Johnny fucked his lead singer’s girlfriend. JC then dumped her; apparently that part happened two days ago—the day I’d met her in Johnny’s kitchen. Poor Brianna was a starry-eyed victim of two alpha males both trying to play her for their own gain. That was the gist of it. By the way the articles painted Brianna as a successful model who was above the men who’d drawn her into this web of betrayals, I was going to assume that the “anonymous source” came from within her camp.
Smart, though. The best thing Brianna’s publicist—Danielle Duke—could do right now was get ahead of the story; get coverage circulating that painted Johnny, the lover who’d rejected her, as a womanizer, and JC, the boyfriend who’d dumped her, as a coldhearted status climber. Whatever established Brianna as the better person in the situation.
After spending hours poring over news articles and entertainment gossip sites that painted my client as an asshole, I really needed a palate cleanser.
And finally I found it—during an image search, of all things.
There were plenty of public images of Johnny O to choose from, between red carpet photos, concert photos, paparazzi images and fan pics, and even a few editorials. But there was one that really stood out. It was the same image I’d seen on the wall at Champagne.
The image was from Lollapalooza, ten years ago.
I quickly did a fact check to make sure my calculations were correct, and confirmed that the photo was taken two years before Breakneck formed. With a little more digging, I figured out that at the time of the photo, Johnny had been playing with another band on his then-record label, on a temporary contract while their guitarist recovered from a surgery. Lollapalooza was a major highlight from that brief stint, and very possibly the largest show Johnny had ever played.
I studied the photo. There was something so raw and powerful about it. Gritty black-and-white, it showed Johnny onstage in black jeans and no shirt, his guitar strapped on—but he wasn’t playing. His left hand curled around the neck of the guitar, his fingers still ghosting a chord, but his right hand had moved up to his face. His thumb was pressed to his full bottom lip, like he was holding back a smile, but his eyes were lit up as he looked out over the crowd. He seemed to be focused on something specific in the audience. Something that delighted him.
It felt like an intimate moment; his reaction to the crowd’s reaction to him.
He also looked young. He would’ve been only twenty then. Less tattoos, his blond hair a little longer, sweat-damp strands reaching his jaw. There was a boy who became a rock star in that picture—and was caught marveling at the fact. That was no egocentric god looking down on the masses with unerring confidence. Just a young man standing at a crossroads between where he’d come from and where he might go.
I realized, I’d never heard of Johnny O’Reilly until he was with Breakneck, and I didn’t meet him in person until a couple of years after the band was formed.
I never really knew who he was before.
I saved the photo, knowing there was magic in it. I even inserted it into myReinventing Johnnydocument, where I’d been taking notes and saving links, as inspiration. And a reminder to myself, maybe, of that guy he once was, the guy who set out to be a rock star.
A guy I’d never met.
ChapterEleven
Angeline
Mid-afternoon, Johnny finally sent me a text asking me to come over to his house.
I left the laptop behind so I could give my client my full attention, bringing along my phone just in case I needed to write anything down. Step Two in my client intake process: meet with the client.
When I tapped on the glass doors off his deck, he answered the door in shorts and a tank top, sweat gleaming on his sculpted arms and shoulders.
Great. Fantastic. Not attractive at all.
I hugged Shayla’s sweater around myself.
“Cold?” He eyed me strangely as I stepped inside.
“Oh, you know. Air conditioning.” God, he smelled incredible. Like sweaty man, but in the best way. “Working out?”
“Air conditioning’s not on.” He slid the glass door shut behind me. “And I was shooting hoops with Lamar.”
“Right. I’m just…”Weird. He’s staring at you right now because you’re being weird.“I had a chill earlier.” I cleared my throat and wandered toward his kitchen trying to get his smell out of my nostrils.
“Are you getting sick or something?”
“No. Don’t worry.”
“Okay… Well, I thought we could just squeeze this in. I don’t have much time.”
I turned to look at him. Standing there in his sweaty athletic clothes, like he had zero interest in a conversation about his career or his public image right now, even to bother to get properly dressed.
“Is this a bad time?” I asked, confused. “You asked me to come over.”And now you’re acting like you don’t want either of us to be here.“I’m not sick, really.”
