music coming from the bar’s speakers. It should have been enough to soothe anyone’s frayed nerves, but none of it worked on Dev. He may have lived in paradise, but his mind was in hell.
His phone started vibrating on the table. He glanced down at the screen and almost laughed out loud. Bix Jenner. The guy’s timing was uncanny. Flipping his overgrown dark hair out of his face, Dev grabbed his phone and stood up. “Bix. Give me some good news,” he said as he strode toward the end of the deck.
“I didn’t need Viagra to bang my wife last night” was Bix’s gravelly response.
“Not quite what I had in mind,” Dev replied with a grimace. Bix had managed Dev’s career since the day he’d called him up seventeen years ago and congratulated him for attracting the interest of the best manager in the business. Despite his immodesty, Bix’s claim wasn’t without truth, and Dev trusted him with his life. But Bix’s crass manner came with the territory, and even on a good day it grated on Dev’s nerves.
“You never did appreciate real humor, Stone.”
“It’s not that you’re not funny, it’s that I don’t believe you,” Dev responded dryly, hooking a flip-flop over the railing.
“You’re goddamn killing me. How about this, then—Jerry Farr’s guy is looking to move on. Said he’d take on the assistant job.”
Dev nearly dropped his phone. “What the fuck are you talking about? Vanessa’s got it covered,” he said, referring to his assistant of two years.
A beat. “You’re kidding me. She hasn’t told you?”
“Told me what?”
“She quit. Sent her notice in three days ago. She really didn’t—?”
“Quit? Why the hell would she do that?”
“Wouldn’t give a reason. But between you and me, I heard she’s moving to France with her boyfriend.”
Dev slapped a hand to his forehead. Vanessa was the best assistant he’d had in a long time, and with their high burnout rate they were hard to come by. “Nice of her to clue me in. We kick off rehearsals in two days!”
“You don’t have to tell me. Lucky for you, your fairy godfather found you a solution before you even knew you had a problem.”
“I’ve met Jerry’s guy—he’s a wet freaking noodle.”
“A noodle’s better than jack shit.”
“Is that what your wife says, too?”
“Screw you, Stone. He’ll get the job done.”
Dev shook his head tiredly. “I’ll have to think about it.” He paused, considering his next question. When it came to his career, offers went one way—they came to him. But it was making him crazy that a producer had recently dangled a carrot and then never followed through. “Listen, you ever hear from Larry Weatherby again? He seemed pretty hot for me to write for a few of his artists a couple months ago.”
“Nah. Reality probably kicked in—someone as big as you, he had to know it was a long shot. Besides, you’ve got the tour to focus on now.”
Dev suppressed a sigh. He’d started his career by writing songs for other artists until Bix had taken him under his wing and brought him into the spotlight, insisting that Dev was way too talented and easy on the eyes to keep hidden. Bix’s promises of fame and fortune had all delivered, but sometimes Dev wondered if he would have been better off staying where he’d been. Even a platinum album at the age of twenty hadn’t settled the beast of anxiety he tangled with onstage each night. The voracious crowds he’d dreamed of as a kid had turned out to be the stuff of nightmares. It wasn’t always like that, of course. When he managed to control his nerves, the adrenaline high from a great show could leave him buzzed for hours afterward, better than any drug. But more often than not, touring meant sleepless nights of worry, a hammering heartbeat and cold shakes as bad as any junkie’s.
“Listen, Stone, I know what’s on your mind, okay?” Bix continued, as if he were right inside Dev’s head. “And I want you to take all that worry and put it into Uncle Bix’s back pocket. We’ll handle it—you and me. Don’t we always?”
“Sure,” Dev said flatly. It was true—Bix was the only person in the entire world who knew the price Dev paid to get up on that stage night after night, and he made sure he had everything he needed to get through it.
“I’ll see you in London. And, hey—nice job on the Rolling Stone piece. If that doesn’t put you down in history as rock god of the century, I don’t know what will. People are eating up the new album. They love it. They love you, and don’t you goddamn forget it.”
“Thanks, man,” Dev said, and hung up. He knew Bix’s assurances should make him feel better. In a world being taken over by rap, EDM and sugary pop, Under My Skin, his tenth rock album, was selling almost as well as his first. His career was a resounding success, the one thing in his life that he’d always been able to depend on. And he knew he had to take the good with the bad; it was time for him to go out there and be a superstar again.
Back at his table, Alex and Nicola were deep in conversation and his beer was still waiting for him. Dev traced a finger through the condensation. Enjoy it while you can, he thought. In a few days he’d have to stop drinking altogether if he was going to get through his tour alive. He brought the bottle to his lips.
Six weeks of anxiety-filled days and nights. A woman he couldn’t get out of his head. And now no assistant.
Dev drank long and deep.
Victoria O’Hare, Real Estate Agent.
Sitting in her golf cart outside Pablo’s, Kiki Becker stared down at the woman’s face on her phone. Blue eyes under wispy brows, a ski-jump nose and reddish bobbed hair. Did Kiki bear a resemblance to her, or was she just trying to see something that wasn’t there? Not knowing the answer to that question had been driving her crazy since she’d come across the photo a few days ago. A search of the website hadn’t revealed anything further about her other than her recent home sales, and there was nothing else on the entire internet about any Victoria O’Hare who looked like this woman. Her picture mocked Kiki, daring her to reach out—which was completely out of the question.
Kiki clicked her phone off and shoved it into her handbag. The emptiness swelled in her chest, spread to her belly, threatened to spill tears. But she would not succumb to it. She swung her legs out of her golf cart and walked toward the entrance to Pablo’s. It had taken all of her strength to drag herself to work, but at least today she had a plan. Three weeks of feeling down in the dumps, tossing and turning through the night and mainlining junk food had been more than enough for her. It was time to accept that there would be no encore to her encounter with Dev Stone and move on with her life. And she would do it the best way she knew how: by getting laid tonight.
Entering the noisy bar, Kiki did a quick scan for potential victims. Several heads turned her way that she supposed would do the trick. Eventually, she’d choose one on the criteria of being unattached, relatively sober and preferably on their way off the island in the next twenty-four hours. It was how she’d operated since she’d moved to Moretta after her divorce two years
