She twists her mouth. And then says, begrudgingly, “I’m sorry I double-flipped you off. It was rude of me. One middle finger would have sufficed. This one. With my new pretty ring on it.”
She flips me off, singularly, and I can’t help chuckling, despite myself.
She shakes her head and exhales. “Okay, yes, I maybe went off the rails a teeny-tiny bit. But, honestly, I’m proud of myself for telling you off and leaving when I did. I chose my integrity over my libido. If choosing my integrity over sex with a smoking hot asshole isn’t ‘adulting,’ then I don’t know what is.”
“Mmm hmm. Because you never, ever fuck assholes.”
“Correct.”
“Not even the smoking hot ones.”
“Correct again.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “You’re such a liar, Georgina Ricci. And a terrible one, at that. I’d bet anything, literally anything, you only fuck smoking hot assholes. In fact, I’d bet a million bucks you’d rather fuck an exciting, smoking hot, bad-boy asshole, than some nice, boring, God-fearing football star with a Captain America smile any day of the week.”
She rolls her eyes, plainly annoyed I’ve invoked Bryce McKellar to make my point. But then she makes a face that tacitly admits I’ve pegged her exactly right. Yep. This girl is a fireball who’s hopelessly attracted to assholes like me, the ones who throw lighter fluid on her flames, whether she likes it about herself or not.
A genuine affection for her rises up inside me, an attraction to her feisty, flawed, adorableness. And I suddenly can’t help smiling at her from ear to ear. To my surprise, she returns the gesture, flashing me the most genuine smile she’s graced me with since we chatted at the bar... and, just that fast, something passes between us. Respect. Understanding. Georgina knows I see through her hotheaded, drama-loving bullshit, and I know she sees through my button-pushing, keep-you-at-distance bullshit. We’re the same, Georgina and me. Two bullshitters, buried beneath hardened outer layers. Two people who recognize themselves in the other. At least, in this moment, it sure feels like we do.
In a distant part of the stadium, the crowd roars, signaling Red Card Riot has just walked onstage. And a few seconds after that, we hear the band launch into the first song of the night—an instantly recognizable, global smash off their second album called “Ready or Not.”
“Well, that’s my cue,” Georgina says, popping off the couch. “Good chat, Mr. Rivers. When I get back from touring with RCR at the end of the week, I’ll call to schedule your interview.”
“Sit down, Georgina.”
She freezes.
“I said sit the fuck down. You’re not going on tour, and we’re not even close to finished with our little chat.”
Chapter 22
Reed
Georgina sits back down on the couch, looking like a petulant teenager who’s just been grounded from going to a concert with her girlfriends. “Come on, Reed. This tour is my best chance to get an amazing interview out of C-Bomb.”
I can’t believe my ears. “You still think you’re interviewing C-Bomb?” I say, barely containing my disdainful chuckle. “Sweetheart, no. That’s off, too. Obviously.”
“What? No!”
“You can interview the full band, if you like, after they return from tour in a month. I’ll set that up for you. But the mini-tour and the one-on-one with C-Bomb are both off.”
Georgina balls her hands into fists of frustration and bangs her thighs, morphing from a grounded teenager into a toddler being denied an ice cream cone. “But CeeCee specifically assigned me to interview C-Bomb, as my top priority. She said everyone always interviews the frontmen of bands, like Dean, and never the drummers. She said C-Bomb, with his bad-boy persona and muscles and beard and crazy hair, will make an eye-catching cover boy and sell a shit-ton of magazines. She said you’d love the idea!”
I’m floored. None of what she just said makes any sense. CeeCee knows I loathe C-Bomb with the force of a thousand suns. And yet, she told Georgina I’d “love” the idea of him being a featured interview in the issue—and our fucking cover boy? Ha! I can’t fathom a more ludicrous statement. So, why the fuck did CeeCee say any of it? Why did she send Georgina straight to C-Bomb, on day one, as her “top priority,” when she had to know I’d nix the idea from jump street? I blink rapidly, trying to reboot the faltering computer in my brain. “CeeCee said I’d ‘love’ the idea of you interviewing C-Bomb?” I ask slowly, simply because it’s so preposterous, I’m not sure I heard her correctly.
Georgina nods furiously. “And, don’t forget, you agreed to give CeeCee full editorial control, so really, it’s up to CeeCee whether I interview C-Bomb, not you. And CeeCee says yes.”
I scoff at the ridiculous notion. “CeeCee has full editorial control regarding the artists I make available to her. But, see, since I own every band and artist on my label, I decide who’s made available. And I’m not making RCR available to you until they get back from tour—and, even then, not as individuals, only as a full band.”