Page 24 of Hold Still

Twenty minutes later, and one phone call to Becky, I emerge from my bedroom. Knitting needles clack away. “Please don’t wait up for me. No leaving the house, alright?”

Mom looks at me and smiles. “Sure thing, McKenna.”

Relieved that today’s been a pretty good day for her, I head toward the front door. Mom’s voice stops me. “You look terrific. Now, go show them what you’ve got!”

I give her the thumbs-up and lock the door behind me. Soon, I park my Civic in a compact car spot in the garage of the Jade. I’m going to watch Ozzy perform to try to get ideas about how to trample his writer’s block. He has a little over a month to write at least thirteen songs. I have no idea if it’s even possible, but I’m going to do my damndest to get at least three songs out of him so I can complete my presentation. I refuse to let anyone stand in my way.

Even Ozzy.

With all his tats, piercings and abs. Not to mention his “V.” And his new cock piercing—no! Stop it, McKenna. Professional. That’s what tonight is all about. Not his body. Or how he cooks for me. Or how he takes care of his voice for his performances.

I repeat my mantra as I trek through the lobby to the box office. At a special window marked “Industry,” I wait behind a group of three women. The tall, skinny blonde one says, “I hope he gives me the towel tonight. I brought him a gift.”

Her friend, a reed-thin, shorter blonde with enough makeup on that I could carve my initials into her cheek without drawing blood replies, “Are you sure you’re not just returning his vibrator?”

Her other friend, a wispy red-head, says, “We’re all going to get lucky with Ozzy again tonight. His penthouse is ours. I can feel it.”

At the mention of Ozzy’s name, my breathing hitches. I know he’s a total manwhore, but three? Obviously, this won’t be the trio’s first time together. The green-eyed monster that has nothing to do with the name of the casino threatens to snark out at them, but I tamp her down. Professional. I’m here for professional reasons only. It doesn’t matter to me who he sleeps with.

Right?

Right.

Right!

The triumvirate get their tickets and giggle their way out of line. I give my name to the agent, and he hands me an envelope. I take a couple of steps away from the window and open it. A front row ticket and a backstage pass. I hope I’m not seated by those three slutty groupies.

Walking past the counter, I see a vendor selling all things Ozzy, from T-shirts to programs and even shot glasses. I stop and take a good look at the inventory. Most every one features Ozzy’s face except for the back of the T-shirt, which is a rear view of him playing guitar. No other band members are shown.

I guess this makes sense given what he told me this afternoon about leaving his bandmates behind when he was signed. Lonely, though. Not so much upbeat and fun. And random, nameless sex has to get old—even with three.

I walk down to the front row and take my seat in the center. Man, this is an incredible view. Better, by far, than any of the other concerts I’ve attended while working on the Project. I bet this ticket sells for hundreds. Ozzy sure knows how to treat a woman. At least, one he wants in his bed, even for one night. My resolve starts to dip until I catch a glimpse of his unholy trio half a row away and put my barriers back up again. He’s everything I can’t want in my life.

I promise, Daddy.

The lights dim and the extravaganza that is the Ozzy Martinez residency starts. High flying trapeze artists, gymnasts on trampolines, dancers on individual high stages, lighting galore. High intensity doesn’t even scratch the surface of his show, which features all of his older hits and covers of some current pop tunes.

My favorite song, though, is a traditional Puerto Rican ballad honoring his homeland. In Spanish. Everyone quiets and breathes in his soul. His heart’s ripped open. When the song ends, the audience explodes.

On stage, Ozzy wipes the sweat off his face with a towel. Hmm. Much smaller towel than the one covering him at his pool this afternoon. Don’t think about that, McKenna.Especially not what was under the towel.He takes the mic and starts talking, effectively diverting my wayward thoughts.

“Thank you all for coming tonight!” He rubs the towel again over his wet forehead and locks eyes with mine. With a wink, he tosses it.

Catching my prize, I hold it over my head, giving the trio from the Box Office a side glance. I shouldn’t go so petty, but it sure does feel good. And the applause from the crowd doesn’t hurt.

On stage, Ozzy walks to his band members and talks to them. Then he comes back to the mic. “Okay, Vegas, we have one more song tonight for you! Are you ready to blow the roof off this place?”

I scream, “Yes!” with everyone else around me. The buzz of the crowd is electric and being this close to the band has every sound vibrating through my body.

Ozzy cups his ear. “I didn’t hear you. Are you ready to blow the roof off?”

I jump up and down, screaming, “Yes!”

“I’m still not convinced. Stan, are you?”

The spotlight goes to the drummer. He twirls his sticks and shakes his head. “Nah, Ozzy, I’m not.”

The crowd now goes wild. Three bras float up on stage. I slant a look to the three slutty women, who are waving at Ozzy.Geez.

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