That finally causes her to give me her attention as a raucous laugh rips out of her. She grabs my shoulder to steady herself, shaking her head.
An answering smile tips my lips, but I’m already trying to think of ways to withdraw from this obviously ill-advised conversation. She must’ve ordered a Shirley Temple because she’s already hammered and her handler told her to sober up. But of course, appearances being what they are, you have to have a drink in hand at all times. Drunken starlets are no use to me, even if she is pretty and her grip on my arm is strong.
She straightens away from me and shakes her head, patting my shoulder once then brushing my jacket like she’s getting rid of any wrinkles. “Sorry. That wasn’t the question I expected you to ask. And no. The answer to your question is no. I’m not presenting later.”
Her words come out clear and straight, no slurring. Her pupils are dilated normally. She’s not rolling, despite her unnecessary touching, and she’s not drunk. My brows wrinkle.
“Why the kiddie drink?” The question pops out before I can filter it or rephrase.
With a shrug, she picks up her drink and takes a sip from the straw. “You always this nosy when you first meet someone?”
“Just making conversation.” Offering a shrug of my own, I turn around to face the party, leaning back against the bar and sipping my own drink. It’s pretty watered down, but that’s fine. I’m not trying to get drunk. Like I said, this party is about seeing and being seen. I’m just here to look the part, make whatever connections I can to help Jonathan, since I’m officially here as his assistant. If I happen to make connections to help myself in the future … well, that’s a nice bonus.
But with the way things are going, I doubt this will turn into anything, and I’m already scanning the room for someone else who might prove more advantageous.
“I quit alcohol,” she says after a long pause.
My eyebrows jump up my forehead at her admission. “Good for you.”
She snorts. “That’s it? That satisfies your curiosity? No more prying?”
I turn my head to find her staring incredulously at me, and I can’t help grinning. “You said you weren’t interested in talking to me and bristled at the only question I asked.” I hold up a finger. “For the record, I didn’t come over here to hit on you.”
“Oh really?” she says, disbelief dripping from her words and puddling at her feet. “You sure about that? I watched you checking me out.”
Resisting the urge to do it again, I return my attention to the crowd. It’s mostly people I’ve already talked to or prefer to avoid right now. If I wait here long enough, though, someone important is likely to come along. And for now, this exchange is entertaining at least. So it’s not a complete waste.
I shrug again. “You’re hot. I’m sure you’re well aware of that fact, though.”
“Are you gay?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Is that the only believable reason a man wouldn’t hit on you?” Her silence is answer enough. I shake my head. “No. I’m not gay. Are you?”
Her cheeks get pinker, and she drops her gaze. “No. Though when you’re a member of a girl band, everyone assumes you are. Or at least bi.”
“Which band?” I sip my drink, eyes roaming over her again, flipping through my mental catalogue of girl bands now that I have that clue. So she is an artist. Maybe this conversation could be more than just entertaining after all.
“Golden Enigma.” She mutters the answer, the sound almost lost in the ambient noise, but it all clicks into place.
They were big news, getting a lot of media attention, opening for Cataclysm if I remember right. Things were going good until a few months ago.
There was a bad car accident, a head-on collision on the freeway late at night. The other driver died on impact. All three members of Golden Enigma were in the car. One was in the hospital for weeks. One’s facing charges. And one walked away with bumps and bruises. Or so the story goes.
Her eyes never leave my face as the impact of her words sinks in. She watches me put all the pieces together, and her face shutters the longer the silence stretches between us.
She draws a breath, the sides of her dress threatening to slip off her breasts, except I know it’s taped in place and that kind of wardrobe malfunction is extremely unlikely. Especially for someone still overcoming a worse scandal. She doesn’t need more scandal heaped on her name.
“Which one are you?” I ask as the band members’ names come to me—Katie Long, Mia Rossi, and Alexis Lovell. If memory serves, Katie was the one who ended up in the hospital, Mia was the driver, and—
“Alexis,” she answers.
“The one who walked away.”
Turning back to the bar, hiding her face from me again, she snorts. But it lacks the amusement and conviction of her previous snorts. She’s pretending to be unaffected, but it’s an act.
“What are you doing here?”
She lets out a sigh and stirs the ice in her drink. “My agent is trying to get our old label to sign me as a solo act. Katie’s out, and Mia …” She shakes her head again. “Our contract was canceled after the accident. Since I was the voice of reason of the three of us, my agent thinks we can convince the label that I’m a safe bet. But I have to walk a fine line of attending parties like this”—she waves her hand around at the elaborate colored lighting and fabric-draped walls—“where I can schmooze and network and prove that I’m sober and a risk worth taking.” She raises her eyes to mine once more. “I have the talent. They know I have the voice. They’re just not sure I won’t fuck it up again.” Picking up her drink, she
