Bad Boy vs Millionaire

By: Candy J. Starr



It was all because of that nasty business that blew up at the TV studio. One minute they’re in love and it’s all looking like happily ever after then bam!

I wasn’t with Hannah when she found out that Jack Colt had made a bet with Spud. If I had been, I’d have got all in their faces, wanting to know what the fuck was going on in their cotton brains.

Seriously, what kind of guy does that? You want to get rid of your band manager so you make a bet that you can get her to fall in love with you? That’s all smart and business-like. I guess no one would ever accuse Jack Colt of being too smart though. His smarts were pants smarts, not head smarts.

Anyway, had he never watched one single movie in his life? Bets like that always backfire. He had it for Hannah pretty bad. You could tell by the way he looked at her. And by the way he didn’t look at anyone else. I’d kinda made a major study of the way Jack Colt looked at women.

Hannah had run off, as you would, hearing something like that. Well, I wouldn’t have. I’d have punched him. But she’d taken off in a fit of despair. Then Jack ran after her, leaving a studio full of embarrassment behind him and that stupid bint, the production assistant, who'd been trying to get it on with Spud stood there, opening and closing her mouth like goldfish. The host had stepped in and made some excuse about technical difficulties and they crossed to a video and all hell broke loose.

The bimbo ran up to us, yelling and screaming, mostly at poor Eric who had no clue what had happened.

“Where is he?” she screamed, stomping her foot. “He needs to be here.”

“Well he’s not,” said Eric. “We’ll try to sort something out. Give us a minute.”

“A minute on television is a long time.” She flicked her hair and gave us a death stare, then pranced off.

“I’ll go get him.” Spud jumped out from behind his drum kit.

“Sit back down, Spud. I don’t know what’s going on but I have a feeling you have something to do with it. Wait here and don’t make trouble. Jack wouldn’t do this unless he had a pretty major reason. He knows what this appearance means to us.”

So the two of them stood around kinda glowering at each other and the awkwardness in the air swelled up even bigger.

The poor guys. They didn't know whether to pack up their gear and get the hell out of there or not. Were they off the show and ruined or could this be saved?

Eric glanced at me and I shrugged.

You have to remember that, at this stage, Eric and I were totally in the dark, like two clueless kids, in the middle of the fuss. I didn't even know that Hannah had run off or what had happened in the corridor, just that Hannah was gone and now Jack was gone. I glanced up and Eric still looked at me. I don't know why he kept looking at me. I couldn't solve anything. I'd tried to ring Hannah but she hadn't answered her phone. I thought, at that stage, that something had happened about the nasty business with her dad. Like she'd been mobbed by reporters again or something.

The annoying chick ran over and told them to stay in place and they had to play out to the break. And maybe, just maybe there would be a chance to slot them in later in the show if Jack come back. It was a mess. A huge mess. Anyone could tell. She’d gone all red in the face and had a sweat moustache.

“We can't play out to the break,” Spud said. “Not with just a bass and drums. It'll sound like crap.”

The chick shrugged. It seemed she didn't give a shit one way or the other. They needed some sound, regardless of quality.

“You have about 30 seconds to sort it out before we come back from the video,” she said and walked off.

“You play guitar, Eric,” said Spud. “We need someone.”

Eric ran his hand through his hair and glanced at Jack's guitar like it was a poisonous animal.

“I'll do it,” I said before my brain caught up with my mouth. Because I can't play guitar. Not really. But I could play a bits and pieces of the chorus of a few songs. Surely that would be enough. It was just a 30 second grab.

Spud shrugged and Eric gave me an encouraging look so I ran over a picked up Jack's guitar. If I'd have longer than 15 seconds to think about it, I'd have been nervous as hell. I mean playing guitar and singing on national TV. You don't just do that without rehearsal and thinking about it and getting your shit together but the chick was doing her 3, 2, 1 countdown and I managed the chords to the chorus of “Party Dress” and even didn’t sound too bad.

Then we went to the break before my brain even started up again.

Eric threw his arms around me, squishing the guitar against my belly.

“You did it. You did it.”

I smiled but, before I could revel properly in the praise, we were interrupted.

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