Read Chapter Three Here
Carbon Worcestershire owned the stage. Resplendent in leather pants and silver jewellery, he gazed at the pulsing crowd. All eyes were on him. The other members of RedSauce Connection were patron saints. But Carbon Worcestershire? He was a God. If only he would remember to chill.
He gazed at his right wrist, which had no leather cuff on it. I must get something to cover up my wrist he thought. Something motivational but also cool.
“You got this, Carb.” His bass player and twin, Joseph “the other one” Worcestershire mouthed through the din. Carbon nodded. “We got this, bro. We got this.”
It was true. They did have that.
At the edge of the stage, Deborah Wiseman glared at an errant techie. She was the band’s PR guru. She’d been a lowly talent scout for a major record label when she’d first encountered them, and the minute she’d heard their music she was enspelled. RedSauce Connection had that peculiar alchemy that only comes along once in a lifetime. They were a get. She’d built her career on having gotten them, and at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, the sky was still the limit. A limit she intended to ride their coat tails all the way to. And beyond.
Eff the sky thought Deborah Wiseman. What has the sky ever done for me? Deborah’s ex had broken up with her on his private jet and she’d never gotten over it. She thought she had, but as events unfurl it will become apparent that she so has not.
Gazing at the angular thighs and firm pectorals of Carbon Worcestershire, Deborah felt a hunger trickle through her midriff. It had been so long since she’d made love to a man. A real man. The kind you see in magazines. Carbon Worcestershire was such a man. But thoughts of old love flashed unbidden through her sex-brain, and she remembered why she had promised herself never to believe in anything. Belief was dangerous. Hope could get you hurt.
Focus on the Job, Deb she reminded herself. The Job was real. Not like God, or True Love, or Self-Esteem, or the Holocaust. She could believe in the job. As much as she could believe in anything.
“Hello, Deborah” purred a voice from the past, thick with a uniquely male brand of charisma. “It’s been a long time.”
Deborah was taken aback, but she mustered all her poise and business-lady mystique. She tossed her expensively highlighted hair, brushed down her Donna Karan business-sheath and met his gun metal grey gaze head first.
“Jackman DuVall, you son of a bitch. It’s been forever.”