie!
“Tell me the name of that bar, Georgina Marie! That’s a command from the head of the label that’s making his artists available to you!” I hop on one foot as I try to throw on jeans with one hand while holding my phone to my ear with the other. “Georgie? Georgina Marie Ricci!”
But it’s no use. The line has gone dead.
Georgina Marie Ricci, the most diabolical woman alive, a woman who takes scorched-earth tactics to a whole new level, is gone.
Chapter 7
Georgina
Tuesday 10:57 pm
After I hang up with Reed, I get out of my parked rental car and begin walking the three blocks to my destination: a small bar in West Hollywood called Slingers that features live music every night. Hopefully, Troy Eklund is performing tonight, as Slingers’ online schedule promises, because I’ve got a crap-ton of questions for him.
I haven’t decided if I’m going to come right out and tell Troy I’m a writer for Rock ‘n’ Roll, researching an article about Reed Rivers—and, oh, by the way, I’ve got a bunch of questions about a lawsuit you filed against Reed six years ago!—or if, instead, I’ll pretend to be some random chick in a bar with a boner for musicians. My gut tells me I’ll get a whole lot more information out of Troy if I play Star-Struck Groupie. But I figure I’ll play it by ear and decide on the fly.
Everything I know about Troy, I’ve learned from two admittedly unreliable sources—the internet and the pages of his six-year-old lawsuit—all of which can be summarized, as follows:
Ten years ago, when Troy was eighteen, he started a band called The Distillery in Sacramento. Troy was his band’s front man and guitarist, and, even at eighteen, had so much swagger, you’d have thought the kid had arrived in our world via the future, already knowing his rock stardom was in the bag.
For three years in Sacramento, The Distillery played local bars and gigs, until finally catching the eye of one Reed Rivers—a shrewd and brilliant young businessman with an up-and-coming indie label that had recently scored back-to-back smash debut albums from two young bands: Red Card Riot and Danger Doctor Jones, as well as a number one smash debut single from 2Real.
With the ink barely dry on The Distillery’s deal with River Records, Troy and his bandmates moved to LA—into Reed’s house, as a matter of fact—where they began writing, and then recording, their debut album with Reed’s guidance.
Troy’s complaint didn’t list the address of Reed’s house, but, given that Reed purchased his present hilltop castle five years ago, and the events alleged in Troy’s lawsuit happened seven years ago, Troy and his band must have stayed in Reed’s much smaller first house. A place Reed once told me would have fit inside his present garage. Which means Reed and those Distillery boys almost certainly got up close and personal during those several months together.
