Staged

by Olivia Cunning

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks for that, by the way. I do feel a little better.”

  “And you’ll feel like a new man after you get some sleep. You look like hell.”

  “If Enrique shows up with me looking like this”—he raked a hand through his hair—“I don’t stand a chance.”

  Steve stifled an inward groan and reminded himself that this breakup, which he was sure would become permanent at some point, was fresh. Zach wasn’t ready to give up yet.

  “Exactly,” Steve said, heading back to the bedroom for a cleanish shirt. When he returned, Zach was shoveling the remains of the cereal into the garbage disposal. “I’ll see you later this afternoon. Get some sleep while I’m gone. I don’t want to have to put up with a pansy ass when I get home.”

  “I’ll try.”

  *~*~*

  Almost an hour later, Steve turned his Kawasaki into Dare’s driveway, and straddling the bright green fast-as-sin motorcycle, he pressed the intercom button to be let inside the gate.

  “Do I know you?” Dare’s voice came through the speaker.

  “Depends on if you need a new vacuum cleaner.” Did door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesmen still exist? Steve wasn’t sure.

  “I do, as a matter of fact. I hope it’s ridiculously overpriced.”

  The gate rattled open, and Steve revved his engine and took off with a rush of speed and the accompanying adrenaline.

  Logan had turned him on to dirt bikes almost a decade ago, but while his friend liked to jump the damned things and jar the shit out of his knees and hips, Steve just liked to go fast, so he’d eventually opted for a street bike and healthier knees. The front tire popped off the ground as he cranked the accelerator. And soon after it touched down, the back tire bounced up as he braked hard and came to a sudden stop at the front door.

  “Show-off,” Dare said.

  “Just blowing off a little steam.”

  “I figured you’d do that on Guitar Island.”

  “You mean Dick Island?”

  Dare shook his head and turned back into the foyer of his ridiculously huge mansion.

  “Where’s your butler today?” Steve asked. He’d always thought it was stupid that Dare had an honest-to-God butler, but Dare did need someone to take care of the ridiculously huge mansion when he was away. Apparently his housekeeper, pool boy, and gardener couldn’t handle the task alone. At least Harold was Dare’s only live-in servant. Steve couldn’t have fit Dare’s hired help inside his house, but he was more than okay with that. Steve also couldn’t fit a car in the small shed he used as a garage, hence, an extra benefit of having a motorcycle.

  “He’s on vacation while I’m home.”

  Steve crossed the threshold into the crisp, air-conditioned foyer that was all marble and opulent furnishings. He was pretty sure that one painting was an authentic Degas and the chandelier, real crystal.

  “Then who wipes your ass after you take a shit?” Steve asked

  “That’s why I invited you over.”

  “Am I the first one here?” If so, that was weird, because Steve, as usual, was at least ten minutes late, and Max was more punctual than an atomic clock school bell.

  “Max has been here for several hours showing me spreadsheets.”

  Dare picked a corridor off to the left of the foyer. Steve was used to heading to the right wing of the house where the music studio was located. He knew that the kitchen and entertaining area were straight ahead, but he’d probably been down the left hall only once. He didn’t even remember what rooms were located in this direction.

  “Sounds like a blast,” Steve said. “Sorry I missed it.”

  “He’s not dealing with this well. Maybe you should consider not tormenting him today.”

  But where was the fun in that? “I’ll try to keep my I-told-you-so’s to a minimum.” Mostly because he didn’t want to piss Max off so much he decided to side with Sam no matter what he’d done just so he was in disagreement with Steve. It had been known to happen. “Did Logan make it in?”

  “He’s on his way. Jordan sure is earning her paycheck this month. How many flights has she done for you just this weekend?” Dare asked, his passive-aggressive way of telling Steve to knock it the fuck off.

  They passed several guest bedrooms on their way down the long hall, footsteps echoing off polished marble.

  Steve shrugged. “A few.”

  Dare lifted his brows.

  “More like six,” Steve admitted. “But it was for a good cause.”

  “Your libido?”

  For his heart, actually, but he said, “Yep.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. We’re playing at Sed’s reception this weekend, so don’t wander too far from town. We’ll need to rehearse.”

  “Sed’s wedding reception? Why the fuck would we do that?” He liked the lead singer of Sinners just fine, but was a little surprised he’d even been invited to the wedding. He didn’t know Sed all that well.

  “Trey asked, and I told him we’d do it.”

  That explained everything. Trey had his big brother wrapped securely around his little finger.

  At the far end of the hall—which was starting to remind Steve of that lengthening hotel hallway from some horror film—Dare slid open a pair of twelve-foot-high wooden pocket doors to reveal a den larger than Steve’s entire house, including the yard. The mahogany woodwork gleamed from floor to thirty-foot ceiling. A balcony ran the perimeter of the room adjacent to shelves stuffed full of books. Steve’s jaw dropped. He would have remembered the gorgeous room if he’d ever been in it. It looked like some library from an exclusive private school. Max sat at an enormous round table in the center of the room. He looked up when they entered, and his hand immediately crumpled the page resting beneath his palm as he made an agitated fist.

  Not dealing with it well, was that how Dare had put it? The guy looked like he was about to climb out of his skin and use the discarded casing as a noose.

  “Hey,” Steve greeted. There was no way he was goading Max today. Wow.

  “Did Logan arrive yet?” Max asked, glancing at the open door behind them.

  “He’s on his way,” Dare said. “Should be landing within the next half hour.”

  Max looked slightly ill and then beckoned Steve to sit beside him. “I’ll get you up to speed while we wait.”

  Steve refused to point out that it would make more sense to wait for Logan and explain everything to them both at the same time, but yeah, whatever Max wanted at the moment was okay with him.

  Steve settled into a heavy upholstered chair and tried to pay attention.

  “It started off small,” Max said, shuffling through papers until he found the one he was looking for. “The year we signed with the label and were given the opportunity to work with Sam Baily.”

  They’d all been excited to work with Sam in the beginning. He’d had good success getting several hair bands in the 80s and grunge bands in the 90s to the top of the charts, but everyone thought that metal was a dying genre. Exodus End had proven the naysayers wrong. Steve had to admit that Sam played a part in their initial success. As a publicity wizard, Sam had helped them get recognized.

  “So this was set up so royalties are deposited directly into a common account. After we pay all band expenses, including tours, employees, instruments and equipment, jet fuel”—Max’s sidelong glare said Steve had been using an unfair share of fuel that weekend—“Etc., etc., the remaining money is divided equally between the four of us.”

  Steve vaguely remembered deciding that setup was the fair way to handle income. He nodded.

  “So here’s the balance sheet for our first year, the numbers we were given—our gross income, deducted expenses, the royalties we were eventually paid.”

  “Like a partnership.” It was all coming back to Steve now. Max had fretted about all these details from the beginning, making sure no one got screwed over and that the band was treated like a business. Steve had agreed at the time just to get him to sh
ut up, but now that he was older and wiser, he could see that Max had been looking out for more than just himself by drawing up articles of incorporation. He’d been looking out for all of them.

  “Exactly. The auditor ran all the numbers and then ran them again and then again, and this was what he came up with as the figure for reported expenses.”

  Max flipped another page in front of him. Steve’s eyes widened. “That’s a ten-thousand-dollar difference.” Exactly ten thousand dollars.

  Max snorted. “We’re just getting started. The discrepancy goes up every year.”

  “Who controls the expense account?”

  “Our manager,” Max said, eyes narrowing.

  “Oh.”

  “Our gross royalties go up every year.” He flipped pages in front of Steve in rapid succession. “And that discrepancy goes up along with it. This was at the peak of our career.”

  Steve’s jaw dropped. “Seven million dollars!”

  Dare crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the table beside Steve. “And we didn’t notice, because we were bringing home fat stacks then.”

  “Now we’re in a decline,” Max said. “And the discrepancy shrinks. A lot. I think he was starting to worry that we’d catch on.”

  “You’re sure Sam is taking the money.”

  “Not for himself. Not all of it. Our auditor got his hands on Tradespar West’s books too. Small-time bands with not enough royalties to pay their expenses have money appearing out of nowhere.”

  “So he took money from us to help other musicians.” That wasn’t so bad. Steve didn’t need the cash, and he knew how hard other musicians struggled in the business.

  Max slammed his fist on the table. “Exactly! Can you believe this shit?”

  Oh, that was what he was mad about. Steve put on a stern face. If it got rid of Sam, he could pretend it pissed him off too. If Sam had been using the cash to buy his ridiculous shoes, that was one thing, but if it was too help fellow musicians succeed, Steve felt differently about the situation. Would Baroquen have gotten a deal if Sam hadn’t fiddled with the books a little? Or rather, a lot?

  “I’ve known he was a weasel for a long time,” Steve said. “This just proves it’s all about dollars for him.”

  “Our dollars,” Max bellowed. “No one fucking steals from me and gets away with it.”

  “Right.” Steve nodded. “I wonder if they’re even reporting the right royalties.”

  “Not for the past three years. The bastard started skimming from the top instead of the bottom when our record sales declined.”

  “He’s been taking a higher percentage of ticket sales as well,” Dare said. “I thought it was weird that the ticket prices had been raised and we’re still selling out stadiums, yet we’re seeing lower profits.”

  Dare was the financial wizard of the band. Why hadn’t he caught on to this series of scams sooner? Because Dare was a trusting bastard, that was why. It was very hard to get on Dare’s bad side. Steve’s distrust of Sam had always been personal. He couldn’t stand a guy who put money-making above every other consideration, including creative license, the personal lives of the band, and the happiness of the fans.

  “What are we going to do?” Steve asked, preparing his foot to kick Sam’s ass out the door and into the gutter where he belonged.

  “We’ll decide when Logan gets here,” Dare said, ever the diplomat.

  “How much does he owe us?” Steve asked. “If he pays it, we can’t take him to court.” And that was what Steve preferred even over a simple return of funds—to get the jerk out of the business entirely. But what would happen to all those less popular bands who couldn’t afford to fund their own tours? If Exodus End got some of their money back, maybe they could sponsor up-and-comers out of their pocket. They’d probably been doing that for years already without knowing it, and Steve had everything he needed. Why not help out struggling musicians?

  “Going on thirty million,” Dare said.

  Steve blinked. That couldn’t be right. “He won’t be able to pay that.” Steve clenched a victory fist under the table. This guy was so screwed. They were going to drag his name through the mud in an ugly legal battle. They wouldn’t have to resort to fabricating stories in some stupid tabloid to make him look bad, not like Sam and Bianca had done to Steve and his bandmates, including poor Reagan.

  “He better fucking pay it,” Max said. “Plus interest.”

  His jaw was held in such a tight line, Steve feared it would shatter.

  “We should have had an audit done years ago,” Dare said. He shook his head. “I completely dropped the ball on that.”

  “No blame lies with you, man,” Max said. “It’s all Sam.”

  A loud whine blew over the house, announcing Logan’s arrival. When they weren’t using the jet, it was kept on Dare’s private landing strip. It was no wonder that the guy didn’t notice a measly seven or eight million of his dollars missing. Even Steve hadn’t noticed.

  “Wait,” Steve said. “If we do get reimbursed, will Bianca be entitled to a cut?”

  She’d taken him to the cleaners in the divorce, but some of that missing income had been made while they’d been married.

  “If so, she won’t be entitled to much,” Dare said. “The big chunks were taken after you divorced.”

  Steve released a relieved breath. He hadn’t minded her getting a large settlement in the divorce as, at the time, he’d still loved her, but he was past that now. She continued to be a thorn in his side all these years later, and, frankly, he no longer cared if she couldn’t pay her credit cards or if her Mercedes got repossessed.

  “Does this mean you’re finally going to move out of that tiny hovel you call a house?” Max asked.

  “I’ll never leave Venice Beach,” he said. Unless it was to be closer to Roux. He wondered how she’d deal with the news of seed money for her band coming illegally from Exodus End’s royalties. He hoped Baroquen weren’t mixed up in this mess. He wanted them to succeed even if it was at his expense. They deserved their time in the spotlight.

  “It’s a cool place to visit,” Dare mused.

  “Are you putting on airs, Mills?” Steve lifted his brows. “Don’t want to rub elbows with the common folk?”

  “That’s not it. Venice Beach is just . . . busy.”

  Dare was a solitary creature by design and by choice. He’d likely never leave his walled-in, gated mansion or his distant private island if he had a say in the matter. And he didn’t have a say, because Exodus End would not exist without their talented lead guitarist.

  “We won’t have to cancel the tour, will we?” Steve asked.

  Max went still, his face slightly ashen. “I-I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  Steve knew the only thing Max loved more than cash due was the stage’s spotlight.

  Logan arrived not long after, and, as always, accompanied by Toni.

  “Not to be rude, but she can’t be here,” Max said.

  “Why not? I’m going to marry her someday.”

  Toni flushed prettily and pushed her glasses up her nose with the back of one wrist.

  “Because we have a nondisclosure agreement on this crap,” Steve said, “and we aren’t going to fuck up this opportunity to destroy Sam Baily because of some lame technicality.” He shifted his gaze to Toni. “Why don’t you explore Dare’s mansion? We’ll try to find you when we’re done here. You might want to leave a trail of breadcrumbs.”

  “Is your groupie girl here?” Toni asked.

  What groupie girl? Oh, she still thought Roux was his groupie when the opposite was closer to the truth.

  “Nah. Why would I bring her?” Steve shrugged as if thoughts of the woman in question weren’t currently tugging at him in all sorts of uncomfortable places.

  “You seemed to like her pretty well.”

  “I like all my groupies.” And as much as he liked Toni, he didn’t like being questioned by someone with ties—even if indirect—to a damned tabl
oid.

  Logan pulled Toni aside, kissed her for an obscenely long time, and whispered to her. She smiled brightly and nodded, then left through the set of monstrous pocket doors. Logan slid them closed behind her.

  “Does she always do your bidding?” Steve asked as Logan settled into the chair next to him.

  “Putty in my hands. I told her to make me a sandwich.”

  “And she wasn’t offended?” Dare asked.

  “She likes taking care of me. And I like taking care of her.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “In the bedroom.”

  Steve rolled his eyes. He seriously doubted Toni was making Logan a damned sandwich. Then again, she was a bit of an odd duck. A sweet, loving, and sensitive duck, but definitely odd.

  “What’s this meeting about?” Logan asked. “And why was it important enough to ruin my much-needed vacation?”

  “Bassists don’t need vacations,” Steve teased, because he just couldn’t resist. “All they do is play one note repeatedly. Hell, they can’t even handle a full six strings.” That earned Steve a kick to the shin, but he loved giving Logan a hard time.

  “Someone—most likely Sam—has been embezzling money from our account since we signed on with our label twelve years ago,” Max said, righteous anger flushing over his face once more. “And more recently, our royalties have been underreported.”

  “Don’t forget about ticket sale profits,” Dare said.

  Steve’s phone vibrated in his pocket as a text message was delivered. Roux? Maybe Zach, though Steve hoped he was sleeping. Everyone else likely to text him was in the room. Already bored with Max’s repeated spiel, Steve pushed his chair back. “Can you draw me a map to the nearest toilet?” he asked Dare.

  “Second, no, third door on the right. Or use any of the guest room on-suite bathrooms.”

  “Just how many bathrooms does this place have?” Steve asked.

  “Nine, I think.” Dare shrugged.

  Nine? The dude had probably never used most of them.

  “Don’t make a decision on Sam Baily’s annihilation until I get back,” Steve said.

  Max lifted a hand to let him know he’d been heard, as he continued to show a bewildered Logan his never-ending stack of spreadsheets.