Mo moved off down the bar to serve some of the paying customers, and Jake pulled out a cigarette. Two guys immediately stepped forward to light it for him, both flipping open Zippos like they were in some kind of duel. The bigger one, a blonde, surfer-looking dude in a Van Halen shirt, struck first. Jake leaned in and accepted the light.
"Thanks, man," he said, taking a long drag.
Turns out, Surfer Bro was a guitarist too. Probably a hopeless hacker, but he wanted to pick Jake's brain about some of the chords he'd played that night. Jake stayed polite, answering his questions without ego.
"Thanks, dude," the surfer grinned halfway through Jake's smoke. "Good fuckin' gig tonight. You guys rock."
"Thanks," Jake said with a little nod. "We try."
The guy laughed and vanished into the crowd, quickly replaced by a girl who wasted no time getting to the point: how do you get invited to the afterparty?
The next thirty minutes were a blur of flirting and alcohol. Jake was promised sex by ten different girls, one of whom offered to drag him out to her car right now and handle business in the backseat. He went from laughing off their offers to actually debating which one he'd bring to Matt's. Why the hell not? He'd done it last week and had a great time. It wasn't like he had a girlfriend anymore.
By the time he hit his fourth drink, Mo's lethal mix of 151 and Coke, Jake was deep in deliberation between Allison, the naughty little thing in a red mini-skirt, and Cindy, the exotic Asian chick in tight Calvin Kleins.
That's when she showed up.
A blonde, pushing her way through the crowd with quiet confidence. She wore a conservative, businesslike dress — nylons, heels, subtle makeup. Her blue eyes were striking, her posture sharp. She stood out like a nun at a keg party.
"Hi," she said, giving him a brief smile. "You're Mr. Kingsley, right?"
Jake snorted. "Mr. Kingsley? That's real formal. Just call me Jake."
She gave a slight shrug, borderline condescending. "As you wish, Jake. I'm Trina. Trina Allen. I tried to talk to Mr. Tisdale over there, but it looks like he's got quite the fan club."
Jake followed her gaze. Matt was buried in a sea of admirers, one hand on a drink, the other on a girl's breast. Typical.
"Yeah, Matt's... a people person," Jake said. "Anyway, nice to meet you, Trina." He held out a hand.
She shook it briefly, her grip all business. "I liked the show. It was good, better than I expected. Though I'm more of a soft rock fan. Elton John, Billy Joel. That kind of thing."
Jake raised a brow. Definitely not your standard groupie. "Well, I'm glad we could keep you entertained."
"So am I. But listen, I've got a friend who'd really like to talk to you and Mr. Tisdale, if that's all right."
"Sure," Jake said easily. "We're heading to Matt's soon, but bring him over. Always happy to chat with a fan."
"Well, he's not a fan, per se," she said. "And he's not a she. He's waiting outside. In his car."
Jake's radar pinged. "Right... well, if he wants to meet us, he should probably come inside. We don't usually go wandering into the parking lot."
"I think you'll want to make an exception," she said smoothly. "The gentleman I represent is Ronald Shaver."
Jake blinked. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.
"We're from Los Angeles," Trina continued. "Mr. Shaver is a talent agent. Mr. Tisdale sent him some correspondence recently. He caught your show tonight. He'd like to speak with both of you before heading back to the hotel." She gave Jake a sharp look. "That is, if you're not too busy with your minor-league debauchery preparations."
Ten seconds later, Jake was bulldozing his way through the crowd surrounding Matt. He shoved past girls in fishnets and guys with beers, leaving a trail of spilled drinks, stepped-on toes, and curses. Only the fact that he was Jake Kingsley saved him from a full-on brawl.
He found Matt halfway to second base with the girl he'd been bragging about earlier. One hand on a tall Jack and Coke, the other casually exploring the terrain under her blouse.
"Jake!" Matt bellowed, grinning. "How the hell ya doin', brother?" He turned to the crowd. "Y'all know Jake, right? He's the singer for the band!"
More laughter. Jake didn't even blink.
"I need to talk to you, Matt," he said flatly.
"Well fuckin' talk, homey," Matt said. "What's got a bug up your ass?"
Jake leaned in. "The same thing that's about to have a bug up your ass. Come with me."
Matt caught the serious tone. He turned to his arm candy. "Don't go nowhere, okay?"
She nodded, all blush and awe, and he let her go. The two of them pushed through the crowd, back toward the side of the bar.
"What's up?" Matt asked. "Darren screwing something up again?"
"No, not that," Jake said. "Do you remember sending a demo to someone named Ronald Shaver?"
Matt blinked, then nodded. "Yeah. He's the agent for Earthstone. What about him?"
"He's here," Jake said. "Wants to meet with us. Out in his car."
"Here?" Matt repeated. "You mean here here?"
"Yeah. His secretary — Trina — found me. Wants us to talk to him before he heads out."
"Well fuck my sister," Matt said. "Let's go."
They headed back to the door where Trina was waiting.
Matt, unusually subdued, nodded at her. "Take us to the man."
She led them into the parking lot and out to the curb. Parked at the fire hydrant was a black stretch limo, sleek and shiny. The windows were tinted dark. A driver in uniform stood by the rear door.
As they approached, the driver opened the door without a word.
Inside was plush leather seating and warm lights. A man in his forties sat across the backseat, legs casually crossed. He wore a sharp black suit and tie, his brown hair professionally styled. A pair of Vuarnet sunglasses covered his eyes, even indoors.
On the table in front of him sat a bottle of Chivas Regal and a hefty glass filled with ice and golden-brown scotch.
He looked like money, power, and something a little dangerous — all poured into one expensive suit.
Matt and Jake climbed in.
The door shut behind them.