Initially he assumed the fifteen minutes of fame he’d gained over Madison’s disappearance might really go the distance and help launch his career, only to find that while it did result in the sort of unprecedented attention he’d lacked before, it in no way resulted in good things for his music.
The videos he’d posted on YouTube might’ve gone viral, but the comments section was so full of vitriol, he’d quickly taken them down and seriously contemplated changing his name. Not that it would’ve done any good. For better or worse, he’d played a part in the biggest celebrity scandal in years. Which gave him the rare distinction of having a face that was eminently recognizable, but not at all bankable.
In the upside-down, tabloid-driven world he now lived in, Tommy was a bona-fide celebrity of sorts. Only difference between him and a true celebrity was a lack of fat, steady paychecks and revenue-producing endorsement deals.
Though there had been an offer by a start-up sneakers brand, Tommy had refused to be the face behind the brand of kicks that claimed to help you outrun whatever kind of trouble you found yourself in (which was how it’d been pitched to him). Some things you could never live down. And while the job working for Ira held promise, he didn’t want to work for him for any longer than necessary.
Truth was, Tommy was coasting—had been ever since he’d arrived in LA and taken a dead-end job hawking guitars at Farrington’s. Sure, it was the job that had put him in Ira’s path and resulted in everything that had happened since, and while Tommy was glad for the rush of opportunities where he’d once had none, he was also just impatient enough and just ambitious enough to begin to feel restless.
He wanted more. He just needed someone to take him seriously for a change.
The irony of it all was that Tommy’s dad had the ability to change his luck in an instant. In a way, he already had. But the opportunities Ira offered were more focused on building Ira’s business. And though he’d given Tommy his dream guitar, he’d never expressed any interest in promoting his music.
If Ira was waiting for Tommy to ask, well, that day would never come. Tommy was no good at begging. His dad might own a string of nightclubs—one of them, the Vesper, was known as the city’s hottest music venue—but there was no way he would ask for a handout. Tommy’s goal had always been to earn Ira’s respect by making it big on his own. Working for him as a promoter was merely a means to that end. He had big plans to make a name for himself well before he made the reveal. It was imperative that when Tommy disclosed his true connection to Ira, he did so as his father’s equal.
His fingers expertly picked at the strings, strumming all the right chords, and he dutifully sang the lyrics he’d memorized just a few hours before. His gaze roamed the space, idly watching the small crowd of beautiful women juggle purses, half-full glasses of champagne, and body-skimming dresses they pressed against themselves as they swiveled before full-length mirrors and assessed their reflections.
There was one in particular who’d caught Tommy’s eye. With her deep-red lips, dark waist-length hair, and thatch of heavy bangs that fell just short of her brown almond-shaped eyes, she had the sort of exotic good looks Tommy might fantasize about but would never try to approach in real life. For one thing, she was older. For another, with her body-hugging dress, designer bag, and skyscraper stilettos, she bore the sort of high-maintenance vibe he usually worked to avoid.
Still, there was no harm in looking, and Tommy watched as she posed before a mirror with a black dress clutched at her hip. A few moments later, when a pretty blonde sidled up and slipped a hand around the brunette’s waist, whispering something into her ear that made them both grin, Tommy was completely transfixed.
When the brunette caught Tommy staring, she met his gaze with a look so smoldering, Tommy flubbed the lyrics and momentarily lost his place in the song.
She nudged her blond friend and the two of them came to stand directly before him as Tommy fought to regain control of his performance. But his mind was a blur of their bare shoulders pressing together, their lips just inches apart, as they whispered to each other without ever once shifting their focus from him.
It was the stuff of rock-and-roll fantasy, only it was really happening, and it took every ounce of Tommy’s will to fini
sh the song and segue into the next with even a smidge of competence.
They were flirting with him. There was no getting around it, the signals were clear. They wanted him—wanted to share him—and while he was immensely flattered, he also felt woefully out of his league.
Were they slumming?
Or worse, did they recognize him from the interviews he’d given? While they seemed more sophisticated than the usual tabloid-reading type, they probably weren’t the only classy babes in LA with a secret stash of In Touch, OK!, Life & Style, and Star hidden under the mattress.
When the song ended, Tommy paused to sip from the bottle of water he’d set beside his playlist. He desperately needed a moment to get a grip on himself.
“You’re Tommy Phillips.”
He looked up to find the brunette had separated from the blonde and was now just inches away. He forced himself to swallow, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and nod politely, all the while trying not to focus on her long, toned legs, slim hips, and generous round breasts, but it was no use. She was 100 percent onto him.
Even better, he knew she was 100 percent into him too.
“I thought I recognized you.” Her gaze was as direct as her voice. Strong, sure, she was undoubtedly a woman who got what she wanted.
Tommy shot a nervous glance toward the boutique owner, who was eyeballing him from her place near the register. Wouldn’t do any good to piss her off by flirting with the clientele. Then again, the customer had approached him, and how rude would it be for him to ignore her?
Unsure how to proceed, he closed his eyes and started strumming the next tune. Getting lost in the music was the best default he knew. Besides, he was getting paid to play music, not set up a threesome.
He was halfway to the chorus when he realized he’d abandoned the Coldplay song he’d originally started and drifted into the one he’d written about the night he’d kissed Madison. “Violet Eyes,” he called it—a dead giveaway if there ever was one. And while he’d fully intended to change the name along with the more identifiable lyrics, he hadn’t quite gotten around to it, and now he was so far in, there was nothing to do but continue.
Maybe no one would notice.
Maybe they were too busy shopping and drinking to make the connection.
But when he opened his eyes again, he found the blonde and brunette standing right where he’d left them, having forfeited a fun night of shopping and champagne swilling to focus on him.
“Everything okay?” The boutique owner fussed over the women.