The Duet(11)

I pressed play and held the phone up to my ear just as Jason’s deep voice crooned over the airwaves. He wasn’t even singing and still the guy sounded like he was trying to serenade me.

That is, until I actually listened to what he was saying.

That motherfucker.





Chapter Four





“Brooklyn, this is Jason Monroe. We obviously have some things to discuss, so I’ll leave you the number for my assistant and you can coordinate it all with her. After you stormed out of the meeting, I spoke with Mr. Daniels about a potential Plan B. There is no plan B. We’ll have to work together, so give Sandy a call at 555-9010.”

The line cut off after that. No goodbye, no sorry about our rough start. Also, he’d blocked his number so that I couldn’t even call him back to tell him how rude he’d been. I was left with Sandy, his assistant.

After I’d shot a quick text to Jerry, I dialed Sandy’s number and told myself that whatever anger I felt toward Jason should not be taken out on her. If she had to work with him all day every day, she probably hated him as much as I did. Maybe I’d offer her a new job.

“Hello, this is Sandy speaking.”

“Oh, hi, Sandy. This is Brooklyn Heart.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she screeched so loudly that I had to hold the phone away from my ear for fear that she was going to rupture my ear drums.

An awkward, “umm,” and a laugh were the only things I could muster in reply.

“Oh God, I’m sorry about that. You’d think I’d get used to talking to celebrities, but you’re Brooklyn Heart. Wow. This is insane.”

I smiled at her excitement. At least Jason Monroe’s assistant liked me.

“Alright,” she said, taking an audible breath. “I’m fine now.” Two more deep breaths and then she finally continued. “I assume you’re calling to coordinate things with Jason concerning the duet.”

I was about to reply when I saw Jerry and the town car pull up out front of the coffee shop.

“Yes, actually,” I said to Sandy as I exited the coffee shop with my head down, pulling my bun out so that I could use my curtain of blonde hair to shield me from the lurking cameras. There was a rustling of paper through the phone line and then Sandy spoke up again.

“Okay, well you’ll leave here in a week’s time. You’ll be at the ranch for a few weeks, or however long it takes you two to finalize the song—”

I cut her off. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about? What ranch?”

Sandy cleared her throat. “Oh,” she paused, clearly confused about why we weren’t on the same page. “I thought Jason discussed this with you. Didn’t you guys speak after the meeting?” When I stayed silent, she continued. “Jason doesn’t write in LA. Whenever he’s creating new projects, he goes home to his ranch in Montana.”

“Ohhkaayy,” I dragged out, trying to clear things up in my head. “Sandy, could you give me Jason’s number please? I think it’s better if I speak with him about all of this first.”

She hesitated for a few seconds before answering, “Well, usually he doesn’t like me giving out his number to anyone.”

Of course. I wondered if Jason even put his own pants on in the morning.

“Well, Sandy, this can be the one exception,” I said with a sweet tone. I knew I was putting her in a bad position, but her boss kind of sucked-ass anyway.

It took a bit more sweet-talking, and tickets to my next concert, but eventually she gave me the number. I would have called Jason right away, but I had a meeting with a perfume company to customize my signature scent and then directly after that I had a dress fitting with Givenchy. Finally around 6:00 P.M., I headed back to my condo so that I could make the call to Jason in the privacy of my four walls.

When I walked into my building, the sweet concierge from that morning waved me over with a small gesture. She was a young girl, no more than twenty-five, with a simple, tight bun pulled back at the base of her neck. When she spoke, her eyes darted around the room as if she wanted to ensure that we weren’t being overheard.

“Ms. Heart, the situation from earlier was taken care of,” she said with a whisper. “The gentleman left shortly after you and we gifted him a fruit basket on his way out.”

Oh good, apparently when you have sex with Brooklyn Heart, you leave with a fruit basket. What a lovely experience.

“Thank you so much,” I said, trying hard not to cringe at how embarrassing the entire situation was before heading toward the elevator. This is why I don’t have sex. It’s not worth the trouble. I’ve never had to buy my vibrator a fruit basket.