Rock My World (26 page)

Chapter
44

Jackson
Jones kept his most prized possession in his Las Vegas office, where he spent
the most time. He picked it up, fingers squeaking across the fret board,
noodling around with a complicated
Phazee
Crux rock
solo to clear his head before the start of business. The pearly white pick
guard gleamed in the morning light, accentuating the Stratocaster’s classic
sunburst coloring. The Shawn
Jax
signature guitar was
his one big splurge after making his first million. He bought it at a Sotheby’s
auction for $15,000, a sum equal to his previous year’s income. Playing it was
the closest to meditation he’d ever come. It represented the sole vestige of
his sixteen year-old
self
. If not for that, Alexander
Deshevka
—son, brother, Russian immigrant—would
cease to exist, replaced on all levels by his alter ego, Jackson Jones, CEO of
Flesh, Inc.: fearfully respected business mogul.

His idea of
a religious experience was watching the orange pink haze of the desert sun rise
below him, sitting atop his empire, looking out on the world famous Strip. The
Strip, deserted and lonely at this hour, reminded him of St. Basil’s basilica
after the Cold War. All these years later, he still thought about his homeland.
He had no intention of returning, however. The pain his own people inflicted on
him and his family was enough to squelch even the strongest bouts of nostalgia
for what his life could have been if they never came to America. His father’s
funeral hadn’t been enough to bring him back, and he doubted anything else
would come close. So it existed, like his birth name, only at this early hour,
preserved inside a glass case high up on a shelf in his memory, untouchable.

The phone on
his desk rang, signaling that his workday had commenced. Flesh, Inc. was his
life’s work, his baby, and he reveled in its daily challenges. He’d always been
a problem solver, never shying from confrontation. It kept his mind sharp and
his instincts honed.

His empire
began with a simple producer’s credit in the film, “Pussy Police Academy” in
which he’d discovered its star, Pussy Willows. He rescued her from a couple of
drunks outside a strip joint. From there, he and Ms. Willows completed a nine
part series, parlaying his role from producer to running his own production
company. The age of VHS opened a new market for distribution, which he quickly
exploited. Then came DVD, followed by the bane of his existence and source of
his fortune: the
internet
.

So much porn, so little quality.
How could he compete with
free? He sold memberships and viewing fees to his bread and butter customers,
but their insatiable taste for more daring content led him to realize they’d
never be satisfied. He sold enough in advertising to build up his empire, but
continued transitioning into areas he felt had more long-term growth. He
dreamed of bridging the gap between mainstream America and the XXX world by
making an Oscar worthy XXX art film (blowing “Deep Throat” out of the water),
garnering him credibility in the business world.

Until then,
he focused on mainstream soft porn: pop music featuring scantily clad (barely
legal) stars; home decorating channels featuring shows where hunky men came in
to rescue desperate housewives from their less than handy husbands (the most
appealing form of soft porn for women, focus groups showed); and Men’s
magazines featuring raunchy articles on young girl-next-door types pictured in
compromising positions, wearing next to nothing.

His
secretary’s voice came over the office intercom. “Mr. Walker on line two. Shall
I take a message?”

“No, no.
I’ll take it. Put him through,” he rolled the high-backed leather chair away
from the window, settling behind his desk,
guitar
still in hand.

“Simon
Walker. Good morning.”

“Good morning,
sir,” Simon waited for a response, and when he didn’t get one, continued.
“We’ve had a slight hiccup. Nothing to worry about, mind you, just a small
matter.”

“You need my
help with a small matter?” Jackson Jones asked.

“No, of
course not. I wouldn’t waste your time. I just …” Simon stuttered.

“Then
don’t.”

Simon
gulped. He couldn’t end the call fast enough. Jackson Jones hung up,
then
buzzed his secretary. “Get me Alex Anders’ schedule.”

Simon Walker was an incompetent, if not a
double-crossing scoundrel, and in business he’d learned to always see the
important things through himself. Trust no one.

Chapter
45

“Fantastic,”
Simon said to the dial tone. Jackson Jones’ silky charm inspired abject terror
in those who crossed him. Escaping him was like avoiding oxygen during an
airborne chemical warfare attack.

Not that
Simon planned on crossing him, but every day he lost a little more control over
his star client. He couldn’t understand how his plan could have gone so far
awry.

In such
moments of doubt, he reminded himself that Alex Anders had no one to blame but
himself. For years Simon admired and supported Alex, working for free, booking
gigs anywhere that would take them, convincing venues to let them back even
after the bass player smashed the speakers, or the drummer sexually harassed
the bartender (who happened to be dating the owner). Simon had worked
tirelessly promoting Alex’s ill-advised venture into alt-country, when he’d
gone solo after yet another band broke up. And through all that, Simon had been
the one constant. They were family, or so he thought.

When he’d
pitched the idea to team up with Shawn, combining a more mainstream rock
sound—a sound that broke
Phazee
Crux to AAA
radio (no small feat)—and tacking on a couple of collaborations between
Shawn and Alex, he hadn’t expected to be ignored completely; and worse, turned
into an anecdote. His suggestion was cited as “one of the worst thing he’d ever
been asked to do” as Alex told journalists regularly.

Not long after, Jackson Jones presented the
opportunity to make good money, catapulting him into a new stratosphere of
entrepreneurial possibilities, and Simon jumped.

At first everything went as planned. Everyone
seemed happy and Simon was on top of the world, until that Dutch commercial derailed
the whole thing. Alex started asking questions and Simon didn’t know how to
answer. The one stipulation had been that Jackson Jones remained anonymous.
When Simon didn’t cave, Alex turned on him and they’d been at odds ever since.
 
Alex no longer trusted Simon and vice
versa. Simon tried everything to get the situation under control: manipulation,
women, endorsements,
intimidation
. Nothing worked.
Alex Anders was a hard nut to crack.

Chapter 46

Ira
Stearn
took a cursory look over the familiar contract. Alex
didn’t appreciate the speed at which he flipped through page after page.
There’s no way he’s reading that fast
.
It occurred to him this had been a colossal waste of time and money. It was
money that, if he couldn’t get out of this contract, would be a lot tighter.

“It’s
ironclad.” Ira stated, settling back in his chair, pushing the contract back to
Alex.

“You’re
sure?”

“Yes.
Unless…” Ira leaned his elbows on the desk, eyes gleaming.

“Unless
what?” Alex said, sitting up on the edge of his chair. Ira eyed him over
horn-rimmed glasses, relaxing into the back of his own much higher, more
luxurious chair.

“Unless, you
take advantage of clause 7b,” Ira said, flipping to page six, indicating a
paragraph half way down the page.

“7b?” Alex
said, scanning the nonsensical text. “What does it say?”

“It says,”
Ira smirked, “that you can, after the first year, renegotiate the terms of the
agreement.”

“That’s
good, then. At the end of the tour, the year is up. All I have to do is
negotiate to be let out of the contract.”

“Well, not
exactly. You can renegotiate the terms, not the duration.”

“I don’t
understand.”

“You can ask
for more royalty points, say. Or a larger advance based on previous success.
The finer points.”

“But I don’t
want to renegotiate. I want out.”

“Well then,
it’s ironclad.”

Alex’s face
flushed in anger. He came to Ira
Stearn
to stop being
bullied.
To take control.
And here he was,
compromising himself for this bottom feeder at $1,500 an hour to be told,
Sorry, better luck next time
.

“You know,
if you’d hired me in the first place I would have negotiated a much better
deal.” Ira said, sliding back in his chair, removing his glasses and setting
them on his desk. Alex made a guttural sound in his throat, disbelieving his
ears.

“Thanks,
I’ll stick with my current representation.”

“Tell me
you’re not still with Frank Fitzsimmons?” Ira said, rolling his eyes in
exasperation or pity, Alex couldn’t tell which.

“You have a
problem with Frank?” Alex asked, feeling defensive.

“No problem, so long as you don’t mind losing.”
Ira smiled,
but he shifted in his seat, and Alex could swear he sensed an underlying anger.

“Did you
lose to Frank?” Alex goaded. Ira narrowed his eyes at Alex.

“I don’t
lose to that smug bastard. He thinks he’s so superior with his ‘high moral
standards’ but that’s just loser-speak for being too
chickenshit
to play in the big leagues.”

Alex had no
idea what that meant and didn’t really care. His only concern was that he’d
flown all this way and paid a bunch of money for nothing.
So that’s it
.

He looked out the plane window, watching the
country pass by in geometric earthy carvings, like a secret language he’d yet
to unlock. He wished they would open up to him, revealing the solution to this
gargantuan mess.

His worries didn’t include the fact that, if his
flight didn’t land on time, he would miss tonight’s concert in Vegas, breaching
his side of the contract. He hated Vegas. It was one of the few places that
made him feel like his life didn’t turn out the way it should have. As much as
he liked to think himself a fairly evolved male, pro gender equality and all
that, he couldn’t escape the simple fact that he was a man. It wasn’t the sex,
exactly, that held the power. It was the youthful promise Vegas proffered: a version
of life where you didn’t have to compromise, where every one of your fantasies
could be realized. He’d never been the cheating type and groupies held no
interest for him because even if he’d been single, to completely eliminate the
chase denied him the opportunity to desire. It just wasn’t sexy.

But
Vegas—for all its faults (it’s many, many, faults)—dangled that
potential like a proverbial carrot. It was a place you could get rich, win big,
meet someone, live out your sexual fantasies, escape reality, and go home like
nothing happened. It was a place that put a crack in his stony façade. The less
time he spent there, the better.

Cha
pter 47

Jenna sighed
into the phone. Felicity braced for punishment.

“Why didn’t
you tell me?” Jenna asked.

She struggled
to maintain her previous Zen while the anger and hurt only a teenage daughter
could incite bubbled to the surface. She wanted to scream and ground her until
she graduated high school, but another part of her had to pat her on the back
and congratulate her tenacity. When Felicity wanted something she took a clear
efficient path toward that goal. Jenna wished they could swap … at least until
Felicity turned eighteen. Parenting would be a cakewalk if the child were the
pushover and the parent the strong stubborn one.

“Because you
wouldn’t have let me audition.”

“You’re
right,” Jenna admitted. “But that’s my right. You have to respect me if you
want me to trust you. You can disagree, but you can’t lie to me.”

“But you
don’t listen!”

“I’m
listening now. Tell me. Why should I let you do this?”

“Because I
love it.
Because it will help me get into an Ivy League
college.
Because I got the part.
And because
I’m not going to do the stuff you’re afraid I’ll do!” Felicity said.

Jenna took a couple calming breaths.

“Okay … I
hear you. And I’m glad you found something you love. I’m proud of you getting
the part. I am. But you don’t have to be in movies to get into college. And
I
want, no need, to protect your
childhood.”

Felicity sighed and Jenna heard the wavering in
her breathing that meant she was close to tears. Jenna closed her eyes and took
another breath, willing herself to get through this. “I know you don’t
understand, Sweetheart. You feel grown up, and I remember feeling the same. But
there’s a lot you don’t know. And my dream is that you get to hold on to that
as long as possible. That’s why I can’t let you take that role.”