When superstar Kade Hendrix steals Ivy's song, she falls into his world of public scrutiny-and his arms-just as the rest of her world falls down around her.
Ivy is sure superstar Kade Hendrix won't notice his number one fan in the crowd of his intim...
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She was nothing like Ivy.
She wasn't kind and patient. Humble without trying.
She wasn't overly strong willed or stubborn.
There was no fire in her at all, really.
Just a cellphone in her hand and sunglasses perched on the tip of her thousand dollar nose job.
Just french tip manicured fingernails that nearly blinded me with the jewels that had been pressed on them, their razor sharp tips surely uncomfortable when trying to do everyday tasks.
Seriously, how did she go to the bathroom with those? Blow her nose? Pick up change from the ground? Open a can?
"Kade, this song you're putting out is amazing. What do you think about doing a Stella Stein feature?"
Oh. Of course this was what she wanted.
"Sorry, Jackie. I've already got someone on the feature."
Stella's head jerked up from the phone she'd been so focused on the past thirty minutes of our 'business' lunch and affixed her dark brown eyes on my face before flicking her black and dyed hot pink hair over a shoulder covered in a (hopefully faux) fur mini jacket.
What was the point of wearing a jacket if it was only sleeves? Why not wear the whole thing?
Fashion lately made absolutely no sense which was why I was glad my stylists made sure to keep me in simple pieces and dressing 'boring' according to Jackie for the most part.
There was that one incident with feathers at the Met Gala...yeah, I didn't use that designer ever again after that one.
"Oh? Who is it?"
Stella's interest was slightly piqued, but there was no way I'd be giving Ivy's feature away to her. It would send the wrong message, for one.
She was a pop star, and my new album was heavily leaning dark indie and acoustic folk. Having her on the album would be counterintuitive to what I was trying to do.
"She's new. My songwriter."
"Your songwriter?"
Jackie's question was sharper than I'd have liked as she put down her stylus to the iPad in front of her and made sure she knew her distaste was on display as her eyes crinkled.
The sizzling of skillets in the back of the restaurant filtered in throughout the meandering wisps of conversations threaded with shady business deals or illicit affairs.
Odeon was a place to eat, sure, but it was also the breeding ground for the New York version of Hollywood's elite to flaunt their wealth and be photographed and spotted by the likes of gossipmongers bearing the same name as Deuxmois posers and fakers.
