by Elise Noble
“How long did it go on for?”
“Until I emancipated myself at sixteen and moved in with my grandma. She’s the only sane person left in that family.”
Tears streamed down Courtney’s face for the second time that day when Travis walked around the table and hugged her.
“I wish I could have been around to do this then,” he told her.
“Me too. This feels kind of weird, you know?”
“Yeah, I do. But forget the past, remember? We’ve still got two-thirds of our lives left, so let’s not fuck it up.”
“What will we tell everyone?”
“The truth. The truth about everything. That I’ve got a girlfriend I’m crazy about and a sister who brings me the wrong coffee every single day and thinks a G-string is a kind of underwear.”
“It is a kind of underwear.”
Huh? “What kind of conversation were the two of you having?”
Courtney turned bright red, and Travis was the one who answered.
“I told her I needed a new G-string, and she suggested that if I wanted to wear women’s panties, bikini briefs might be more comfortable.”
“It was an honest mistake,” I said.
“I’m sorry for being literally the world’s worst PA.”
“Who cares? Better to bring me a cappuccino instead of an Americano than be a manipulative bitch like Reagan. But what will you do now? You said you were a scientist?”
“Before I got the job working for Red Cat, I researched the genetics of hereditary diseases. Someday, I’d like to go back to university and do a postgraduate degree.”
“Which college?”
“Probably Caltech again. I like it there.”
“Caltech.” Travis gave a low whistle. “My sister’s smart.”
“And my brother’s a freaking rock star.” She pinched herself, then laughed. “If I go back to school, I’ll hardly see you though.”
“We’ll manage somehow.”
“But Gary said you’d be on a tour of Asia for half of next year.”
“He what?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Gary never tells us anything. Nobody does. They just arrange stuff, and we’ve got no choice but to go along with it.”
Travis gave Courtney a précis of the problems the band had been having with Red Cat, ending with Emmy’s vague promise to sort everything out.
“Do you really think she can do that?” Courtney asked, her face ashen.
He looked to me, and I nodded. Emmy had never let me down, or Zander, even if her methods were a little unorthodox.
“Yes, I do.”
CHAPTER 42 - ZANDER
A WEEK AFTER Meredith’s demise, Zander walked into Blackwood’s London office with mixed feelings. The Chelsea apartment had been eerily quiet when he got home with Dove last night, but as she reminded him, he hadn’t so much lost a sister as gained a brother and another sister. Courtney was the biggest surprise in all of this, but her presence gave Lanie another shoulder to lean on during her US adventure.
“Hey, Zander,” Nye called. “Once you’ve sorted out your mail, I’ve got a new case for you.”
“Tell me it’s not a lost dog.”
“A parental abduction.”
Yes, life was getting back to normal. The new normal, the one where he had a wife waiting for him at home and a dog who ate his shoes. The one where he wasn’t sharing a house with an assassin and her husband and tempted to wear a tinfoil hat because the bitch could read his damn mind.
And speaking of mind-reading… He picked up the top item from his in-tray, a handwritten envelope with a California postmark. It contained one sheet of paper, folded in half, with a single word written in the middle.
Meredith.
How the hell had Emmy known that?
Zander sighed and fished around in his wallet for a fifty-dollar bill left over from their trip to LA, then sealed it in an envelope to go in the internal mail. The woman was a bloody clairvoyant.
CHAPTER 43 - ALANA
THREE WEEKS LATER, Courtney slipped into the rear lounge of the tour bus. The new tour bus. This one drove us all around the United States, but it was exactly the same as the UK bus except the driver sat on the left instead of the right and Courtney and Jeanne had taken over the two spare bunks. Currently, we were living the showbiz lifestyle at a truck stop in Idaho.
“Guys,” Courtney said. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but Gary just took a phone call and he went absolutely white.”
She’d decided to stick around, at least for a while. Until we somehow got a resolution to the contract problem. I’d taken over some of the more organisational parts, and Jeanne wasn’t so bad at assisting as long as she had proper instructions. Give her a list, and she’d keep going until she ticked everything off. Plus she made excellent coffee.
But in truth? None of us really wanted to be there. Could this phone call be the start of something?
“Did you hear any of the conversation?” I asked.
“No, because he locked himself in the disabled bathroom.”
“What about listening through the door?”
“I tried that, but I couldn’t make out any of the words, and then some lady carrying a chihuahua gave me a really weird look.”
“Okay, so why don’t we—”
My vibrating phone interrupted me, and I looked down to see a text from Emmy. No message, just a hyperlink to an article on celebgossip.com and a smiley face. My fingers shook as I clicked on the link. What had she done?
Red Cat Records raided by the IRS.
Criminal investigators from the Internal Revenue Service this morning descended on the headquarters of Red Cat Records, the label behind so many of today’s top music acts. CEO Leonard Martineau takes credit for bringing live music back to the masses with a never-ending series of worldwide tours.
But today, there was no sign of Mr. Martineau as agents left his office with boxes and boxes of documents, which they placed on trucks waiting outside.
Officials offered scant details of the reason for the raid.
“We’re here on official business,” Special Agent John Evans told reporters gathered at the scene. “Primarily, we’re investigating violations of Title 26, which is tax evasion and general fraud against the US government.”
Martineau could not be reached for comment, and Red Cat’s social media account gave no information on the investigation. If the record company is in trouble, could this be the end for some of our favourite artists?
Updates to follow…
Straight away, I dialled Emmy’s number, and she picked up immediately.
“Did you do this?”
“Which part? Gathering evidence of Red Cat’s tax evasion and sending an idiot-proof summary to the IRS? Giving a nudge to an IRS agent who may have owed someone a favour to bump the investigation to the top of the pile? Or sending an anonymous tip about the raid to a celebrity gossip website?”
“All of it?”
“Technically, I didn’t do the first part, but I may have provided some direction. If you’d like to thank the people who did, Mack drinks white wine and Georgia likes those chocolates with the soft caramel centres.”
“Do you think Red Cat will go bust?”
“Hard to run a record label from a jail cell, honey. The execs have all been fudging their personal taxes too. For Gary’s information, a sailboat doesn’t count as a tax-deductible business expense.”
“Jail?”
“This is gonna be a mess. A huge mess, but in a couple of months when the dust settles, your boys’ll be free and clear. Just sit tight, okay? We’ve got lawyers on hand to help you out.”
“What about the tour?”
“I’m not sure yet. There’ll be some negotiation, undoubtedly, but I expect anything not already booked and paid in full will get covered by the company’s cancellation insurance. I’m sure the band will want to take their fans into account when they decide whether or not to bail comple
tely as well.”
“Of course.”
“And it may be too soon, but if they’re interested in recording another album after this has all unravelled and they’ve taken a break, then Ethan wouldn’t mind talking to them.”
“Ethan as in Ethan White? The Ghost?”
“Yup.”
Wow. “I’ll definitely pass that on. Thanks so much. For everything.”
“I’m just doing my civic duty in ridding the world of assholes. Now, stop talking to me and go update everyone. I’m sure they’d like to know what’s happening, and I need another coffee.”
EPILOGUE - ALANA
TWO AND A half months. That was how long it took for Indigo Rain to wrap up their tour and hold a celebratory barbecue which involved cooking hot dogs over their burning contract at Courtney’s place. She lived in the guesthouse at the back of her grandma’s property, which made her the only one with a garden.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Travis said. “Freedom tastes like mustard, ketchup, and fried onions.”
Rush popped the top on another beer. “I never thought we’d celebrate being unsigned.”
“Yeah, well, it’s only for twenty-four hours, so we’d better make the most of it.”
Yes, they had a new record deal lined up already, this time with Spectre Productions, Ethan White’s label. They’d spent a long time talking to him on the phone and even gone to visit him in Richmond. Ethan was a family man with a steady girlfriend and a young son, so he understood the importance of downtime and having a life outside of work. The initial contract, which had been carefully checked over by Oliver Rhodes, called for Spectre to re-release the band’s existing back catalogue, and for the boys to record two new albums over the next three years. They’d tour too, but they’d get the final say in the schedule, and there wouldn’t be any live performances for at least three months.
Apart from Travis’s solo performance at a Richmond dog shelter’s fundraising dinner, that was. He’d offered to play a few numbers on the guitar as a thank-you to Emmy, who was somehow involved with the organisation.
Vina had been discharged from the hospital and was recovering at home. To minimise scarring, she had to wear a clear plastic mask for the next eight months, but the doctors were hopeful she’d make a good recovery over time. Travis had offered to pen an album with her. Frank tried to veto the idea at first, but then he quit, so once a week, Travis and Vina arranged a songwriting session over Skype.
Yes, Frank quit. During the IRS’s search of Red Cat’s offices, some old emails between Leonard Martineau and Frank Fields had surfaced, and Emmy’s IRS contact channelled them back to her. Indigo Rain’s manager had taken kickbacks to get the boys to sign that awful contract, and guess what? He hadn’t paid tax on any of that cash. Now he was in trouble with the taxman too, and he’d agreed to resign quietly and forfeit any future royalties to avoid being sued by Indigo Rain as well.
Ethan had already found the band a new manager. His own in fact. A shared arrangement. Javon was in his mid-thirties, but knowledgeable, and he’d work for the band rather than the other way around. Jeanne had agreed to stay on as PA, and Courtney planned to go back to her old job before starting a PhD program at Caltech in the next academic year.
And me? I was going back to my old job too, even if Travis did shoot Rush evil glares every time he called me Instababe. I’d be their official social media coordinator rather than a hanger-on, as well as sharing Travis’s bed every night.
But the day after tomorrow, he’d be sharing mine. We’d be spending the first six weeks of his break in England, catching up with Zander, Dove, and Tessa, plus Ziggy and Amin, to whom everyone owed a huge thank-you. Why six weeks? Because Dex was coming with us to have his knees operated on. The best orthopaedic surgeon we could find worked in London, and he had an osteotomy scheduled for three days’ time. Tessa had offered up her spare room for recuperation purposes, although she was quite open with her disappointment that it wasn’t Rush coming to stay instead.
“Have you got your camera, Insta—”
“Don’t say it,” Travis warned Rush.
“Of course I do. Everybody smile.”
Click. Another picture for the fans. After Red Cat’s collapse, the outpouring of support for Indigo Rain and the label’s other acts had threatened to become a tsunami, it was so strong. Tessa had told the full story in NewsFlash magazine and been offered a job when she graduated as a result. We’d be having another celebration in London, but perhaps not outside because October wasn’t the time for barbecues in England, not unless we all wanted to go to the hospital with frostbite.
I took a dozen more shots and quickly edited one to post on Instagram. As long as I could keep the guys in people’s minds during their hiatus, they should be able to pick up where they left off. Still with no money to show for the last few years’ work, unfortunately, but the forensic accountants were hopeful of recovering something from the ashes of Red Cat. Plus Spectre had offered a small advance, which would pay for JD’s rehab at least. He’d check in as soon as we left for London, although since he got the news that he wouldn’t have to tour constantly for two more years, he’d been a different person anyway. JD would be okay. I didn’t have to worry about him anymore.
Rush, on the other hand, I was both nervous for and proud of. Inspired by stories from Vina’s mum when he’d gone to visit, he’d decided to work on a volunteering project in Africa for the next two months, and he probably wouldn’t even have cell phone coverage. Yikes. I was a little ashamed to say that I panicked if I ever went out of signal range, and no way would I ever survive on one of those castaway TV shows.
But that didn’t matter, because I’d never want to go on one. I’d seen first-hand the impact fame could have on a person, and Travis was much happier out of the limelight. A barbecue with friends trumped a glitzy awards bash or a VIP party every time.
And now he settled onto Courtney’s swing seat and beckoned me over to sit beside him. I couldn’t resist running a hand over his face. His new, smooth face. Shaving off the beard was the first thing he’d done when we heard the news, and the second was getting a haircut. He conceded he’d probably grow it all back again, but that day, he got rid of it because now he could.
“Thanks for being everything, blue. If you hadn’t come along, I’d be on stage in Buttfuck, Minnesota, right now.”
“And to think I didn’t even like you at first.”
“I didn’t like me much back then either.” He picked up his bottle of beer and clinked it against mine. “To new beginnings.”
“New beginnings? Does that mean we can start the alphabet of sex again?”
“Sure we can.” He leaned in closer and nibbled my ear. “Speaking of Buttfuck, A is for…”
“Whoa. Let’s save that for the third go around.” I plucked a chocolate from the box Rush had bought for me earlier. “How about A is for aphrodisiac?”
“How long do we have to stay at this barbecue?”
“I love you, Travis Thorne. I love your filthy mouth and your sweet tongue.”
“Love you too, A is for Alana. Always.”
Perhaps bad boys weren’t such bad news after all.
WHAT'S NEXT?
The Blackwood UK series continues in Pass the Parcel, release date TBC.
Tessa Smyles is finally living up to her name. She’s landed her dream internship with NewsFlash magazine, the red pumps she’s been eyeing up for ages are finally on sale, and there’s a rock star camping out in her spare room. Okay, so Dexter Reeves isn’t the rock star she’s been crushing on for the last three years, but he’s in the same band, which has to count for something, right?
But life can change in a heartbeat.
When a madman with a grudge explodes onto the scene, Tessa and Dex are left to make sense out of chaos. Which of them was the target? Where will the killer strike next? The clock’s ticking, but they soon find they’re in danger of losing their hearts as well as their lives.
My next book will be Stolen Hearts, a thriller starring Emmy and Black, releasing in the summer of 2019.
Even assassins need a vacation…
When Diamond and her equally deadly husband head to Dahab, jewel of the Red Sea, all they want is a relaxing fortnight on the beach.
But the bodies soon start stacking up, and for once, it’s not their fault. Together with local cop Khaled, they’re soon sucked into the case, but there are too many suspects and not enough clues. Then there’s teenager Zena, their self-appointed sidekick who just can’t keep her nose out of other people’s business. Will the team be able to unravel the mystery before the killer gets personal?
For more details: www.elise-noble.com/stolen-hearts
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