“No, I’m so glad I wasn’t the only one to notice.” She points at the riya! sign, specifically the bottom-right corner. “It’s uneven. That side is hanging way lower. Get somebody in here to handle it.”
Adam clears his throat, then smiles apologetically at the auditioner. “What about Gwyneth?”
“I don’t care who fixes it!”
“No, her.” Adam nods in the brooder’s direction, then whispers, “She’s one of the best we’ve seen so far.”
“She’s knock-kneed, Adam,” Riya Natrajan says, not bothering to be discreet. “You know how I feel about knock-knees.”
“Her legs are perfectly straight.”
“Says you.” The pop star crosses her arms and stares off over her shoulder, waiting for the problem to resolve itself.
“Thank you for your time, Gwyneth,” Adam finally says, nicely as he can, but Riya hears the anger prickling in his voice. “All right, let’s take a thirty-minute break.”
“Kill me now,” Riya Natrajan moans and rolls her eyes.
“Fine, an hour. But if you’re late . . .” Adam starts.
“Then you’ll wait,” she finishes. And with that, she shakes the stiffness from her legs, blows Adam a kiss, and then struts off.
Nervous murmurs become frenzied shouts as she breezes through the auditioners’ holding area, flanked on both sides by bodyguards. Delta bots hover midair, their camera flashes going off like an orgy of fireflies. Their lazy masters lounge against the far wall, flirting and boasting and showing off press credentials. Those no-good bastards don’t even bat an eye when she leans forward to give the bots a good cleavage shot, tan flesh spilling over her leather corset, a brilliant shade of turquoise. Stupid bot labor laws. Half the fun of being photographed is getting a rise out of the photographer and seeing how far she can push the bounds of decency. Short skirts, no panties. Sucking giant lollipops with the sultriest innuendo. Wardrobe malfunctions and million-rand nipple shots. The further she went, the faster the camera flashes, but with these bots, she could be twirling her long black tresses or giving head to a bull elephant, and their shutters wouldn’t click any differently.
But some fool in Parliament had decided to drop the stiff labor tariffs on delta bots, allowing them to enter freely into the workforce as long as they’re supervised one-on-one by humans. They do the work better and faster, and humanity reaps the benefits, right? Riya Natrajan smacks her lips. Don’t even get her started on alpha bots standing in line for hours to get autographs for “devoted” fans. She’s busted more than a few pairs of good pumps on those.
Riya Natrajan flips the bots off for good measure, then retreats to the quiet of her dressing room. Rife’s waiting for her there, leaned back on the velvet chaise lounge, legs crossed and hands clasped behind his head like he owns the place.
“Heya, little girlie,” he says, voice sexy yet sexless. His blond hair is spiked now, his silk shirt just a bit too tight across the chest. It’s good to see him again, but Riya Natrajan’s not one for warm hellos.
Her eyes dart to the brown paper bag sitting on her ivory vanity. “That’s everything?” she asks.
“Cha, mama. And then some.”
“Did anyone see you come in here?”
“A dozen people. ’Bout the same of bots.”
Riya Natrajan cracks a smile. Usually Rife comes and goes as easy as the breeze. That’s what he’s known for, but she always makes him strut for the cameras. It’ll be good for the gossip rags, starlet seen with suspected drug dealer after thirty days of rehab. And then when her balance shifts and she stumbles while getting out of her limo, or when her foot goes numb and she falls onstage, they’ll all think she’s high or drunk or both. But they’ll still buy her albums and sing her songs and pry into every moment of privacy, every secret except for one.
She’s been struggling with multiple sclerosis since the age of twelve. Yeah, she’d had the T4–20 series of immunizations, effective 99.999 percent of the time in preventing a whole assortment of illnesses and disease, but then again, Riya Natrajan has always known that she’s one in a million. So she gets her pot and pain meds from a dealer instead of a proper pharmacist, though she could easily get prescriptions for both. It helps with this “jaded starlet” persona she’s constructed around her true self. On those days when she’s paining so bladdy bad, she can be a cruel bitch, mad at the world, and no one knows the difference.
Riya Natrajan dumps out the contents of the bag and rolls up a fat joint while eyeing a small vial of blue powder. “What’s that?” she asks as she lights up.
“An early birthday present.”
Riya Natrajan spins around, caught off guard. She’ll be thirty this Sunday. Nobody knows that but her and God. The rest of the world thinks she’s a pert twenty-four, born the fourteenth of October. Compliments of good genes from her mother’s side of the family, and a little help from Dr. Arvin Dandekar.
“Hmmm,” she says. She’s been doing this too long to tip her hand. “Very early.”
“Cha, mama,” says Rife, but his cool smile lets her know that he knows he’s right on time.
She passes him the joint and, curiosity getting the best of her, picks up the vial.
“You’ll be so light, mama. Won’t know a bit of pain. You can dance like the old days—sing like the old days, too.”
“Nobody wants to hear music like that anymore,” Riya says with disgust. “They want gossip and raunchy lyrics, ass and tits. Why even try?”
“Because you’re an artist.”
Riya Natrajan huffs and tries to pop the top off the vial.
“Careful with that. You might lose your inhibitions.”
“Glad to know you think I have some.” She bites her lip, wedges into the chaise, and drapes her leg over his.
“I might be the only one,” Rife says with a sly wolf’s grin. He brushes the hair out of her face, then traces his finger along her collarbone.
“Hush!” she says, giggling. Heat rises in her cheeks. Her insides cramp up, a welcome ache in the most delicate of areas. Riya Natrajan is strong. She has to be to live the life she does, but somehow she doubts she’ll have the resolve to turn thirty alone. “Stay with me tonight. Room service. Champagne. Bubble baths.” She tucks the keycard for her hotel suite into his slacks.
“Can’t, mama. Duty calls.”
“I’ll let you tell all your friends you fucked me.”
“I already do.” His finger drifts down between her breasts. She believes him, too, but trusts him to keep the secret that truly needs discretion. He knows. Maybe not her exact diagnosis, but he senses she’s in real pain, Riya Natrajan is sure about it. He connects to her like no one else can, and yet there’s the beauty of no attachments. She doesn’t have to pretend to be something she’s not. Maybe that’s why she gives herself so easily to him. Well, that, and Rife’s a damn good lay.