I come down into the lobby of the hotel with my heart in my throat. I can’t show it, of course, but I’m fucking terrified here. I've screwed up big time, and if I can’t schmooze my way out of this, I’m screwed. My last two albums have gone double platinum, and I usually have people falling all over themselves to do whatever I need them to. I have people who’d be thrilled to pick up my dry cleaning, for God’s sake.

But this time? I may’ve screwed the pooch here, beyond the point where even my money can repair it. Already, people are saying that instead of calling it streaking, showing up naked in public should be renamed “pulling a Slayer.” And don’t even get me started on the hashtags trending on Twitter. Since I made my assistant leave me after her fuck-awful news this morning, I’ve spent all my time on Twitter and Facebook, and oh God, some of the memes …

So I plaster on my sexiest smile and I decide to turn the schmooze level on high. No woman can resist me if I lay it on thick enough. It doesn’t hurt that Gisele is the sexiest woman I think I’ve ever laid eyes on. Long, blonde hair, tiny waist, huge tits, long legs—I didn’t think women were actually built like this in real life. Her tight, red, pencil skirt and button-up shirt are just begging to be removed, one button at a time. I can see just a hint of cleavage and want nothing more in the world than to undo that top button and see what kind of lacy bra she has on. Because a woman like her? I’m sure it’s nothing but lace that she’s wearing.

Or maybe nothing at all …

“So Gisele,” I say, pitching my voice just right, hoping the deep timbre will cause shivers to run down her spine like it has on countless other women, “thanks for coming to talk to me today.” Talk, not interview. If I can just get her into the right frame of mind, she might take it easy on me. “I see Blush magazine everywhere—” liar, I’ve never even heard of it, “—and so talking to someone from that magazine is a real hono—”

“Interview,” she says, cutting me off.

Ice cold. I’ve heard Antarctica in the middle of January is warmer than Gisele is right now. I’m a little afraid I’m going to get frostbite any moment.

“What?” I say stupidly, because I have nothing else to say. I'm, quite literally, stunned into silence. Not a normal state of being for a rock star, I assure you.

“I’m here to interview you, not just talk to you. I’m here to ask the hard questions, not play patty-cake with you, and I'm certainly not here to stroke your ego.”

For the first time in her life, Frances has completely failed me. This is her softball interview? God, I’d hate to see what would’ve happened if she’d thrown me to the wolves.

So I drop my schmoozing persona. I’ve never been good at doing it for long stretches of time anyway. I’m much more comfortable just being me. I gesture Gisele over to a pair of chairs, sitting at an angle from each other, and we settle in. She crosses her legs, her stilettos showing off her calf muscles to perfection, and I swallow hard. I tear my eyes away from her legs long enough to say, “You’re right. This is an interview and you’re here to ask me the hard questions. Can I ask you one first?” I don’t wait for an answer to my rhetorical question but instead plow forward. “You don’t seem to like me much. Can you tell me why?”

I’m not someone to beat around the bush, if you can’t tell. Tell me the truth and let me deal with that truth. That’s all that matters.

“Why don’t I like …” she sputters, just staring at me. “Because you went and pulled a Slayer,” I wince inwardly at that, “and flashed the whole world. On camera. Your grandkids are going to be able to watch that video someday. Speaking of, do you know how many children watched that video? I don’t know either—that’s the point! There isn’t a way to know! You are a disgrace to the rock star community, and believe me, that’s a hard title to win! I mean, God, one of your kind dangled a small child over a balcony, and yet, you’ve managed to out-asshole him. Congratulations.” She’s breathing hard by the time she’s done, and she’s just staring at me like a questionable brown stain on a carpet.

Okay, I’ll admit it, that hurt. It’s one thing to have a thousand people on the Internet tell me shit like that, but to have a sexy-as-hell reporter say it right to my face?

Fuuuccckkkkk …

I stare at her for a minute, trying to decide. She just stares right back at me, unblinking. No hesitation, no batting her eyelashes, no coyness. She is who she is.

I like that. I like that a lot.

I take a deep breath and say something I never expected to say, “This is going to sound weird, but I need you to do something with me right now. Will you come up to my hotel room?”

For the first time since I laid eyes on her, she cracks. Just a little.

“Up to your room?” she asks, staring at me questioningly. When I simply nod, she presses, “Why? What’s up there that you have to show me?”

“It'd be better if I showed you. I promise, I will not make any physical advances on you at any point, and if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. But I think you’ll want to see what I have.”

She just stares at me, thinking, weighing her options. I know the curiosity has to be killing her. Finally, she gives a single nod.

“Agreed.”

With a smile, I stand up. A part of me cannot believe that I'm doing this, but another part of me is … relieved. I’ve been carrying this around for a long time, and to finally show someone else is going to be a huge relief.

I can only hope that Gisele Taylor, Blush magazine reporter extraordinaire, will listen to me, and more importantly, believe me. It’s not like I have a lot of experience sharing this information with the world, so at this point? All I have is hope.

We head to the elevators, and I watch her ass sway in her pencil skirt as I follow behind her. If I’d known that all Blush reporters were this hot, I would’ve asked Frances to set up an interview a long time ago. This beats being interviewed by Matt Blauer any day of the week.

I smile blandly at her as we ride up in the elevator in silence, and then head to my room.

Show time!