Page 2 of Diva Pop

Jett ran the tips of his fingers through his carefully groomed dark waves, the hair kept short so as not to interfere with his moves. His plan was to look so fabulous when the record company execs arrived, be the picture of compliance who was on time and ready to work, that the thought of dumping his ass would never cross their minds.

Jett fussed with the pink bows again. If they didn’t arrive soon, he was going to freak the fuck out.

Unease coiled in the pit of his stomach. What if they simply sent a messenger over with letters of dismissal? Rehearsal had been set to begin over an hour ago. Jett was ashamed to admit it, but he’d signed on the dotted line four years ago without a lawyer, Bob’s promises of fame and fortune a welcome relief after being kicked out of the American Ballet Theatre.

Jett had assumed his career as a dancer would be over after a knee injury had forced him out of the ballet company he loved so much. His worries over his future had made it easy for Bob to lure him into accepting whatever he offered, to take his word for it that he’d protect Jett and make sure everything worked out in his favor. Truth was, Jett knew it was his own damn fault for not performing his due diligence.

The back door creaked open like an old elevator grinding to a halt. “Hey.”

Jett glanced up. “Hey, Tor. I take it they’re here?”

Tory averted his gaze, then scratched the side of his shaved head. The rest of his honey-blond hair was cut into a short mop of curls on the top, almost like a crown. Jett always wondered if Bob had merely chosen them for their looks and hair color, rather than talent. Tory was the blond, Paul the redhead and Jett the brunet.

Instead of answering, Tory switched from scratching to neck rubbing. The familiar wave of aggravation that had grown in intensity since almost the very day he’d signed that fateful contract, began rising up in him. He wouldn’t go off on Tory. But he didn’t want to burst a blood vessel either.

“Tor. Give it to me straight, hon. We’re fired, right?”

Tory tugged the hem of his shimmery tube mini-skirt. “I don’t think so?”

Okay. So maybe he would go off on Tory. His nerves were frayed like a twenty year old pair of jeans.

“Pumpkin? I don’t need cryptic right now, ‘kay?” He gave Tory his trademark death glare. “Spill.”

Tory winced. “I think you should come inside. I honestly don’t know how to answer that question.”

Jett sucked in a deep breath to give Tory the full force of his irritation, but Tory held up his hand, palm out.

“This is what I know, all right? There’s a dude in a suit I’ve never seen before, and he’s got two young guys with him that I’m positive aren’t from the record company.”

Jett narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“They’re, like, super young and hot and not at all dressed like execs. More like…” He winced again. “Dancers.”

Oh shit. That was a low fucking blow. Jett curled his hands into fists. “Those fucking assholes. Don’t they know that we’re the ones who made this band, who sell the songs and tickets to the shows?” Jett stamped his foot. “Motherfuckers!” He went back to angry arm crossing. “So did Suit Guy say anything?”

“He went right up to me, because Paul is kicking it in the dressing room, and asked where everyone was. Then he told me to get you and he’d get Paul because we’re having a meeting.”

Jett growled. “Oh, we’re having a meeting all right!”

Tory grabbed his arm as Jett tried to breeze past him. “Wait to hear what he has to say first, don’t piss him off. Please?”

“He’s pissed me off!”

Tory sighed, the same sigh he always used when he got frustrated with Jett’s frustration. “I know this is scary, but please hear him out calmly? I don’t want anything bad to happen.”

“I’m not scared.” Jett poked out his bottom lip. “He’s the one who should be scared.”

What was a little white lie between friends? But he hadn’t gotten as far as he had in this business by showing fear.

“Extra I’m totally serious, please?” Tory regarded him with a pained expression. “For me?”

Maybe Bob hadn’t realized that the three of them shared more differences than hair color. Tory was the reasonable one, Paul the raging asshole and Jett the diva.

“For you, and you alone, I’ll attempt to make Princess behave.”

Jett petted the sides of his hair back and straightened the hated stockings so the bows were even. Then he smacked his own ass cheek. If he was lucky, Suit Guy would be gay, or at least bi, and he could work his charm on the man.

“Thanks, Jett.”

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