1. Worst night ever
CHAPTER 1
WORST NIGHT EVER
BILLIE
A s I take a wrong step on my way out of the Central Park West Garage and the three-inch heel on my stiletto catches in a crack in the pavement, I can’t help but think that tonight can’t get any worse.
Even the heel buckling under my weight does little more than have me sighing under my breath. I don’t really curse—I leave that to Sierra—but if anything called for a ‘damn it’, tonight ranks near the top of the list. I’m tired, though. The last time I glanced at my phone before tossing it in my bag and trudging out of the garage, I saw it was already after two in the morning. I should be fast asleep.
Instead I’ve just spent a nerve-wracking two hours driving my rental back to Manhattan from my disaster of a weekend getaway in Connecticut.
I don’t like to drive. I can if I have to, but when I’m used to traveling on tour buses and private planes when I’m not living in the capital of public transportation, New York City, it’s a miracle I got a license in the first place. Since I spent my seventeenth birthday on stage in Amsterdam, singing “Ooh-bop-bop” with Sierra and Tandy, it’s not like I was in any rush like most girls that age. Our next top-ten single was my goal, not cruising around my hometown in a beater my parents would’ve got from some shady guy for three hundred bucks.
I loved them, but I wanted more than that. I still do. So I got my license after Thr33peat broke up, but before I finished getting my MBA and starting up Bickles Management. So I can drive… but it takes a lot of grit and nerve to get me to agree to anything longer than a fifteen-minute ride.
In this case, a mixture of spite and heartbreak got me to the only late-night rental service I could find at the last minute, and three blonde espressos downed one after another was the stimulant I needed to put my heel to the pedal. The nerves would’ve been enough to keep my eyes open—the memory of Trevor’s ‘apology’ running through my head doing the same thing—but I ordered the coffee anyway because, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Going to Connecticut with that weasel seemed like a good idea at the time.
Leaving Sierra alone with Three in the apartment when I could sense how much she needed me to stay… yeah, I knew that was a bad idea. Especially since I’d put down my fifteen percent for Sierra’s last film contract that she called up Jared the second I was out the door, I knew it was a really bad idea.
And, if I’m being honest, I have to admit that, going on that weekend getaway out of the city with Trevor Daniels when I was working up the nerve to dump him… that was a terrible idea.
Our relationship had run its course. A year after we hit it off and started dating, my sixth sense started tingling. It wasn’t anything he said or did. At first, I tried to talk myself into accepting that I was overreacting. That just because he was the first long-term relationship I’ve ever had that didn’t get complicated because of my position as the Whiskey Rose’s manager, it didn’t mean anything was suspicious.
Oh, but it was . And I’m the idiot who didn’t pick up on the—obvious in hindsight—clues that Trevor wasn’t just secretly in love with my best friend, he’s another one of those obsessed fans that currently have poor Sierra on house arrest in the Dorado.
Crap. How am I going to tell her that, if Trevor’s reaction to me immediately breaking things off and warning him away from Sierra is anything to go by, we might have another Patrick Ridgefield on our hands?
Damn it. Damn, damn, damn.
Exhausted and wired, thanks to the espressos, I force myself to stop thinking about that. Ridgefield isn’t worth it. Trevor definitely isn’t. And if he thinks I’m going to let this go and not tell Sierra… I just hope that she decided to ignore my suggestion from the other day when I mentioned she might want to go through her fan mail.
Trevor wrote her love letters. Seriously. Not realizing that a pop star as famous as Whiskey Rose might not handle each piece of fan mail personally, he spent months waiting for her reply. When he didn’t get one? That crackpot decided that I’d finally figured out that he was only dating me so that, eventually, Whiskey Rose would notice him.
Because who would ever choose Billie Bickles when the long-reigning princess of pop was right there?
Story of my life.
Snap .
Damn .
Another misstep as I turn the corner, heading for the front of the Dorado. This time, the heel snaps all the way, causing me to stumble and only right myself in time.
It’s late, but a lifetime in show biz has my instincts buzzing. I might not see the paps skulking around right now. Doesn’t matter. With as many high-profile residents as the Dorado has, odds are there’s usually a camera or two pointing this way. The last thing I need is some Page Six tidbit about one of the former members of Thr33peat hobbling home, visibly drunk, on her way to see the break-out star.
Do they care that I purposely gave up performing myself because I preferred managing? That I’m not going to see Whiskey Rose as an old friend, but because Sierra is my best friend and the little sister I never had? That the apartment is much my home as it is hers, and that with both of our love lifes a shitshow lately, the idea of just settling down with our fluffy-haired void is more and more promising these days?
Ugh.
I have to get inside and quick; hopefully before my photo gets snapped. Sierra doesn’t need the drama while she’s recovering from her recent scare in California, and I’m dying to change my outfit, throw my wild curls up into a bun, and get my hands on the mail bags.
One upside to the espresso shots? I’m not going to sleep anytime soon, and since I spent the drive back into the city determined to get my hands on Trevor’s letters before Sierra had to deal with it, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
But, first, these stupid heels?—
The skirt on my tight red dress is riding up as I crouch down, reaching for the snapped stiletto while trying not to whack myself with my bag. It’s the Prada Sierra bought me last Christmas, and while part of me wanted to brain Trevor over the head with it—and it’s big and heavy enough to do it—I would never harm one of my precious babies by using it on a worthless creep who doesn’t deserve it.
Considering how much Sierra splurged to buy it for me, it also doesn’t deserve to be set down on the middle of a Manhattan sidewalk—on the UWS or not. I totter on the good heel, struggling to balance without dropping my bag, and get the shoe off. Tucking the busted heel under my arm, I do the same to the other since walking with one three-inch heel on, one off, would only draw out the photogs looking for a tipsy B-list celeb.
One problem. Naive Billie didn’t bother with stockings earlier tonight when Trevor mentioned I should dress up nice for dinner. Assuming dinner would lead to sex since the weekend had been going okay up until that point, I didn’t want to waste time removing them later.
Of course, instead of sex, Trevor decided to accuse me of wanting to keep Whiskey all to myself once we were back at the rented house—and it took longer than it should’ve for me to realize he meant Sierra and not a bottle of booze. When I finally decided I’d had enough and I was leaving, I grabbed my suitcase, my purse, and my heels.
I regret that now as my bare feet settle on the chilly—and questionable—sidewalk. It’s November, so it’s not snow-covered or anything, but that only makes it worse that my feet are damp.
Ah, well. You can scrub your feet. A Prada tote? I wouldn’t dare.
I move faster without the heels. Before I know it, I’m nodding at the night-time doorman on duty in front of our building. Karl murmurs a greeting, careful not to use my name in case my picture was snapped and some young pap after my time might not recognize my face.
Then I remember that my trademark wild curls are all they need to know who I am…
I slip inside, heading right for the elevator. The apartment I share with Sierra—that is Sierra’s, but she’ll go off in a snit if I ever admit that that’s how I see it—is a classic six, one floor below the penthouse. During the day, a concierge will join me on the ride up so that I access my floor. Afterhours, so long as the doorman lets you in, you’re on your own.
As soon as I’m home, I exhale. Oh, the coffee still has me jittery, and I really, really don’t want to have this conversation with Sierra, but I’m home. Keeping my Prada bag on my shoulder, I toss my shoes along the hall. With Gladys and Maurice on vacation while Sierra’s tour is on pause, I don’t feel so guilty leaving them there for either our housekeeper or our house sitter to find.
I’ll look into getting my stiletto repaired tomorrow. And, seeing how the entire apartment is quiet and dark, I’m thinking about postponing my conversation with Sierra until then, too.
The idea of keeping the truth from her never occurs to me. She likes to tease that I’m honest to a fault, the real goody-goody from our time in Thr33peat, and maybe that’s true. I’m also loyal to my best friend—hell, my only friend—and, with her being two years younger than me—I’m very, very protective.
I also recognize that Sierra is thirty-one, and that she’s been independent for a long time. My parents were a lost cause by the time Thr33peat was my only shot at survival, with my dad doing time for possession and my mom the one who kept possessing after he was gone, but Sierra ended up emancipated from her momager before she was sixteen. To hide this from her wouldn’t only be dangerous, considering her history with obsessed fans turned dangerous stalkers, but it would also be patronizing.
Doesn’t mean that it can’t wait until morning. I still want to find the letters and see how bad they are. Now that my ‘manager’ brain is kicking in, I’m sure they’re bad—just as much as I’m sure that Sierra didn’t stumble across them yet in the, like, nine bags of fan mail I arranged for her to have as a distraction from her recent vocal rest.
She’s been so down lately, I thought she might need a reminder why the world loves Whiskey Rose as much as I adore my best friend. The team I put in charge of the fan mail is careful to pull out anything that might be a threat to her, but since I didn’t know about Trevor’s letters until he mentioned them, they have to still be in there. And while Sierra was a lot quieter this weekend than usual, texting me sporadically as if she was definitely distracted, I’m beginning to understand why… and I don’t think her going through her fan mail is as much of a concern anymore.
Peering down the hall, through the open study, I see that her bedroom door is closed. I’m in a foul mood, and I’m not sure if my reaction is to roll my eyes because my suspicion is right—or sigh again because it is.
Sierra is an open book, but if I’ve learned anything over the years as her roommate, it’s that a closed door means she needs privacy. If it was open, it’s an invitation for people to approach her. If it’s closed, stay out.
The staff are all on break while Sierra’s recovering. Even Roy—our longtime head of security—is staying off-site. I texted Sierra hours ago that I would be coming home a day earlier from my getaway and that we’d talk… and her door is closed.
The only reason it would be is if she has a guy sleeping over. And normally I wouldn’t care—my need to get laid is what got me so involved with Trevor Daniels in the first place—but Sierra… she’s too famous for one-night-stands.
I shudder out a breath of pure annoyance.
Jared Turner is in there, isn’t he?
Settling for rolling my eyes, I trudge toward the kitchen. Right now, with the night not even close to being over, I need an aspirin. Too much caffeine plus my anxiety going through the roof and I’ve got one hell of a headache brewing. I’ve got some aspirin in my bag, but I’ll need some water to swallow it down.
Then I can swap my dress for some sweats and hunker down in the study for a little one-on-one time with Sierra’s fan mail.
Anything to stop Trevor’s pleading voice from echoing in my ears…
You had to know, Billie. You’re a nice girl, and we had fun, but you had to know that it’s all been Whiskey …
I plop my tote on the kitchen table with more force than I mean to, then feel guilty a second later. I’ve never once been jealous of Sierra. Even after Trevor revealed just how disgusting and twisted he is, I would never blame her for being America’s sweetheart. As always, my main concern is for her?—
“That’s it,” I grumble under my breath, voice sounding shaky and echoing in the quiet. “I’m done. No more men for me. Sierra can keep Three, I’ll adopt Four and Five if I have to, and I’ll be a childless cat lady.”
Sounds like a perfect plan to me?—
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t know why. Between reliving Patrick Ridgefield’s attempt on Sierra’s life and imagining Trevor holding the gun instead on my nerve-wracking drive home, I’m already on edge. Toss in the caffeine and what’s quickly becoming one of the worst nights ever, and my imagination is in hyperdrive.
Is someone behind me?
I… it seems like someone might be behind me.
It’s not Three. I haven’t seen any sign of our cat since I entered the apartment. Usually he’ll beg for treats from anyone, no matter the hour, so the fact that he hasn’t tells me that he got trapped in Sierra’s room when she closed the door. Luckily, there’s an extra litter box in the bathroom for occasions just like that, but poor Three if he got a front-row seat to a naked Jared Turner.
And that’s not really fair of me. There’s a reason why Jared—with his dimpled chin and pretty boy-style—is as famous as Sierra. He’s got the looks, the talent, and the charm… plus the inability to keep his dick in his pants so, never mind, maybe it is very fair of me.
But all that to say… no. The darkening shadows that have caught my attention out of the corner of my eye are way too big to belong to a nine-pound house cat, no matter how fluffy Three is. Looks even bigger than it should if it belonged to another person, even a pretty tall man, and that just makes me chide myself as I turn away from the table, ready to reach for a glass to get some water.
I pause, squinting into the shadows.
Green lights? What the… why are there two green pinpoints floating in the shadows about a foot-and-a-half over my head?
The shadows move, my mind goes blank, and when I have the ability to think again, it’s this:
Be careful what you wish for, Billie.
Could tonight get any worse? Tell that to the massive monster that just stepped out of the shadows.