Page 1 of Diva Pop

Chapter One

Jett lit up his first cigarette of the day as he and his bandmate, Tory, exited the back of the rehearsal studio. He’d been trying to hold off until after the visit from the record label’s mystery execs, but his nerves were shot to shit.

“Make sure you have a mint before the label guys arrive. You don’t want them to know you've been smoking.”

Even though that was why he’d been forcing himself to wait, Jett didn’t need someone -- best friend or not -- to remind him of that fact. Not to mention how fucking irritating it was to be treated as if the almighty label owned him.

Jett sucked on the cigarette as hard as he could. Truth was, they might.

“Yeah, hon. I will. I have my raspberry vanilla body spray in my clutch, too.”

Jett squinted against the sun as he glanced at Tory, cursing the fact that he’d forgotten his sunglasses inside. Getting away from His Royal Hiney as fast as he could had prompted his hasty exit. His feelings toward Paul, his other bandmate, were the polar opposite of how he viewed Tory.

Tory gave him a lopsided smile. “You look super cute. Love the eyebrows and the dark pink of your lipstick.”

Jett smiled back. “You’re such a sweetheart, Tor. Thanks.” Tory was so easy-going and nice, as well as the only person Jett could count on. His family was certainly useless. “You don’t think the eyebrows are a bit too Joan Crawford? Extreme arches aren’t very in right now. But I’m not feeling the fuzzy caterpillar look.”

“They’re amazing, especially on you.”

Jett kissed the air in Tory’s direction, then faced forward again. His corneas were getting seared and he was tearing up. Great. If his meticulously applied eyeliner ran, he’d be mega-pissed.

His aggravation grew as the minutes passed. When the executive assistant to the label’s president called last night, he’d said to show up at the usual rehearsal time. That had been an hour ago. Who did these assholes think they were? Just because they held all the power didn’t mean they needed to treat the band as though they were lowly servants.

Tory sighed. “He said to be here at the usual time?”

“Yup.” At this rate, he’d make it through a whole pack of cigs, and they’d have to peel him off the ceiling. He was sick of waiting. “Tor? Do a girl a favor and check inside, see if anyone’s shown up yet. For all we know Paul is in there with them right now saying he has no idea where we are and that we’re pathetic losers.”

Tory snorted. “Come on, he wouldn’t do that.”

Jett smirked. “You sure about that, cupcake?”

“Uh…” Tory wrung his hands. “Shit. I’ll be right back.”

Jett chuckled as Tory scurried off then dropped his cigarette on the ground after two more long drags. He crushed the remainder beneath the heel of his stiletto dancing shoes. With a groan, he fell back against the brick wall that made up the rear of the rehearsal studio, angrily crossing his arms and wondering how everything had managed to get so fucked up.

Managed.

That was it right there. Fucking managers always ruined everything. Why he’d ever agreed to give up his hard earned cash to have some idiot tyrant run him around, he had no idea. Of course, that same tyrant had been the genius producer to put the band together in the first place, so what other choice did he have?

But that wasn’t his problem anymore. The high and mighty manager and producer, Bob Saperstein, had told him to fuck off and die. After months and months of vicious fighting, he’d shrieked at Jett and the others that he was done with Three Trick Pony and the music industry for good, then stormed out of the studio.

That had been a week ago. Since then, the video for their single had been postponed, and the tour was in danger of being canceled. But today, they’d all been called into rehearsal. None of them had a clue what that might mean for the band’s future.

Jett plucked another cigarette from his cosmetic clutch and lit it up, his fingers shaking. So what if he wasn’t supposed to be smoking? None of his babysitters were around to yell at him. No, they’d all scurried away with dickwad Bob and wouldn’t be making his life a living hell anymore. At least one problem had been solved. Too bad there were still about a hundred additional ones to go.

After glancing around to make sure no one was lurking nearby, Jett adjusted his package in the glittery thong that was a potential frontrunner for his costume when they shot the video for real. The rest of what he wore was a rhinestone halter and shimmering black thigh high hose with two pink satin bows at the top that were held up with lace garters.

He already knew the costume wouldn’t work. The stylist -- who had also stomped out with Bob -- was clearly unaware of what the rigors of dancing would do to the stockings being gripped by the claw-like clips. They weren’t going to perform on command. The very second Jett had done his trademark high sidekick, the elasticized lace had ripped. Not only had the flimsy item been destroyed, the band around the hose had dug into the rock hard muscles of his thighs. The bruise still hadn’t gone away.

That little incident had been the beginning of the fight heard around the world. Now, here he was, a week later, sporting the extra pair of stockings to prove to the cranky record company he could be a good little boy and behave himself.

Who knew what was about to happen when the record company execs arrived? Maybe Bonnie, his faithful hair and makeup artist, would convince them that the garter and hose combination was a disaster. On the other hand, rebellious hosiery might be the least of his problems.

Personally, Jett thought a pair of crotchless stockings with the pink satin bows at the hips would look hot as fuck, but the damn costume designer had dissolved into a big snit because he knew best. He did the costumes for all the top dance videos and Jett was merely the dancing robot.

Whatever.

Jett took another long drag from his cigarette, then dropped it on the ground of the so-called break area, squishing it with his heel the way he had the other. He was used to being in the towering shoes for long periods of time, but standing around like this was beginning to take a toll on the balls of his feet. If it weren’t for the impending arrival of the executive muscle from the label, he’d be in his athletic dance shoes instead.

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