Chapter 1

JENNA BRADFORD HATED her piano lessons. She loved the beautiful baby grand piano her parents had given her for her ninth birthday, and she loved Deirdre, her teacher, who appeared regular as clockwork every Saturday at 10:15. She loved music. She didn’t even mind the regimen of practice, practice, practice. Never afraid of hard work, she was ambitious from an early age. No, what she hated was the regimen of practice – on music that didn’t excite her. The music that did excite her, from her earliest awareness of tune and tempo, lyrics and beat, was rock ’n roll. Having an older brother with similar inclinations, money for tickets and an extraordinary willingness to let his kid sister tag along, helped her taste in music mature faster than many of her friends.

Jenna Bradford, daughter of Robert Bradford, the actor, and Linda Huntington Bradford, the model turned socialite, narrowly avoided being subjected to a typically lax and luxuriously stultifying Beverly Hills childhood. Bob Bradford, for all his leading man suavity and swooning fans, was a down-to-earth, caring father. Linda Bradford took all her charities profoundly personally. If asked, Jenna could recount a pretty normal childhood – if you didn’t count those two years when her mother left her father, for Jenna years twelve to fourteen.

BEFORE SHE’D FINISHED high school, Jenna was well along the path to becoming a beautiful woman and a professional musician. She’d never play Chopin at the Hollywood Bowl, but she enjoyed sitting at her piano by the hour, totally immersed in belting out the songs of the day and compositions of her own. By the time she was sixteen, both an acoustic and an electric guitar sat in stands by the piano. Her wardrobe was already a pastiche of black leather, metallic spandex and gaudy silks and satins, and her hair had run the gamut, from an iridescent blond to jet black, and every shade known to Clairol in between. When it came time for college, U.S.C. honed her interest in and talents for both pop music and the industry that produced it. Maggie James, her roommate freshman year, played drums for Chick Cheeks, an all-bad-girl band who performed in slinky black, lips and faces painted white, spiky hair that might be green one night,yellow the next and ultramarine the night after that. When their lead singergraduated, Jenna was quickly drafted to replace her.

To celebrate college graduation, the Cheeks cut a CD and took to the road in a beat up 22-foot motorhome. Hop-scotching across the country, calling ahead to book gigs wherever they could, they sold enough CDs to keep the gas tank full and get them to the next club, bar or grange hall, ending up with a few club dates in New York, which was how Jenna and guitarist Mark Newsom first connected. Blown away by what he’d heard one night, he invited her to sit in with his band the next day, an invitation she jumped at. Cheeks was fine for starters, but Jenna Bradford had bigger aspirations. The New York club scene was definitely a great launching pad for a career.

A couple of years and bands later, Jenna was ready to come back and tackle L.A. on her own terms. A year working back-up gave her time to put together her own band, with Mark at the helm on lead guitar and Maggie in the driver’s seat on drums. Jenna left her own guitars at home. When she strode out on a stage, all legs and attitude, all she wanted to do was sing and strut what local entertainment writers were beginning to mention as particularly spectacular stuff. Brian Mason, an up-and-comer in the business, signed on as manager and quickly inked a recording deal with CGM. Jenna B Live, the group’s first CD, made it to number 2 on the charts. The year was 1992. Jenna was 25. Hit followed hit. The industry recognized her with a Grammy in 1994 for Best New Group. As arresting as she was on stage, she was even more so on video; she was soon staple fare on MTV. Her professional life was as good as it gets.

Her personal life, Jenna would insist perhaps a bit too vehemently, was also as good as it gets. For a rock star, anyway. As she tiptoed over that invisible divide between her twenties and her thirties, she’d yet to sustain a meaningful relationship in her over-hectic, over-scheduled, over-committed life. Career came first; charity and benefit work, based on a sense of social responsibility she greatly respected in her mother, dovetailed neatly with that career. Everything else took a back seat, and that was okay. At least until Maggie, barely concealing her excitement, broke the news that she was pregnant, she was getting married and she was moving to Louisiana.

SCOTT TENNY’S CAREER had been nothing short of textbook meteoric. From the earliest garage band days, success built on success as bands formed, reformed, melded and flowed into what would, one hung-over morning in Boston, finally take on the name ‘Blacklace.’

“Oh man, what do we got here?” Dan snagged something silky from a trail of hastily discarded clothing and twirled it over his head. “Could this be a pair of ladies’ unmentionables? I enter into evidence in the case of Sex, Drugs ’n’ Rock & Roll vs. the Puritan Empire of America, Exhibit A: one pair of black lace undies, ladies and gentlemen. Goin’ once, goin’ twice – Scotty, boy? Do I hear a bid? She’s gonna need ’em.” Dan Clark, guitar and comic relief, guaranteed to produce the first laugh of the day.

“Hey! That’s it!” yelped Scott, sitting up and pushing aside the little groupie sprawled across him. “Blacklace! Yeah! That’s it. Laaaaaadies and gentlemen, put ’em together for …Blacklace!” Scott Tenny – tall, skinny, rock-hard muscled, lead vocals, showman, wild-haired and wilder-dressed front
man and babe-magnet – wrapped his lips around the name and savored it.

“Fits yer persona to a T,” yawned Jeremy, running a hand through his own scroungy long black hair, the sum total of attention it would get that day. “But keep it down, man. You want to get me thrown outta here? I got neighbors, dude.” Jeremy Sandborn. Lead guitar, vocals. Backup brain.

“Seventh name since Sunday,” Tim all but whispered. “Gunna stick with this one?” Tim Knowleston, drummer. A huge guy who spoke softly – and carried a whole set of big sticks. Jeremy’s find.

Scott staggered to his feet and gave the room a moment to stop spinning. “Blacklace. Hell, it works. Danny, my boy, you’re a marketing genius. You just don’t know it.”

“He knows it,” Jeff smirked. Jeff Aquino, back-up guitar. Dan’s buddy from a previous band. “Name the band Blacklace and we’ll never hear the last of what a marketing genius he is. Big mistake. You won’t get my vote.”

“Vote? Scott doesn’t do democracy – or hadn’t you heard? Scott’s gonna call the band whatever he wants,” Dan pointed out. No one contradicted him.

THAT WAS BACK in the days of heavy drugs, heavy alcohol and violently high times. Growing up Scott got a running start with booze in elementary school; by high school graduation, he was a heavy user of all manner of lethal pharmacologicals, which often posed a serious challenge to his ability to perform. Some who knew him well wondered if he harbored a death wish.

He didn’t. He was just a volatile, hyperactive kid from a seemingly quiet town in the Lakes Region of New Hampshire who wanted to fuel a life lived square in the middle of the fast lane. He wasn’t alone. A good-sized chunk of an entire generation ended up hanging out in this particularly dangerous lane – his entire band, just to mention a few.

A reckless electromagnet of a man with a craggy face that looked like it had been chiseled from New Hampshire granite, Scott had his pick of girls in every town or city they played. Both he and the others thought nothing of bringing a few frenetic fans backstage after the show, for a little blow and a blow job before hitting the road to their next gig. There wasn’t much that escaped media attention. He incited criticism as much for his flamboyant dress and the gaudy scarves he tied on his microphone, as he did for his bad boy behavior. Local entertainment reporters always had something caustic to say about him in the wake of every performance.

His personal life spiked as high and low as his drug life. His first wife, the mother of his older daughter, Missy, found the drugs too much to deal with. A short fling with a singer he met in New York produced a second daughter, Laurel. As he and the rest of the band approached thirty, one by one they came to their senses about their drug consumption, and one by one, each cleaned up his act. Scott’s second attempt at marriage was no more successful than his first, however. In spite of twelve years of sobriety, this marriage was also ending in divorce. AA had given him the courage to acknowledge the loving, compassionate man inside the bad boy, had given him faith in God, and had allowed him to express a deep caring for his daughters. It hadn’t dampened his enormous appetites for either the music that fed his soul or for the women that music attracted, nor had it dampened a temper that could erupt out of nowhere like a violent summer storm. At forty-two, he could still play the spoiled brat with the best of them.

THE ‘FIRST STEPS’ show had gone brilliantly. The Southern California chapter of World Without Abuse held an annual benefit to fund its local spousal abuse shelters, and this being the entertainment capital of the world, had their pick of the best to headline their show. Jenna had been thrilled to be asked to perform, a star among stars, and she happily gave the select audience an over-the-top performance. The abuse of women and children moved and angered her far more than she could explain. She had cringed at the painful montage of images that opened the show; tears welled up at the closing montage of the brave and fortunate women and children who had found their way to WWA shelters, their first steps to a new life.

Looking across a sea of glittering celebrities at the black-tie dinner after the show, Jenna mused on the fact that this was all she had to pass for a social life these days. The next morning she’d be back on the road.

Turning, she found herself face to face with Oprah Winfrey, shimmering in silver lamé. “You were fabulous,” Oprah gushed, reached for her and gave her a sisterly hug and air kiss.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” beamed Jenna, looking old-fashioned drop-dead glamorous in a vintage ’40s red silk crepe gown that clung to her tanned, toned curves like a second skin. Her long, thick mane of hair – Jenna had finally settled on its natural shade of brunette – hung loose and free and halfway down her back.

“How do you do it?” Oprah asked like a star-struck fan. On her it was endearing.
“How do you do what you do, day in, day out?” Jenna countered. “Actually, tell me what it’s like –”
Jenna’s words were cut short. One guest bumping into another created a chain reaction of mishaps, ending in a small tsunami of red wine sloshing from Jenna’s glass – right onto Oprah’s gown.
“Oh, no! I am so sorry!” Jenna gasped, reaching into her little red satin Kate Spade handbag for a tissue.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” echoed a deep voice behind her. “Here.” Jenna turned to find the kind of man that black tie couldn’t tame offering her a cocktail napkin.
“Scott Tenny!” exclaimed both women in unison. They both laughed.
“Ladies, I am so sorry,” an endearingly red-faced Scott repeated. “Really. Oh, God, I can’t believe I did that. I am such a total klutz.”
“It’s okay. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some water on this quick,” said a hastily departing Oprah.
“Holy shit, that was so embarrassing!” Scott said. His mortification was genuine.
“That makes two of us,” laughed Jenna. “Jenna Bradford.” She put her hand out.
“You were great tonight! Don’t worry, I know who you are. I’ve caught your show, several times, actually.
“Really?”
“Sure. Let’s see. First time – um – I know, Greek Theatre. You were opening for – Kissamee Quick. Right?”
“Right! Wow. That was years ago.”
“And the first time you saw me?” Scott asked, confident that of course she had.
“Oh, my God. Uhh…that would have to be – what was it called – Lingo? That club in Brentwood? Macon was playing – Jimmy Bondi’s a friend of mine. You guys were there and they invited you up, and you like covered your own songs – it was hilarious. I’ll never forget it.”
“Man. I can barely remember it.”
“Not surprising. You were wasted.”
Scott chuckled ruefully. “I was always wasted. When was that?”
“Before I was legal to drink, I can tell you that. Fifteen, sixteen years ago?”
“Ancient history. That all had to end. I’ll tell you –” He went serious. “I had to. It was straighten up or chance losing my band or my life. Or both. I finally woke up one day and realized I didn’t want either to happen. Not that I was any
guiding light. Hell, I was the last of us to see the light,” he added ruefully.
“I gotta tell you – you do clean up good, Mr. Tenny,” Jenna smiled, giving him a casual once-over.
“I’m rather proud of that, actually,” Scott responded. “But don’t worry. There’s still plenty of wickedness in the ol’ boy yet. Care to sit down?” he asked, gesturing to a nearby table.
“Don’t mind a bit. These shoes are killing me,” Jenna laughed. Scott pulled out a chair for her with a gallant bow. She dropped into it gratefully.
Scott’s version of sitting down could qualify as an aerobic activity. No part of the man remained still for more than a few seconds at a time. The net effect on those sitting with him ran the gamut from mesmerizing to exhausting. Jenna found the man and his restless, almost feral level of energy entirely riveting. She sensed a mind that wanted to range as freely as the body did, and could only imagine the endless effort required to keep this body and soul functional and functioning.
Five minutes into conversing with him, she felt she’d way more than met her match.

AN HOUR OF shop talk would have gone on much longer if Mark hadn’t stopped by to remind Jenna of her early departure the next morning.“Yeah. Denver,” Jenna explained to Scott with a sigh. “My coach is turning into a pumpkin. I gotta go.”“May I escort you to your pumpkin, Ms. Bradford?” Scott offered.“Why, of course, Mr. Tenny,” Jenna purred. This was fun.As they approached a modest eight-passenger limo, the driver jumped out and opened the door for Jenna.“My goodness,” said Scott in mock awe. “You weren’t kidding. You really do have a coach.”“Thank you, Randy,” Jenna said to the chauffeur who was grinning at her. “It’s Daddy’s,” she said by way of explanation, turning back to Scott. “I just have it for tonight.”

Scott suddenly, impetuously leaned over, pulled her to him and gave her a surprisingly gentle, unrushed kiss. “I’m going to have you in my life some day, Jenna Bradford, so I’d suggest you do not forget that kiss.” Jenna stared, her dark brown eyes wide open, smiled and stepped into the car. Scott held her gaze for a long moment, then stood back for Randy to close the door.
“Home, Randy,” Scott addressed the bemused chauffeur, who snapped a salute.
Watching the car drive away, Scott suddenly realized he wasn’t kidding about what he’d just said. He had been aware of Jenna Bradford for quite a while, as both a fellow musician and as a woman. Now that he’d met her, he recognized that it was nothing short of love at first sight.
“Damn. I actually meant every word!” he marveled as he turned and half walked, half moonwalked his way back inside.

JENNA AWOKE EARLY the next morning to pack before meeting up with the band. Staying at her parents’ had saved her the long drive back to her own place in Santa Monica and another slog back to the airport this morning.

The door bell rang early. “Mi dios! What is thees, a whole flower shop?” Jenna heard Adella, her mother’s housekeeper, exclaim.
Linda and Jenna converged on the front door simultaneously, Jenna still in a pair of silk tank-topped pajamas. “What on earth?” Linda gasped. Two uniformed delivery men stood on the doorstep, each holding two dozen roses. Each dozen, a different shade of pink, held an envelope. Linda reached for the nearest. “Why, they’re for you, hon,” she said, handing the envelope over to her daughter.
“Who knows I’m here?” Jenna wondered out loud, sweeping her disheveled hair back into a knot.
“Open it!” urged her mother, taking the flowers from one delivery man.
Adella reached for the rest.
“Well? Who are they from, sweetie? Don’t keep me guessing,” Linda demanded impatiently. Jenna told her. The name Scott Tenny didn’t ring a bell.
“He’s a rock singer. You’ve heard of Blacklace? I met him last night.”
“Black – lace?” Linda said tentatively.
“Blacklace. They’re really big.”
“And he’s sending you – four dozen roses? Just like that?”
“Beats me. He knocked into me, I got wine all over Oprah Winfrey and we talked.”
“You – talked.”
“We talked. And, okay, he kissed me. Actually, he said I was going to be in his life, if you must know.”
“Well, I’d say you have an admirer, my dear. And, judging by the look on your face – I’d have to say you seem a bit bemused yourself.”
“Mother, please! I just met him, for God sakes. I’ve seen him perform and I’ve heard a heck of a lot about him, but I only just met him last night. Don’t get excited. He has a reputation for grand gestures like this – and a whole lot more..”
Before Linda could respond, the doorbell rang again. “I’ll get it this time,
Adella,” she called and answered it herself. Standing on the doorstep was a tall, spare and long-haired, handsome man who simply said, “You must be Mrs. Bradford. I’m Scott Tenny. Is Jenna still here?”
“She is – she is indeed. Come in, come in.” Smiling, she gestured for him to follow her to the kitchen, where Jenna was trying to find enough vases for the flowers.
Jenna turned as Linda and Scott entered the room. “Scott?! What are you doing here?” she blurted.
Without a word, Scott crossed the kitchen, took her shoulders in his hands and kissed her for the second time.
“I just couldn’t let you head out of town without seeing you again,” a simple, tip-of-the-iceberg explanation that hardly addressed the depth of his feelings. Jenna stood speechless. He stared into her eyes, reached up and touched her cheek, then grinned at the sight of all the flowers he had sent. “Like ’em?”
“They’re beautiful, Scott. Thank you. Can I ask – why four dozen?”
“I dunno. The guy asked me how many. I said four dozen. What can I say?” He smiled down at her, his jumpy hands clenching and releasing her shoulders.
“Excuse me, you two,” Linda said tactfully and left them to talk.
“Jenna – how long are you heading out for?”
“Three weeks. Denver, Chicago…”
“I – I know this sounds – I’m going to miss you. I’d come catch up with you, spend time with you if I could, but I can’t. We go back into the studio for rehearsals tomorrow. We’re cutting a new CD, then we’re right out on another tour. You know how it is.”
“And it’s really just as well. You know how hectic it’s gonna be for me, too.” He nodded.
“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “Neither of us has to explain anything. We both – know.”
“Yeah, well – yeah,” she said, smiling ruefully. “But look, Scott – I’ve gotta say this. I loved talking to you last night. It was great, getting to know you a bit and all. But – you’re still married. For all I know, you could go back to your wife. Besides that, neither one of us needs stories about us on the front page. You know what the media do with people like us.”
Scott grabbed her hands. “It doesn’t change how I feel. I meant what I said last night, that you’re gonna be in my life some day. I – I don’t know why, but I know that’s gonna happen. Trust me.” Moving his hands up her arms, he slid them behind her and pulled her close again. Slowly, he bent down and kissed her, hard this time, and she kissed backed, surprised to discover how much she really did feel for him.
“I’ll see you again,” he said softly, then turned and was gone. Jenna stood staring at the flowers, then burst into tears just as her mother came back into the room. Linda went and took her daughter in her arms.
“You let a good man go again, didn’t you,” she stated, a fact, not a question.
“Mom, you don’t understand. It’s – he’s married, Mom.”
“He’s – married?” Linda looked completely confused.
“He says he’s in the middle of a divorce – at least, that’s what he told me. Until they’re divorced, over and done with, that’s just asking for trouble in my book.”
“Well. I see. Okay.”
“Bottom line: if nothing else, I can’t be seen in public with him,” Jenna stated flatly.
“No, okay, I agree. Not a good idea. Doesn’t mean you have to write him off, though. I may be an old fuddy-duddy, my dear, but I’m not blind. I can still see when two people have feelings for each other. Take it from Mother: you two definitely have feelings for each other.”