Rock (Hard Rock Harlots #4) (15 page)

N
eedless to say
, tonight’s show blew the lid off this tour.

After the fans shuffled me around for several measures, they kindly passed me back to the front, a couple security guys set me on my feet, and Shades beamed so hard at me, I
felt
his love and pride in my marrow.

I’ll bet I get some awesome fucking on the bus tonight.

Maybe getting knocked on your ass every once in a while is a good thing. Reminds you to appreciate what you have.

People swamp us backstage afterward. The floor possesses its own heartbeat, the air seems to breathe with life, and the walls welcome me with warmth. I greet sweaty, bath-challenged fans, giving hugs and posing for silly pictures that’ll likely show up on my page later. I laugh, sing, and celebrate with them.

Not a single person has a negative word for me.

Life isn’t good. It’s fan-fucking-tastic.

As the meet-and-greet wraps up and the security guys clear the house in anticipation of Banging Betties taking the stage, I notice Jillian’s absent. She always meets us right after our shows—usually with some form of critical commentary about me flashing my thong at the audience or other such nonsense. After the crowd surfing earlier, she ought to be happy I wore white jeans tonight.

I step into the hall to look for her. The Betties will take the stage in about fifteen minutes. She’s gotta be around here somewhere.

Shit. Here comes King Dick thundering toward me, arms swinging, nostrils flaring. Pissiness aside, I’ll admit the dude is kinda hot. Fuckin’ gay guys are always the best-looking ones. But I don’t let his good looks interfere with business, which he clearly means.

A couple of stragglers pass. For their benefit, I’m sure, Dick transforms his tone into one of a benevolent ruler. “Letty.” He smiles, threading my hand through the crook of his arm and patting me like an obedient pet. A Rolex peeks out from under his coat sleeve. “Lovely show tonight. May I have a word?”

I wriggle free of his tight hold and yank my arm away in an exaggerated arc. “I’m busy,” I lie. “Got things to sign and pictures to take. Maybe later.”

His “now” manifests as more of a detonation of domination forced through clenched teeth than a coherent word, but I get his message loud and clear. He guides me by the elbow to a vacant side room and shuts the door.

“What do you want?” I demand. If this dickhole shits on my parade—

“I warned you to stay out of our way, but you didn’t listen. This smear campaign you started has forced my hand.”

I shake my head, thoroughly confused. “Wait a minute. What smear campaign? I haven’t done anything.”

“Oh really?” He pulls his phone from his pocket and hits a few buttons. “So, you had nothing to do with this?” He flashes the screen at me.

I take the phone, and my jaw drops. A Facebook page called “Letty Dillinger ROCKS” with over 10,000 likes and an image of me flipping off the camera with
#MakeArtNotHousePayments
emblazoned across the bottom stares at me. Countless posts by adoring fans, hilarious meme pictures, and hashtags including
#StopMakingNoise, #StartMakingMusic, #LettysInnocent,
#CruellaDeVilleNotSoChill
, and my personal favorite,
#LettysBetterThanBetties
eat up the white space on the page.

I laugh and pass the phone back to Dick. “Maybe they liked my ‘statement.’”

“Well, Banging Betties didn’t. I heard no apology for what you said, only implications of wrongdoing deferred.”

I hitch my hands to my hips. “Because your
girl
Lizzie put Anna up to it. Are you so unscrupulous you’d let Anna take the entire fall? I mean, I know you’re a band manager, but this is ridiculous. The least you can do is tell Lizzie to admit her mistake before someone does it for her.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He gets up in my face, the green flecks in his birdlike eyes sparking. The scent of expensive cologne swirls between us, but it doesn’t mask the fury oozing from him.

I clench my jaw. He’s big, but I
may
be able to take him. “You know exactly what it means. She hasn’t managed to endear herself to anyone.”
Except maybe Jillian.
“There are a lot of people who’d jump on any excuse to expose her for the bitch she is. If you can’t see through her glamour to the ogre underneath, you’re dumber than I thought.”

A scoff thins his lips, sharpening his already hawkish nose. “Nobody would dare stand up to her. They all have too much to lose.” The way everyone treats Lizzie like she’s fucking untouchable is getting way past old and moving into ancient territory.

He shines a cufflink with his opposite sleeve. “None of it’s your concern anyway. You’re done for. A representative from Socket told me they’re ditching their sponsorship if Killer Buzz Float remains on the tour.”

What? No!

“Because Lizzie decided she doesn’t like me? That’s fucking bullshit, Dick!”

He casually shrugs.

I gesture to the phone in his pocket. “Our fans won’t stand for this. You think they’re rabid now? Wait till they hear we’ve been axed. This ain’t gonna help Anna’s or Lizzie’s case. It’s gonna backfire and kick you right in the junk.

“But on second thought, have at it. I’d love to see you try to crawl out of the hole you’ve dug for your little princess. If this week taught me anything, it’s that there’s strength in numbers. And it sure as fuck goes both ways.”

I make for the door and pause before opening it. “Enjoy your backlash.”

I fume my way down the hall to the green room. As soon as I find Shades, I tell him what happened. He’s as pissed as I am. We grab the rest of the band and return to the bus. Still no Jillian. I text her, demanding to know where the fuck she’s been all night.

I get a quick response:
On my way. Check your email.

“What the fuck?” I stare blankly at my phone for a few seconds. How did my night degrade from
best live performance ever
to
what the fuck am I gonna do with my life?
in a matter of minutes?

I’m cursed. I gotta be.

Shaking my head and smashing my lips together to contain the scream picking up steam behind them, I open the email app on my phone. There’s a forwarded message.

From Lizzie Smith.

What the fucking fuck? How did that bitch get my email address? I open it.

O
n Nov 21
, 2014, at 2:22 PM, Anna DeVille wrote:

Lizzie,

Attached is the raw video I shot today for the documentary. I have some ideas for how we can angle the story, but I’d like your opinions first.

~ Anna DeVille, Reporter for Megamusic Television

O
n Nov 21
, 2014, at 3:20 PM, Lizzie Smith wrote:

It’s fucking brilliant. Get your sound tech to overdub a few questions like I told you—what she thinks about BB. Maybe drop in something about the house I just bought where she says the shit about art over house payments. I wanna see it before you post.

What a cunt.

O
n Nov 21
, 2014, at 6:33 PM, Anna DeVille wrote:

How’s this?

~ Anna DeVille, Reporter for Megamusic Television

O
n Nov 21
, 2014, at 6:37 PM, Lizzie Smith wrote:

Perfect. Cut it loose using a fake account so they can’t track it to you. You can claim someone stole the footage if they come after you.

I’m gonna grab some popcorn and enjoy the shitstorm. Hope Letty Dillinger fuckin’ chokes to death on her lame “art.”

O
n Nov 21
, 2014, at 7:02 PM, Anna DeVille wrote:

DONE.

~ Anna DeVille, Reporter for Megamusic Television

I
’m so confused
, I have to reread the string of messages to be sure I got it right. Dumbstruck, I hand the phone to Shades without comment and drop my ass onto the couch while he reads. An amused grin sneaks across his lips as his eyes dart over the words. He lowers the device and laughs a “Holy shit!”

“Yeah.” Did
Jillian
steal Lizzie’s phone and forward her messages? No way. “I can’t fuckin’ believe it.” I shake my head.

The footsteps made by a pair of familiar-sounding sensible black oxfords bang down the aisle toward us. “Can’t believe I came through for you?
Again
?” Jillian calls.

I jump up and meet her halfway, throwing my arms around her stiff shoulders. Without a single inhibited bone in my body, I plant a kiss right on her smacker. She pushes me away and wipes her mouth disgustedly. Even fake-spits to the side.

“I’ve never been so happy to see you in all my life,” I say, pausing for a moment. “Actually, there’s a first time for everything.” I gently punch her upper arm.

She scowls. “As usual, you owe me. In a big way.”

I nod furiously, bouncing, clapping,
screaming
inside with boundless energy. “How did you—?”

She holds up a hand to stop me.

I can only heel for half a second before I blurt out the next question. “Did Dick tell you Socket’s nixing us?”

A stab of cunning cools the intensity in Jillian’s gaze. She lifts a brow. “Don’t you worry about
Dick
or Anna. Revenge is ready to be served. I’m not even going to wait until after Thanksgiving dinner, either. Hit ’em where it hurts. Let them stew most of the day. And then there will be an abundance of apologies.”

Shit. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. I totally forgot. I got a hell of a lot to be thankful for this year too. Must make amends. “I don’t know what to say, Jillian.”

“A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice.”

I sigh. “Thank you. I’m sure you have a hell of a story to tell about how you got—”

She cuts me off. “Nope. Not going there.”

That’s a bummer. I really want to know what happened between her and Lizzie. Whatever it was must’ve been a knock-down-drag-out. Jillian seemed to have it pretty bad for her, but she had to have seen what Lizzie was doing. I’m just so glad she stood up for us.
For me.
“Thank you,” I repeat in case I wasn’t clear the first time.

Jillian’s beleaguered expression softens. She pats my elbow and returns to the front of the bus where the rest of the band is hanging out.

I turn, grab Shades’s hand, and guide it around my stomach. Leaning into him behind me, I feel the same lightness as before when the crowd held me up like an offering to The Rock.

I guess there’s nothing wrong with serving two masters, as long as you’re loyal to both. Right now I’m full up with The Rock of my music life and The Rock of my love life. They both fit me like pieces of a puzzle. Without one or the other, I’m totally dysfunctional. But with both? I’m unstoppable.

K
ing Dick parades
his three princesses, Anna DeVille, and two guys I don’t know up the stairs of our bus. We had a Killer Buzz Float strategy meeting last night, and the seven of us are ready for battle.

Jillian introduces everyone. The new guys are Brian Salinger, Megamusic’s managing editor of the news division, and Garrett Henke, a representative from Socket Energy Drinks. I resist the urge to rub my hands together and visibly gloat. Jillian gestures to the couches in front. “Sit.”

The newcomers to our wheeled, metal abode fill the seats like children brought to the principal’s office, awaiting their punishment. Well, except for Lizzie, of course, who turns her thoroughly bored face toward the window and stares through it.

I’m sorry Eliza was dragged into this bullshit. I kind of like her now. But what we’re about to discuss is business, and we wouldn’t even be here if Lizzie hadn’t stirred the shit pot to begin with. I put on my game face and stand proudly with my bandmates. Being surrounded by tall, dark, and dangerous-looking dudes who are as pissed as I am adds a little extra puff to my already inflated chest.

Dear Confidence: I’ve missed you. Thanks for coming back.

“You got my message, Richard, so I’m gonna cut to the chase,” Jillian says beside us. The seven of us in a row are like a wall of bricks formed from magical dust of The Rock.

Solid. Unyielding. Unbreakable.

One.

Lizzie rolls her eyes and slouches into the couch with a foot stomp and a derisive tooth-sucking noise. Dickface leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and nods, his countenance cryptic with a stormy undercurrent of grim.

Good. Now he knows what it’s like to be in the hot seat.

“Point number one,” Jillian begins, ticking off her thoughts with a finger and adding more as she goes. “Letty received an email containing the raw footage of her interview with Anna, forwarded from Lizzie’s phone.”

Lizzie sits up and slaps the tabletop. “Whatever you
think
you have is stolen. I never sent
her
any emails.”

Jillian’s contained fury settles on Lizzie, but only a fraction of its spark ignites her words. “Prove it.”

The two of them engage in a hardcore, if-looks-could-kill staring contest. Lizzie loses.

Jillian continues. “Point two: Based on the content of the email, Megamusic appears to have lied about having said footage, claiming it was ‘corrupted’ when it wasn’t.

“Point three: We have evidence from the email conversation between Anna and Lizzie showing the two colluded to, at the very least, make Letty look bad. It also proves Lizzie was the one who told Anna to edit and overdub the footage.

“Point four: Socket has declared they’re dropping their support after the faked video created by Anna and Lizzie—”

The bitch in question snaps up again. “I didn’t hold a gun to her head. Anna could’ve said no.”

Jillian’s pupils flare, and she whip-cracks her gaze in Lizzie’s direction so fast, her neck actually pops. Lizzie shrinks back, still scowling, but humbled by a degree or two.

“I’m. Not. Finished.” Jillian’s voice chills with icy threat. It feels like someone turned the air conditioner on full blast.
Damn, woman. Way to put a bitch in her place!

Lizzie folds her arms over her chest, shakes her head like a snot-nosed brat, and returns her gaze to the window. King Dick casts a sideways glance her way but doesn’t comment.

“Point five,” Jillian continues. “It’s doubtful anything Letty said in the original footage would have caused such an uproar if her words hadn’t been taken out of context, chopped all to hell, and served up as piecemeal truth to the public.”

Dick looks up at her. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“No, I don’t. But it’s a reasonable conclusion based on the facts.” She lowers her hands to the table and braces herself on the tips of her fingers. “So, given the evidence, it seems to me we have two options for how to proceed—the easy way or the hard way. The easy way would be for the guilty parties to admit their mistake publicly and apologize. The hard way would involve defamation lawsuits and a great deal of unpleasantness.”

“You got your evidence illegally,” Dickhead says. “It won’t be admissible in court.”

“You can’t prove it was obtained illegally, but even if it’s inadmissible, there are ways around it,” Jillian says. “In my job as a paralegal, I met some
amazing
computer forensics guys who kick ass at retrieving deleted data and preserving digital evidence. I’m confident we could hire someone to track down legal, admissible evidence, should the email trail suddenly go missing. All those messages are stored on servers somewhere. And since we have a dozen witnesses here, it might be wise for Anna to turn over her phone to Mr. Salinger, especially if his company’s paying for its service. Might need it for evidence.”

Dick sits up a little erecter. Anna and Lizzie exchange worried looks. The Megamusic guy stares at his feet, jaw clenched.

Shit, I can’t tell if she’s bluffing, but it sounds like Jillian put the royal smackdown on King Dick and his minions.

Note to self: Never question Jillian’s loyalties again. And definitely do not tangle with her on legal shit.

Salinger agrees. “I’ll need your phone, Anna.” She huffs and hands it over. Then he turns to Jillian. “Are we done? I’ve got some … personnel issues to deal with.”

“I understand,” Jillian replies. As he motions Anna toward the exit, Jillian adds, “Hang on. Don’t you both have something you wanted to say to Ms. Dillinger?” A smirk darts across her evil face. I could tongue kiss her right now. I really could.

Salinger licks his lips and ambles over to me. “I apologize for the inconvenience and the trouble you’ve gone through this week, Ms. Dillinger. If there’s anything we at Megamusic can do to make amends, please let me know.”

“Thanks,” I say.

When it’s Anna’s turn, she shuffles forward but keeps a safe distance. Her cheeks are bright red. “Sorry for misleading you, Letty. My behavior was unethical and unbecoming of a journalist.”

Pfft. Maybe I’ll
think
about not suing your ass, bitch.

I nod, and the two of them leave. I relish the thought of reading about Anna’s termination from Megamusic tomorrow. Now, if we could just get rid of Lizzie.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Eliza lays a palm on the table. All eyes turn her way as she targets Lizzie. “I don’t know what your beef is with Letty, but I think we’ve put on enough of a production for this tour. The last thing I want is to be dragged into your high school alpha-girl drama. If you’re pissed at her, duke it out in
private
with
words
, not veiled chess moves on the Internet’s game board. At the very least, be woman enough to admit you fucked up.

“I’ll give it to you straight. I got a baby to take care of. My primary job is being a mom. Todd is my kid’s dad. If you’re gonna keep up this tug of war, it’s going to ruin a lot more than your reputation. It’s already damaging my child’s environment, which is unconventional to begin with. So, I’m asking you to end this. Here and now. For Gabrielle’s, Beth’s, and my sake, if not your own.”

Lizzie shoots daggers at Eliza and doesn’t reply.

Garrett Henke pipes up. “Given the circumstances and the evidence, I must say I’m dismayed about what’s come to pass.” He gestures to Lizzie. “Here we have a prominent member of the music community conspiring against another, bullying her to the point of defamation … I can’t understand why you’d do such a thing, Lizzie. You’ve got a headlining gig on one of the most popular tours in the U.S. What possessed you?”

Her cheeks ripple over a bitten-off retort.

“Okay, I hate to do this, but as a company, Socket prides itself on values and ethics. We won’t condone this kind of behavior through sponsorship. When word gets out about what you did, you’ll make everyone—including me—look bad.” Henke turns to Dick. “It’s Banging Betties or us. If you choose to remain on the tour, good luck finding another sponsor.” Then back to Lizzie, “You have to take responsibility for your actions, young lady. The world owes you exactly nothing.”

“You can’t do this,” Dick says, control leaching away.

No. He can’t. I step forward. “Hold on a second. Mr. Henke, I was the one who got hurt in this debacle. I understand and respect your position, but Killer Buzz Float needs your financial support as much as Banging Betties do. And we need them.” I smile at Eliza. The corners of her eyes glisten with moisture.

“Can’t we work something out? All I want is my name cleared and maybe an apology.” Not completely true. I’d love to see Lizzie strung up in a public square by her toes, subjected to televised shaming under a barrage of rotten fruits and vegetables, but the chances of getting my wish aren’t great. “I’m willing to lay this incident to rest if Lizzie is. I just want to make people happy with my music. I don’t care about anything else.”

Henke stares at me for a long time, and then shifts his attention to Richard. “You’ve got three days to clean up this mess. If there’s so much as a speck of dirt left behind, you’re out. Understand?”

With a relieved sigh, Dick stands and offers his hand. “Yes, sir.” The two men shake on it, and Mr. Henke leaves.

A collective exhale marks the reduction in tension for at least some of us. Richard steps over to me. “Thanks for your discretion, Letty.” He flicks a glance behind him to Lizzie, who’s watching me like she’s plotting my assassination. “Sorry for the trouble caused. The band will issue a statement immediately.”

Jillian joins us. “I think it’s best we keep our distance for the rest of the tour and go our separate ways when it’s over.”

“Agreed,” Dick says. “Lizzie?” He gestures to me with a nod.

Looking more like a surly teen rebelling against her father than a grown woman with a million bucks in the bank, Lizzie gets up and splatters a “sorry” at my feet on her way down the steps.

“Wow.” That’s all I got.

Richard’s barely concealed surprise suggests that’s all he’s got too.

Jillian leans toward him and lowers her voice. “You keep your bitch away from my band, or I
will
sue her. We both know you’re nothing without her, so you’d better work hard at honing those manny skills, buddy. You’re gonna need ’em. Now get the fuck out of here.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he mumbles on the way out.