Talking to a little girl. Smiling at her. Soft-eyed. Jerry shook his head. He’d believed Ian had the mettle to complete the course he’d set upon, but with each passing day, he wondered. And he couldn’t afford to take a chance on someone who wouldn’t follow through.
Nor was he the only one who was counting on Ian.
Ian, who’d spent valuable time cavorting on the beach. Eating a pretzel, taking pictures like a tourist. Grinning at some big-breasted blond as she passed him, checking him out.
Before that, performing onstage in some two-bit club. Crooning into the microphone. Bantering with some nobody photographer with nice tits and hair dipped in crazy purple.
Then, later backstage with another blond. He only had one shot from there. Her aiming toward the dressing room, purpose on her face. A ball-buster for sure.
He’d used face recognition technology to make her as Sabrina Price, Ripper Records’ newest secret weapon. She was known as The Fixer in LA circles. The one to fix broken reputations and remake careers.
That was not what Ian was there for. Performing was one thing. It was his entry into Simon’s circle. But makeovers and touring? No. If he was fucking touring, how was he supposed to be getting closer to Simon? Next, he’d be making a goddamn record, and that would leave him even less time to get his job done.
Jerry sat back in his chair and tapped the mouse to switch through more photos. Back to the beach. Ian rolling on the ground with a big guy who was pounding the shit out of him until Ian got the upper hand. Off to the side, that same blond with the purple-dipped hair, being strong-armed by another skinny bastard.
Who was she? Why did she keep showing up around Ian?
Ian, who wasn’t answering his calls. He’d checked in when he first arrived in LA and not much since. It had been days since the concert in that shitty club that had significantly raised Ian’s profile. He was getting press now. Also not in the plans. Some was good, if it granted him legitimacy in Simon’s eyes. But he had gone about all of this the wrong way from the start. Goading Simon, jumping the gun.
And now he’d ground the plan to a halt. No progress made. Because if Ian was making inroads, he would’ve called. He wouldn’t have ditched Jerry’s attempts at contact like a little bitch who was running with his tail between his legs.
Time to get things back on track.
Jerry opened his email program and attached some of the photos. He’d been born in California and spent some significant time there before he’d traveled extensively, ending up in England. He had contacts literally all over the world. And his people knew more people who could make Ian’s life very difficult if he didn’t remember his priorities.
Not only Ian. Ian’s new little chippie too. Her name was Zoe Manning, and she was an Aquarius. By nightfall, he’d have her social security number, her cup size, and the names and addresses of her parents and her entire extended family.
She’d been added to his already full surveillance roster. The top of which, of course, was the mister and missus themselves, Simon and Margo Kagan. Happy newlyweds. A few years in and they were still burning up stages. More in love than ever, from all accounts.
It was terrible what could happen to even the best people. The ones with the most to live for.
But it wasn’t time for that yet. Jerry was a man who believed in love and family. What was more important, right? That was how this whole plan had been hatched. But connections were meant to be used. Exploited. And everyone would get what they wanted.
He was hopeful he could get the little shit back in line. At least for now. Unlike Ian, he followed plans and timetables.
Unless Ian and his relentless ambition left him no choice but to speed things up.
Quickly, he composed an email and added a list of contacts. Number one was Donovan Lewis, who would use anything and everything to make his artists succeed.
Would sell out anyone for more of the almighty dollar.
Jerry tapped his chin and added a few more, including Ava Templeton, one of the most influential music bloggers on the scene. For good measure, he added the reporter he knew at Music Life magazine. She would stop at nothing for a story, and this narrative was exactly the one he wanted to present for Ian.
Ian, the poor boy who was just trying to sing and make a life for himself.
Ian, the lonely man who desperately wanted a family.
Ian, the hero who so selflessly saved a bimbo on the beach, risking life and limb as he took on two men to keep her safe.
It would make good copy. Good copy sold papers. Press turned into word of mouth, and word of mouth would reach Simon and, better yet, his soft, sweet wife. She
would weaken toward Ian before Simon did. Going through the woman was always the smart money.
Jerry glanced at the bed and smiled. Who knew that better than him?
That soft sweetness that made them so pliable also made them liabilities. Extra strings that needed to be cut before they dangled and got in the way.
He grabbed a pair of scissors out of the container beside the computer and picked up the stack of photos he’d printed earlier. He leafed through them and found Zoe. And Margo.