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For One Night Only (Glitter Bats) - Softcover

Buch 1 von 2: Glitter Bats

James, Jessica

 
9780593817711: For One Night Only (Glitter Bats)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593817710 ISBN 13: 9780593817711
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

GLITTER BATS REUNION CONCERT—SOLD OUT!

When two former bandmates—and bedmates—are thrust back into each other's lives in a fake dating scheme for publicity, they'll be forced to face the music.

After her recurring role in tabloid headlines, Valerie Quinn’s musical TV show is on the network chopping block. Desperate for good press, she hastily reassembles her wildly beloved pop punk band, Glitter Bats. A reunion concert could be the former lead vocalist’s ticket to a media makeover, especially if it renews public speculation around her iconic situationship with bassist Caleb Sloane.

The only problem? They haven’t spoken in six years.

Caleb had the makings of a rock god, but fallout from the messy Glitter Bats breakup left him broke, anxious, and resentful of the industry. But when Valerie shows up at Caleb’s doorstep with that devastating smile and a plea for help, he reluctantly agrees to put on one last show.

So what if the fandom assumes the two of them are back together too? They’ll play along. You know...for the press.

Making music together not only revives the harmony between them, but also the discord that led to the band’s downfall. With their futures—and the Glitter Bats—in the balance, can they survive a romantic reprise?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jessica James is a writer who also loves watching musicals, baking family recipes, and exploring the Pacific Northwest with her spouse and two dogs. In addition to writing, Jessica has a passion for singing. Although she’s never been a rockstar, she's a mezzo-soprano with a BA in Music and a healthy Broadway obsession.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Valerie


When you become famous, everyone claims you can control your own image-but it's the media that decides if you're a darling or a diva. I've been stuck in the diva category since I was seventeen.

Every day there are headlines like, "We Liked Valerie Quinn Better When She Was Making Music," and there's nothing I can do to change the narrative. It's not even accurate, but I guess "We Liked Valerie Quinn Better When She Was in a Band and Not a Musical TV Show" doesn't have the same vicious ring to it.

Poor word choice is the least of my problems today, because there are photos everywhere of me all over my castmate Roxanne Leigh. With my aching head in one hand and my phone in the other, I sit at my cold marble kitchen counter, scrolling through one clickbait article after another with growing horror.

Last night is such a blur that the grainy images bring it back in fragments.

The lights were low and I was with someone beautiful, and I hadn't been out since Theo dumped me, so I let myself forget about the consequences. There's a pic where we're too-close-for-friends in a booth at a club I don't remember, another of us on a crowded dance floor with my hands gripping Roxanne's waist, and one of me licking salt off her hand to do a shot. The photographer even managed to capture the horny spark in my eyes in that last one.

God, how embarrassing. At least I looked hot while breaking my one-drink rule. (The rule in question was my idea four years ago, after I threw up on John Mayer in front of the paparazzi at that Grammys after-party. Not my finest moment. In my defense, it's hard to stay sober-ish when so much of this industry involves parties full of booze.)

Still, the only truly incriminating photos are outside Roxanne's building, the two of us sharing a heated kiss and going inside together. And yeah, I know what it looks like, but we didn't hook up. I was so drunk that I crashed on her couch.

This morning, I woke up in a cold sweat, threw up in her toilet, and awkwardly asked to borrow some clothes to make it back to my apartment. I'll be lucky if she texts me again.

The photos imply a lot more happened. But the media's job is to tell a story, and it's rarely the whole truth. I accepted long ago that these invasive assumptions about my personal life are the cost of my moderate fame-I just can't figure out why the internet is so angry today. I slam my phone face down on the counter, forcing myself to look away before the real self-loathing kicks in.

Sure, Roxanne and I are both actresses, but the headlines are singling me out as the problem. I can't make sense of it with my tequila headache, but obviously it's not good. Why else would my manager be knocking on my front door?

My stomach drops as Wade Ortega and I make eye contact through the window, and I launch myself off the barstool, hurrying to let him inside. Nausea roils my gut from moving too fast.

"Good morning," I cough out, trying not to heave again.

"Hey, Valerie, you weren't answering your phone," Wade says. Even on a Saturday morning, he's dressed impeccably in a gray suit, which is unsurprising. He likes suits. He's Puerto Rican, with warm brown skin and black hair with a splash of silver that's trimmed in a perfect fade.

Palming my forehead, I groan. "I left it on Do Not Disturb after the club last night." I had so many notifications this morning that I didn't even check who they were from.

"I'm assuming it's too much to hope that you haven't been online today?" Wade asks. I cringe at the question and usher him inside, bracing for the worst.

Wade is a former MLB outfielder turned talent manager, and he's damn good at his job. His team has been tirelessly working for years to further my career and maintain my image, and he's worth every dollar. But the thing about Wade is he prefers to do business in writing-text, email. I even got a postcard with an audition reminder that one time he was on a family ski trip without cell service.

If he's showing up unannounced, something is horribly wrong.

"Let me get you some water," I say, stalling for time. I head over to my fridge to get him a glass, then get one for myself after he cocks an eyebrow. With my hangover raging, it's not a bad idea to hydrate.

Fortunately, Wade doesn't comment on the ghostly green tinge of my skin. "Valerie, just tell me what you've seen."

"I've seen photos, haven't read too many articles . . . yet," I admit. After the last time I made headlines like this, I became obsessed and fell into a total depression spiral. My therapist gave me homework to scroll past the bullshit, but I'm not very good at homework. At least today, my headache is preventing a deep dive.

"Well, I can give you the SparkNotes," he says, letting out a huge sigh. "Has Theo Blake reached out to you at all?"

I freeze, confused. This question is "out of left field," to use one of Wade's favorite metaphors. Maybe I was drunk, but I'd definitely remember if we ran into my C-lister ex last night-even if it was only by the suffocating aura of Calvin Klein Eternity.

"What does Theo have to do with this? Aren't you talking about the photos of me and Roxanne?" I ask.

He sighs, running a hand over his hair. "Theo is spinning . . . something. Y'all broke up, right? You haven't rekindled anything and forgotten to tell me? No judgment, I just need to know what's going on so we can start damage control."

Damage control? More nausea makes my head swim, and I clench my jaw to fight it back. Nothing makes sense today.

"Not even a little. It's been more than a month since we split and we haven't had any contact."

"You should probably go to his page."

My jaw clenches even more, but I do what Wade says and grab my phone. I don't really care about anything Theo has to say at this point-we ended things when he signed on for a fantasy franchise in Spain, after we decided our relationship wasn't worth long distance. He was kind of a jerk about it, actually.

I set down my water and open the app, where Theo has posted a thirst trap on the beach that makes me grumble in irritation. He's shirtless, showing off that CrossFit-cultivated six-pack in the sunrise, and his blond hair swoops over his strikingly gray eyes.

But this post is unique for Theo, because it has a rambling caption instead of emojis:

I'm sure you've all seen the photos by now-they took
me by surprise as much as everyone else. This isn't how
I wanted to learn Valerie wasn't committed to our relationship, but I'm not going to beg her to stay with me, especially after cheating like this. I have some pride. And honestly, I'm so grateful to be free of the toxic relationship we were in for more than a year. Some people are so self-centered they don't care who they hurt. I'm going to spend some time working on myself, seeking happiness, and diving into creative pursuits while I'm overseas to film my next project. I can't pretend I'm not heartbroken, but I'm surrounded by people who love and appreciate me for who I am,
and I know my heart will heal from this pain.

XO, Theodore Anderson Blake

The absolute nerve of this asshole. I didn't realize you could be gaslit from halfway across the world, but I know we broke up last month. I was there.


We’re at a glamorous early-Hollywood tribute restaurant in Malibu-one of Theo’s favorites, since he thinks worshipping Frank Sinatra and Errol Flynn is an admirable personality trait. It’s the kind of place with warm lighting, no prices on the menu, and paparazzi lurking in the shadows outside.

Theo's been staring longingly at my New York strip ever since our orders arrived, obviously resentful of his boring kale salad. He keeps talking about getting...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593817710
ISBN 13 
9780593817711
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
BERKLEY
https://www.penguin.com/?s=BERKLEY

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