Sex God Read online

  “It’s vintage,” I told him. As if I had something to prove.

  He nodded. “I know you were a fan,” he said, nodding towards Bowie’s face, stretched across my chest. “Bet his death must have hit you hard.”

  It had, but this wasn’t about me. If I wasn’t so annoyed at him, I would have admired the slick way he had turned himself into the interviewer and me into the interviewee.

  “What about you?” I asked, pushing my phone towards him. “How did his death affect you?”

  Austin looked at my phone as if it was a dead rat I was trying to give him.

  I tried again. “Who are you most excited to see tonight?” I asked, but he was staring at my press badge.

  “Why are you writing for them?” he asked, reaching out to grab the lanyard. “We both know that you’re too good for a site like ChatBuzz.”

  I snatch my pass back.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s none of your business.”

  “No?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “I thought this was an interview. I’m just asking questions.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.”

  “Oh, is that how this works?” Austin teased, taking a drink.

  I wanted to punch him, but before I could, before I could do anything, we were interrupted by a sleazy looking guy with two gorgeous young women by his side.

  “Austin James!” he said with a big smile on his face. “I heard you were going to be here.”

  “And here I am,” Austin said, shaking the guy’s hand. “Good to see you, Peter.”

  Both of the young women were openly ogling Austin.

  “Rumor is that you’ve got some new music coming out,” Peter said, elbowing past his dates to get closer to Austin.

  I scooted my phone closer to them. Peter was oblivious, but Austin noticed, casting a wary look at it and me. I knew it was doubtful I’d be able to use any of the following conversation for quotes but it would be a good way to refresh my memory if I needed to.

  “Is it a solo project?” Peter was asking. “Or have you formed a new band?”

  “What if I told you that my new band is called Solo Project?” Austin asked.

  It took a while for Peter to get the joke, but when he did, he roared with laughter and slapped Austin’s back. I swore I saw Austin wince at the contact, which made me smile.

  The two of them chatted about nothing for the next couple of minutes before Peter excused himself and his attractive lady friends and disappeared back into the crowd. Austin and I were alone again at the bar.

  “I’ve heard your newest project is all your own work,” I said, pushing my phone further towards him. “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Do you want some more whiskey?” Austin asked, flagging down the bartender.

  “I want you to answer my questions,” I muttered.

  But before I could try again, we were once more interrupted. This time it was an older woman, clearly someone who had been around the music scene for a while. She was covered in tattoos and had half of her head shaved. Even though she was at least my mother’s age—maybe older—she was wearing a pair of leather pants and a tank top that wasn’t doing much to support her enormous chest.

  As a greeting, she wrapped her arms around Austin and practically forced his head into her bosom.

  “Darling!” she said, her English accent all the more punk by how raspy it was. “It’s been ages. Where in bloody hell have you been?”

  “In a cabin in the middle of nowhere,” Austin quipped.

  “Is that code for something?” the woman asked.

  “Maybe,” Austin responded.

  “It better be,” she said, pinching his cheek. “Because the thought of you wasting the best years of your sexual life alone in the woods just makes me want to cry.”

  “I would never want to make you cry, Monique,” Austin said.

  “Good boy.” She gave him a gentle slap across the same cheek that she had just pinched, completely brazen.

  I kind of loved her.

  She didn’t stay long, though, and even though Austin clearly enjoyed her and her company, he wasn’t any more forthcoming about his work than he had been with Peter. The same was the case for the next dozen people that stopped by to greet Austin and ask about his music.

  He gave everyone a different non-answer.

  “I took up the banjo—really thought it was the one thing missing in modern rock music.”

  “I bought a farm and started serenading my goats. They really seem to dig the music.”

  “I’m solely focused on doing covers of lesser known ABBA songs. But with yodeling.”

  He joked with everyone, playing the part of rock star effortlessly. I watched the whole performance and said nothing. Because that’s what it was. A performance. Every time someone approached Austin, his entire posture would change. He’d put on this cocky, devil-may-care attitude, joking around, taking nothing seriously. And the minute the person left, he’d settle back into the quiet, introspective person I had first spotted at the bar. The person I remembered from all those years ago.

  So which one was the real Austin? The cocky rock star? Or the thoughtful musician?

  I started writing the article in my head—knowing that I was going to have to get more information to fill it all in. But Austin was just as distant with me—joking around, tugging at my press badge, pushing glass after glass of whiskey at me.

  Frustrated, I excused myself and found a bathroom.

  I needed to get answers out of Austin, but he seemed hell-bent on distracting me. On distracting everyone. Clearly there had to be a reason he didn’t want to talk about his music. Especially since it was exactly that music he was supposed to be promoting. Was there something wrong with it if he didn’t want to talk about it? Or was he nervous to share it?

  Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Austin nervous. About anything.

  But there had to be something going on. And I was going to find out what.

  I finally headed back to the bar, ready to get answers . . . only to find that Austin was nowhere to be seen. Did he just leave without me?

  “Where did he go?” I asked the bartender and he pointed towards the door.

  I hurried out of the club, and found Austin on the corner, getting into a town car. Was he kidding me? Before it could pull away from the curb, I flung open the passenger door and jumped inside. Unfortunately, I didn’t put much thought into it, and landed pretty much right on Austin’s lap. He looked as surprised as I did, and the car came to an immediate stop.

  I was flung forward, off of his lap and practically onto the floor between the seats.

  “What the hell?” Austin stared at me.

  “Sir?” the driver asked, straining to see what was going on in his back seat. “Do I need to get rid of her?”

  “No!” I said at the same time Austin shook his head.

  “She’s with me,” he said with a heavy sigh, as I inelegantly scrambled into the seat next to him. “So,” Austin crossed his arms over his chest, watching as I buckled my seatbelt. “Come here often?”

  I glared at him. “You left me there?”

  He shrugged.

  I wanted to punch him. Hard.

  “If I’m not mistaken you requested me,” I reminded him. “Why go to all that trouble when you’re just going to ditch me at the bar?”

  He didn’t have an answer for that.

  “Your manager promised me that you were on board with this,” I said, gritting my teeth. “So like it or not, buddy, I’m gonna be all over you until I get my story. And not like that girl in the bathroom,” I added, before he could smirk at me with that infuriatingly sexy grin. “This is just professional. Because if it wasn’t, I would have kicked you somewhere you really won’t want to be kicked.”

  * * *

  We didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride. I was too mad to even try to make small talk or attempt to start up the interview again. In fact, I
was pretty sure that the moment we got to wherever we were going, I was going to stay in the cab and have them take me home. Jumping into the car was more of an act of defiance and panic than anything else. The truth was, I was already exhausted dealing with Austin and his complete reluctance to talk about anything serious or real. I didn’t have time for this shit.

  We pulled up in front of a very nice apartment building.

  “Where are we?” I asked, unable to help myself.

  “My home,” Austin said, with a half-smile. “At least, one of them.”

  What a cocky bastard, I thought.

  I should have stayed in the car, I should have gone home, but instead, I followed Austin out and into the building. It was mostly curiosity, I told myself, and research for the article. I just wanted to see how a rock star lived.

  Apparently, rock stars lived in extremely nice loft apartments in Soho. The place was immaculate—not at all what I would have expected. I had imagined it would have been a bit of a mess, with empty beer bottles and pizza boxes strewn everywhere. At least, that’s how Luke’s apartment had always been, and the guys I’d had the misfortune to hook up with since moving to the city.

  But this place was spotless. The furniture, the design, everything, was extremely minimal. There weren’t a lot of things around—a few guitars, all carefully displayed, and some expensive but comfortable-looking furniture, but besides that, the place was pretty sparse.

  “Did you just move in?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Austin threw his keys onto the counter.

  Served me right for asking a yes or no question. Without asking, Austin pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses. He pushed one towards me. Feeling stubborn and ornery, I drank the whole thing in one gulp. It was a bad idea.

  My coughing fit returned, and Austin just smirked at me until it was done.

  “It’s really for sipping,” he said.

  I glared at him. He poured me another. I grabbed the glass, but this time I did sip it. Not because he had told me to, of course, but because I wanted to.

  “So,” he said slowly. “ChatBuzz, huh? I didn’t picture you working somewhere like that.”

  The judgmental, holier-than-thou tone in his voice made my anger rise. How dare he judge me? “Says Mr. Rock Star,” I retort. “What do you know about struggling to make ends meet and taking a job—any job—just to pay the bills? At least I’m getting paid to write.”

  He crossed his arms and just looked at me.

  “You could do better,” he said.

  “Than this assignment? I agree,” I shot back.

  “I’m just saying that you’re a good writer,” he told me. “And you should be writing about things that matter, not some dumb listicles that anyone with a pen could do.”

  “First of all, those listicles are harder than you might think,” I lied. “And second of all”—I pointed my finger at him—“I am writing about things that matter. At least I would be if the person I’m supposed to be interviewing would agree to talk about something substantial instead of just jerking me around.”

  Austin looked torn. “What’s there to say?” he asked after a moment of silence.

  I wanted to throw something at him.

  “Do you even care?” I asked. “Does all this—your career, your supposed comeback—does it mean anything to you?”

  “Of course it does,” he said. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You used to talk about it,” I reminded him. “Before the band broke up, you were great in interviews—charming and self-deprecating, talking non-stop about what you loved about music.”

  “You think I was charming?”

  “That’s not the point.” I flushed. “But I don’t understand you. If you want to get the word out about your new material, there have to be, you know, words!”

  “I just want to let the music speak for itself,” Austin finally said.

  I perked up.

  “Great.” I pulled out my phone, and Austin gave it a wary look. “Then play something for me.”

  He looked a little startled and I liked it. There was something immensely satisfying about throwing him off guard. He stared at me for a moment, and I didn’t know what he was going to do. Was he going to refuse? Or did he want me to hear what he was working on? He opened his mouth to respond and—

  The doorbell rang.

  A relieved smile crossed his face.

  “Saved by the bell,” he said, and headed towards the front door.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter, unbearably frustrated with the situation. There was absolutely nothing I could use for my article yet. The whole evening was a wash.

  A chorus of voices and laughter came from the hallway. I looked up to see Austin leading a large group into his apartment. A group of cooler-than-thou music types and off-duty supermodels. At least it looked that way to me.

  “Ladies,” Austin said with a grin, his arms around two of the guests. “Meet Mia. Mia, meet the ladies.”

  I got a chorus of hellos and some finger waves. Austin had a fake smile on again, like he was back to his big rock-star performance. I sighed. So much for getting his guard down.

  “Are you going to play?” one of the girls asked me, pulling out a package of cards.

  She quickly and efficiently shuffled them.

  “Play what?” I asked.

  “Strip poker, of course,” another girl giggled.

  I looked over at Austin, and he just smirked.

  “I think I’m going to leave,” I said, grabbing my jacket.

  “Are you sure?” Austin was toeing off his shoes. “I’ll even take my socks off to even the field a bit.”

  I gave him my best death stare.

  “I think I’ll pass,” I told him.

  “Suit yourself,” he grinned, settling in at the counter with his bevy of babes, like a music video come to life.

  I let myself out.

  6

  Mia

  “It’s just not a good fit,” I told Richard at work the next day. “He won’t talk to me—won’t answer any of my questions. He invited a whole apartment full of women over just so he wouldn’t have to do the interview.”

  Richard chuckled. “Typical rock star,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to try another tactic then.”

  “I’m not playing strip poker,” I muttered. “Maybe you should assign someone else.”

  “He requested you,” Richard reminded me. “It was a condition of granting us the exclusive at all.”

  I couldn’t figure out why. Did he think that because we knew each other I would let him get away with his rock star bullshit? If he remembered me at all from college, he’d know how little I cared about that kind of stuff. Was it so he could rub his success in my face while reminding me that I was miles away from where I wanted to be? That didn’t seem right either. Because while Austin was a player and a jerk, he wasn’t cruel.

  Unless he had changed more than I had expected, and this was all just a game to him. A way to pass the time tormenting me, for kicks.

  None of it seemed to matter to Richard—he wouldn’t budge on having the story reassigned. Nope—Austin James was all mine. Whether I liked it or not. I headed back to my desk and spent the rest of the day pulling old interviews and research on Austin, looking for some way to get him to open up. It was like a trip back through rock star history. His band, Methods of Mayhem, broke out in a big way when their debut single was used in a Nicholas Sparks movie. They were suddenly the hottest thing in the business: VIP parties, sold-out tours, and a ton of number-one singles. They were young and hot and had the world at their feet—and on their knees, if the string of tabloid stories was anything to go by. Austin’s bandmate, Danny, was the big ladies’ man, but Austin gave him a run for his money, dating the hottest models and Hollywood starlets around.

  I scrolled through the photos, trying to imagine a life in the spotlight like that, but I couldn’t. It was totally fo
reign to me. While I’d been studying for finals, Austin was on a world tour. When I’d been moving into a tiny studio with two roommates in Brooklyn, he was showing off his party pad in the Hollywood Hills. I should have been envious, but looking at his face on a magazine cover—ducking out of a club, trying to cover his head—all I thought was how exhausting the whole thing looked. I mean, even Austin didn’t look like he was having any fun by the end of it, when the band spiraled out of control and then shocked the world with their split.

  By the end of the day, and my trip down Austin James’s memory lane, I was in desperate need of a donut. Or a dozen of them.

  “911” is what I texted Cassie and Grace, trusting that they would know exactly what to do, so by the time I got back to my apartment with a box of the best donuts in New York, Cassie would be there with a bottle of wine, and Grace would have Miss Congeniality queued up and ready to go.

  “Honeys, I’m home!” I called out as I entered the apartment, loaded down with not one, but two boxes of donuts from Donut Planet.

  I put my treasures down on the coffee table and headed into the kitchen where I found Cassie, Grace, and my very best friend, Penny.

  “What are you doing here?!” I squealed, practically launching myself into her arms.

  She had been away on some tropical island while her hunky movie-star boyfriend had been filming the latest blockbuster superhero movie. I hadn’t seen her in weeks.

  “Surprise!” she said, hugging me tightly. “We’re in town for press junkets. I didn’t know I’d get any time off, so I didn’t call. Hope it’s OK that I just came over.”

  “Of course, it’s OK.” I pointed towards the living room. “And I have two dozen donuts that say it’s fricking great that you’re here.”

  Penny winced. “Two dozen?” she asked. “What happened?”

  Cassie and Grace exchanged a look before Grace poured me a generous glass of wine.

  “Let’s all settle in first, shall we,” she suggested.

  Someone ordered pizza and we all squeezed onto our small, lumpy, but extremely comfortable couch together, donuts and wine in hand.