Playing Musician

"We might actually pull this off."

"We might."

Things were looking very good, indeed.

* * *

"Here's my number," the cute little blonde said with a shy smile. "I hope everything works out for you, Josh."

It was absolutely incredible: a gorgeous twenty-four year-old tanning specialist with big round boobs and a tight five-foot-three-inch body was giving him her number, and he hadn't even asked for it! If this is what the life of Damien Taylor was like, Josh could definitely get used to it.

"Thanks, Danica," he told her, "for everything."

He turned to find Rex Jennings, guitar-in-hand, staring at him with wide eyes. Josh grinned; it must have been quite a shock for the man to see him looking the way he was, which was pretty much exactly like Damien Taylor. It was still amazing to Josh himself, but at least he had been able to witness his transformation gradually.

Things had happened all at once at first, with all five members of the team flittering around him with measuring tapes and notepads and color swatches, sizing up every inch of him. Alexandra had ordered him to strip, which he had done reluctantly down to his boxer briefs. He had enjoyed it, however, when Danica perused his body, checking his skin color against high definition photographs of Damien Taylor.

A series of events followed in succession then: Danica gave him a manicure, Paulina gave him a pedicure, and Cora washed his hair thoroughly in a sink basin, while Francis and Alexandra set about creating and tailoring an entire outfit to match his physique; he spent time in a private mystic tanning booth, the first of three coats that would be applied, all overseen by Danica; Paulina had used a beard-and-mustache trimmer to craft the perfect five o'clock shadow (at the request of Rex, Josh had not shaven since Wednesday night); a second coat of tan had gone on; Cora had worked her magic on his hair, cutting and styling and coloring it to match exactly the über-coiffed do of Damien Taylor; a fake tattoo was applied by Paulina to his navel, less than an inch above the edge of his pubic hair; said pubic hair had been trimmed by Paulina in the most awkward moment of the afternoon, as Josh had held a towel over his penis while the woman trimmed him down to next-to-nothing; the third coat of tan had gone on; blue color contacts were applied; and the fitting of his new clothes, which consisted of faded black denim jeans with a gigantic black belt buckle, black alligator semi-boots, a partially ripped black tee-shirt with a faded white tribal-like design on the front and a topless angel on the back, silver neck chain, two black leather bracelets for his left hand, and thick black shades.

And then he had hung around talking with the team, particularly Danica, who had been sweet to him all afternoon and very attentive, culminating in her giving him her number.

"Wow," Rex said as the two met and shook hands. "You're the spitting image of Damien. We'd better be careful; he might get jealous."

"Doubtful," Josh said with a laugh.

Rex grinned. "Did you learn the songs?"

"Of course," he replied, and the other man handed him the guitar he carried.

And so Josh had settled himself to play, inspired by his newfound looks, and belted out each of the three hit rock songs of Damien Taylor to the delight of all who were there, and when the last note of the last song sounded, the little crowd erupted, although no one clapped harder, no one's eyes were brighter, than Danica. No matter what happened with the whole Damien Taylor thing, Josh promised himself he would muster up his courage and call the girl.

And sooner rather than later.

Part Four: An Exceptional Event

Well, at least she looked good.

Brigitte Erikson stood in the corner of the room, watching all the old people mingle. She was acutely aware of the fact that many of the horny old men in the room were watching her right back, ogling her lecherously, some trying to do it discreetly in front of their wives, others not caring who was around as they did so.

Who could blame them? She was dressed to kill in a short black cocktail dress, cut low in the front to show off her abundant cleavage and even lower in the back, displaying the whole of her spine right down to the small of her back. Her hair was blonde perfection, professionally done earlier that evening, and her make-up was pristinely applied.

She enjoyed teasing older men. It thrilled her, knowing they wanted her. It tickled her, knowing they would never have her. There were a few men in the room worth pursuing, some younger and no doubt very successful business-type hotties, but her father would kill her if she flirted too heavily with boys he worked with, so that was a non-starter. Brigitte had her father wrapped completely around her finger in all facets of life, virtually running her household and getting whatever she wanted, but his business was the one area she knew not to trifle with. She was smart enough not to wake the sleeping gorilla.

And so she would tease and titillate, maybe lean over at opportune times to give certain men a particular kind of show, but that would be the extent of her evening. All told, she would much rather be at the club with her friends.

Her stepmother materialized out of nowhere. "Your father wants us," she said with a scarcely concealed grimace. The woman was wife number four for her father, thirty-one years old, blonde and buxom and gorgeous, all despite carrying with her the unfortunate name of Helga.

Brigitte rolled her eyes. "What now?" she whined.

"He wants to show us off," the woman said, and she was right.

Her father was surrounded by five other men, three old and two on the younger side, and all of them watched with the same eager half-smiles as Brigitte and Helga approached. Her father was beaming, but his eyes were pointed and saiddon't screw this up, girls.

"Gentlemen," he announced as they arrived. "Please meet my wife and daughter. Helga, Brigitte, these are the partners of Harvey Clark Financial. Respected and powerful men, one and all."

"Powerful?" Brigitte asked in her sweetest, most innocent voice.

One of the old men leaned forward with a toothy grin. "Very," he told her, "and also extremely well-connected."

Another man chuckled. "Don't forget rich," he said, and a few of the others laughed, too.

Brigitte could not keep the sass from her voice as she said, "Rich and powerfulandwell-connected? Wow, you'd think you boys would know how to throw a better party."

Her father blanched, but several of the men laughed openly. "A little stodgy, yes?" said the gray-haired man standing next to her. "My own daughter said the same thing to me last year. It's one reason we arranged for a special treat for the younger members of our employee families."

Brigitte arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Special treat?"

The gray-haired man grinned. "We've brought in a special guest to liven the mood."

"Who?" she asked sweetly.

"Oh no, my dear," the man replied with a laugh, "that would ruin the surprise."

And the men dispersed then with chuckles and grin all around, leaving Brigitte alone with her stepmother and father, the latter of whom was looking very relieved, indeed. He turned a hard gaze on his daughter.

"Brigitte," he said sternly, "please remember these men are my colleagues. This is not a place for you to . . . flaunt your impertinence."

"Sorry, daddy," she cooed, sidling up next to him and wrapping her arms around him in exactly the same way she had been doing since she was five. It was another patented move and worked like a charm every time. "I won't do it again, especially if I knew who this special guest is. Who is it, daddy?"

Her father sighed. "Some musician," he revealed. "Taylor something or other."

Brigitte nearly fell over. "Damien Taylor?!" she asked immediately, gripping her father's arms and forcing him to look right into her eyes. "Is that his name?"

"I think so," the man said, a little take aback by the vehemence in her voice. "Do not say a word of it to anyone, Brigitte. It's a surprise."

Brigitte hardly heard him: Damien Taylor was in the building and would be performing for the room later that evening, and then he would be free, and she would have to be ready. This was her best opportunity to get what she wanted. Arrangements would have to be made.

The wheels in her mind began to turn.

* * *

The last chord of his guitar faded and the room erupted.

Several hundred tuxedo-clad men and gown-wearing women had their eyes firmly fixed on him, clapping wildly, cheering happily. Some were clapping and cheering more vigorously than others; the front row saw a couple dozen kids and young adults, likely the primary demographic for Damien Taylor, and all of them were freaking out.

Josh grinned and waved to the crowd, but through his mind kept running the same four words over and over again:I pulled it off.

It had been an incredible day: first, he spent hours being made over by a professional team of stylists; second, a beautiful girl gave him her phone number; third, he spent two hours signing autographs and singing occasional songs for a group of rowdy kids and their parents at the mall, flanked by Rex who provided several insights into what Damien Taylor might say or do in a given situation; fourth, he had gotten to hang out in an affluent suite at the Four Seasons, supplied by the company throwing the party he would be performing at later that night; and fifth, the performance itself, which had encompassed three songs of Damien Taylor's and, spur of the moment, a couple of songs Josh himself had written, all five of which had gone over incredibly well and worked the room up very nicely.

The thrill of performing was an incredible thing; Josh was hooked.

"That was awesome," Rex breathed as he joined Josh on stage. "They never doubted you for a second. Those last couple songs were killer. Are they yours?"

"Yes," Josh whispered back, for now they were joined by two other individuals, a gray-haired man and a salt-and-pepper-haired man, the latter of whom had introduced him earlier. It was the gray-haired man who spoke this time.

"Thank you, Damien," the man said, addressing the crowd, "from all of us here at Harvey Clark Financial, for that outstanding performance. And I know I speak for Nathaniel, too, when I say thank you also to everyone here, partners and associates and employees alike, for making this past fiscal year one of the best in our company's history, despite the difficulties of the economic climate. Keep up the good work, people!"

Rex said, "That's our cue to leave."

It was at that moment that a group of young people, aged mostly between ten and eighteen, rushed up to the edge of the stage seeking autographs. Josh handled the job dutifully, grinning and joking around with the younger kids, chatting with the older ones, some of whom might even have been older than he was himself. Playing the part of a twenty-something was very fun and extremely liberating, Josh thought.

After a while, the group finally began to thin out, the kids pulled away by parents or drifting away to other things, and Rex returned to his side. "Well, I'm exhausted just having watched that. Had enough yet?"

Josh grinned. "I think I could do this for hours. I'm really enjoying myself."

Rex was about to say something, then stopped, his eyes looking over Josh's shoulder. "You're about to enjoy yourself a little more. Incoming."

Josh turned . . . and his jaw dropped.

A young woman was approaching him, a strikingly beautiful woman with long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. A young woman with a mouth-watering body in a dress that displayed much of it, her hips swaying and moving in a manner only the sexiest women seem to have mastered. A young woman any man would give both his arms to be with.

A young woman Josh recognized.

"Hello, Damien," the woman said. "I'm Brigitte."

There was a moment of silence as Josh realized he actually was seeing what he thought he was seeing: Brigitte Erikson, looking nothing and yet somehow everything like the girl who shared two of his classes at school, was talking to him, and her expression was nothing like it had been during the week; she was actually smiling, and she was doing it in a very womanly way.

"Hello, Brigitte," he replied simply.

She stepped closer, eyes sparkling. "Your music is incredible," she told him, purring.

"Thanks," he replied, still unsure of himself and the situation.

The girl's voice dropped to an almost whisper. "Have you ever considered giving more . . . private . . . performances?" There was a strange kind of glint in the girl's eye. "I've heard you are . . . equally talented . . . when you're alone."

And in that moment Josh Redding realized three very incredible things: first, that Brigitte Erikson had also been fooled into thinking he was Damien Taylor; second, that the girl was a big fan of the pop star; and third, that the girl was flirting very heavily with him (or rather Damien) and making herself available (not shy at all about letting him know she liked him).

Which was just about the most amazing thing that could have ever happened.

* * *

After he was finished, he was mobbed by a bunch of younger people. She remained in the wings, waiting and watching, biding her time. The necessary arrangements had been made and an alibi had been offered to her father; she could wait a little longer. Soon, she reasoned, the crowd would die down and Damien Taylor would be hers.

Which is exactly what happened.

"Hello, Damien," she said with her winningest smile. "I'm Brigitte." He did not respond right away, which thrilled her: she looked very good and he obviously appreciated it.

"Hello, Brigitte," he replied, playing it cool.

She stepped forward, closing much of the remaining gap between them, and gave him her most flirtatious look, her bestcome-fuck-mebedroom eyes. He was a rock star and a very cool customer, and she was totally turned on by him.

"Your music is incredible," she purred.

"Thanks," he replied.

And then she hit him with her real agenda, and said, "Have you ever considered giving more . . . private . . . performances? I've heard you are . . . equally talented . . . when you're alone."

Another moment of silence followed, which was neither a good nor bad thing as far as Brigitte was concerned. In the end, however, after stretches where his eyes widened and also narrowed, only one thing remained: he was grinning broadly.

"Depends on who I'm alone with," he said casually, his voice much stronger than before.

She sidled up next to him, brushing her body and her breasts against his arm, ever-gently, just enough to tease, and whispered into his ear with heated breath and honeyed voice, "I think you'll like being alone with me." He hesitated, and she pounced on the opening. She dropped a silver keycard into the pocket of his jacket and patted it lightly. "I've got a room upstairs. Tenth floor. Room Nineteen. I'll be waiting."

And she swiveled on her heels and floated away from the rock star she wanted more than any other, swishing her hips in such a sassy and feminine way that she knew he had to be watching, but while her exterior exuded nothing but calm and control, inside Brigitte Erikson one unusual sensation was suddenly inching its way to the fore.

Anxiety.

* * *

Rex kept an eye on the kid after he was done playing, just to make sure he handled the last of it well. Being mobbed by adoring fans is quite a different experience than playing a song, and although he had proved himself at the mall hours earlier, the buzz of the crowd after a performance was unlike anything the young man was likely to have felt or seen.

As it turned out, the crowd was relatively mild. It was a ritzy private business event, after all, and the children of the employees had likely gotten an earful from their folks about not embarrassing them, so while the mob rushing the little platform stage after the performance was loud, it was not really unruly.

Josh did well again, signing autographs and joking around with some of the fans. Rex sighed. If only Damien was more accommodating; Josh was, in truth, a much better Damien than Damien was himself.

After a while, the crowd died down. "Well," Rex said as he strolled back over to Josh, "I'm exhausted just having watched that. Had enough yet?"

The kid grinned. "I think I could do this for hours. I'm really enjoying myself."

It was the perfect opening to talk more about Josh's future in music, the perfect time to discuss what Rex could do for him, and as an agent of many years, Rex recognized the timing was perfect. Not that it really mattered; Josh would be a slam dunk. The kid had talent and passion, and character. It was a rare and winning combination in the music business. Rex had found a real gem, and a kid with tremendous potential.

He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped, his eyes drawn to movement over Josh's shoulder. There was a woman approaching, a vision of loveliness with blonde hair and deep blue eyes, wearing a dress that hugged a body that Damien Taylor himself would have swooned over.

Rex changed what he was going to say, and said instead, "You're about to enjoy yourself a little more. Incoming." He stepped away from the pair while they spoke, understanding the girl might not be nearly as forthcoming if there was an extra set of ears around.

He could not hear, but he could see; it was clear the girl wanted Damien Taylor badly. Rex watched her drop something into Josh's pocket and then saunter away, doing her best to attract attention to her ass, and succeeding.

Josh had wide eyes when Rex returned again to his side. "How did that go?" he asked.

Josh was silent a long moment, staring off after the girl, then shook his head as if to sweep away cobwebs. "She wants me to give her a private performance in her hotel room," he said softly with a great degree of incredulity in his voice.

Rex laughed. "I'll bet she does," he said.

"What should I do?" Josh asked, genuinely unsure.

Rex shrugged. "What shouldyoudo or what wouldDamien Taylordo? He does have a particular kind of reputation."

He thought for a long moment, then decided. "What do I need to know?" he asked with a grin.

* * *

In the elevator on the way up to the tenth floor, Josh considered just what in the hell he was doing. He was moderately conflicted, knowing he was deceiving a poor girl into believing he was Damien Taylor. The words of Rex Jennings floated through his head.

Damien is always in charge.

Josh was nervous, perhaps more nervous than he had been at any time previously that day; Brigitte Erikson knew him. Sure, she never gave him more than a passing glance, but she went to his high school, after all, and that had to count for something. What if she recognized him? What if she figured it out?

He flipped open his phone and dialed.

"Hey, baby," purred the voice of Kayden James a few moments later. "Miss me?"

"Always," he said with an unconscious grin as an image of two beautiful breasts flashed through his mind, "but I've got a bit of a situation here, okay? I need your help."

"Okay," she responded slowly, sensing his unease. "What's up?"

"I'm meeting a girl in her hotel room," he explained, "and I don't think she thinks I'm actually me. I think she thinks I'm someone else. But she wants to meet me and things might get . . . well, things might progress."

Kayden was silent a long moment. "She thinks you're someone else? How?"

Josh sighed. "Long story."

Another silence. "Is she hot?" came the measured voice of his friend.

"Oh, yes," he breathed.

Kayden giggled. "Hotter than me?" she asked sweetly.