Lux and Lies (Whitebird Chronicles Book 1)

by Meg Collett

  “We’re doing the best we can.”

  “Shut up, Bode. Don’t even get me started on your inadequacies. We’d be here all damn day. Listen to me, Wren. You get your tight ass planted in front of Foster. Confront him about the tour. Use your freaking super-powered observational skills to observe him. If he so much as blinks, tell me he’s our man.”

  Wren wasn’t implicating anyone without solid proof, not after the Kruz debacle. Thankfully, the Foster thing had shifted focus away from Kruz, but it had been close. Bode had information on Kruz’s family in Denmark that Wren guessed he hadn’t obtained legally. Leverage, he’d called it.

  Foster creeped Wren out, but he deserved more than a scapegoat status.

  “He won’t reveal anything on set. He’s too good for that, and if he’s afraid of Sloane, I won’t be able to get anything out of him one on one. I should check his room.” She’d been mulling the idea over for a couple days while working up the courage to mention it.

  Hazen paused, mouth open. “His room? Why the hell would you do that?”

  “If he’s connected to the Whitebirds, he might have something in there. It makes sense.”

  “Really? It makes sense? You think that doped-up rockstar has a freaking Whitebird banner hanging on his wall? There are cameras in there filming him around the clock!”

  Wren pinched the bridge of her nose like Hutton often did when she had to explain something so simple. “I know. Correct me if I’m wrong, but bedroom footage filmed from the mounted cameras is only looked through by late-night associate producers who are too busy napping or gossiping to really watch every second. Foster might know this. If he has Whitebird connections, he could use his room without much trouble. Besides, those cameras only cover the bed. There are acres in the bedrooms that aren’t filmed.”

  “Is that true?” Hazen asked Bode.

  “It’s true,” Wren said, pulling Hazen’s focus back to her. “I checked.”

  “Say I think it’s a good idea.” He did, but he wouldn’t admit it because it wasn’t his. “How are you going to explain to anyone watching the footage why the hell you’re prowling through a cast member’s room? I can’t turn off the cameras without alerting suspicions.”

  This was what Wren had been working up her courage for. Her plan left her riddled with guilt. It was low. It was exactly what she’d condemned Maddox and Hazen of doing to Sloane’s image. But if she had to choose between her cure or the reputation of a dead girl, Wren knew her choice.

  Sloane was gone. Wren wasn’t.

  Bode watched her closely. She hadn’t mentioned any of this to him, and judging from his downturned mouth, he didn’t like it.

  “You said she and Foster were old serk buddies. I could pretend to be searching for serk.” Her plan rendered the brothers unusually silent. Even Hazen appeared stunned at her proposal. She hurried on. “I know we set up Sloane as recovering with the detox—”

  “No,” Hazen said, “you set that up. Hutton told you not to speak of it.”

  He had her there. “We could have Sloane slip a little. Maybe set up a fight with Roman. Maddox had us film a generic one last week, so maybe Sloane is desperate after their argument and searches through Foster’s stuff. Even if the cameras follow me in there, I’ll have an excuse. Afterward, we can get Sloane on the straight and narrow again.”

  “We don’t need to worry about her getting back on the wagon.”

  Wren recoiled. “Why not?”

  “Do it,” Hazen said, ignoring her question, “before the live show. We can’t let the Whitebirds get in another attack, not with this Muja business going on. Don’t comm me until it’s done. I don’t want to hear more excuses. If you don’t have something for me by Sloane’s birthday, I’ll seriously reconsider my generous offer to cure you, Wren.”

  The phone went dark. He’d hung up.

  His threat didn’t bother her—he’d dealt it out too many times lately for it to even register—but she remembered something she’d forgotten in the chaos. After the red carpet, when Hutton was yelling at her for explaining Sloane’s detox to the reporters, Hutton had mentioned something about Maddox’s plan for Sloane, but she’d been cut off by their arrival to the set and the rush to get on with the live show.

  Hazen didn’t care about the portrayal of Sloane’s recovery, and Hutton had said Maddox had a plan. Sloane’s birthday was this Friday, only three days away. The birthday episode would air on Saturday, right before the live show to bring in record viewers. It was going to be a huge event.

  Wren had a very, very bad feeling in her stomach.

  : : :

  The day of Sloane’s birthday had started with a long group film on the balcony. Wren was sunburnt and smelling of coconut tanning lotion, and her bikini had started chafing hours ago. The cast had drunk heavily under the guise of celebrating Sloane’s birthday and had alternated between fighting and making out with each other. Vik had been in Foster’s face all day, and the twins, both topless and sporting waist-long extensions, had been plastered all over a blushing, fumbling Kruz.

  Beau had been instructed not to drink, though he did. Luckily for everyone, he was practiced at functioning when utterly blitzed. Roman and Wren were the only sober ones.

  It was the perfect opportunity to snoop in Foster’s room. It was also Wren’s final day to give Hazen the information he needed on Foster.

  With everyone still outside, Wren went upstairs on the pretense of needing a bathroom break. She didn’t bother with the black hallways since she wouldn’t have access to Foster’s room from that side, but the front door to every cast member’s room was always unlocked.

  The floor was empty. With one last check over her shoulder, Wren entered Foster’s room.

  The door snicked closed behind her, and she hit the lights. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Foster’s room had been designed for sex. The bed occupied the middle of the room like a cornucopia filled with tasty treats. Black satin sheets and velvet pillows graced the top. The headboard was a loose weave of heavy wrought-iron mesh. A pair of handcuffs dangled from one corner.

  Wren fought back a gag and turned to the desk. The rest of the room was like hers, bane and orderly, confirming her discovery that the mounted cameras were only trained on the bed.

  Time to perform, she thought. I’m sorry, Sloane. Don’t watch if you’re up there.

  She feverishly moved through the room; she’d seen her father search for the last can of beer often enough to know what desperation for a fix looked like. She darted glances at the camera, as if worried about being caught, while she searched the desk drawers. They were full of nothing. Literally empty. Allowing her frustration to telegraph through her movements, Wren moved to the dresser and flung the drawers open. She rifled through their contents with abandon, littering the floor with Foster’s clothes, his stash of sex toys, and a weighty bag of pot.

  She hadn’t realized people still smoked the vintage drug, but she shoved it into her bikini cover-up anyway. She’d moved onto the bedside dressers, working up her gumption to search beneath the bed, when the door chimed.

  Someone was coming in from the black hallway.

  She froze, heart pumping. For a second, she thought she could hide, but before she could even start toward the bathroom, the door swung open.

  Foster raised his head to find her standing by his bed, his room completely tossed. For a second, neither of them moved. The second passed, and everything clashed at once.

  Foster shouted an obscene string of curse words. Her flight instincts taking over, she threw herself over the bed and scrambled for the front door. He reacted, and the mattress bounced with his added weight. Wren fumbled for a hold. She hit the mattress chin first, biting her tongue, and Foster’s hand latched around her ankle.

  He gave an almighty jerk, and she slid over the butter-like satin sheets, right back into his hold.

  “What the fuck?” he screamed down at her. He flipped her onto her back with disarming ease. “You bitch!
”

  “Let me go!” Her hands flailed against him, and her kicks fell uselessly against the bed.

  He pinned her with his hips, her wrists locked in one of his big hands.

  “What are you doing in here?” he growled at her. His face was a dangerous shade of red, and Wren would have been terrified. She knew how a person changed right before they struck. How the resolve steeled their expression.

  But Foster showed none of it. His eyes were stretched wide, his shouted words tainted with panic, and when Wren stopped struggling, she discovered his hold on her was weak. She pulled away and scooted back across the mattress. He let her retreat.

  The pot bag fell onto the bed, and Foster’s eyes caught on it. “You’re looking for a fix? Are you serious?”

  Wren remembered her act. She hated the words, even before she said them. “Do you have any serk?”

  Foster went still. His hands fell to his sides. The rockstar was gone. “This is about serk? You were trashing my room for a hit?”

  She let her gaze slide toward the camera. Foster followed her attention.

  He laughed. “Oh, it’s too late to take it back, birthday girl.”

  “Do you have any?”

  “You freaking bitch.” Suddenly, his face changed. The panic returned. “What else were you looking for? What did you find?”

  The change was so sudden that Wren faltered. He surged toward her. She recoiled and got her arm out of his way before he could grab her. Was he hiding Whitebird evidence? Was he the insider? Did he think she’d found proof?

  She forced a cool smirk on her face, though if he examined it closely, he’d see how her mouth trembled with the effort of holding it in place. “I did. What did you think you’d get away with, Foster?”

  Set him up. Let him hang himself.

  He deflated. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he let out a long, pained groan. “It wasn’t enough?” he asked, the sound muffled against his palms. He dragged his hands down his face, the skin beneath his eyes pulling. “You had to know everything? What do you want from me, Sloane? I can’t give you anything else.”

  Wren thought fast. She needed specifics. “Did you really think no one would find out who you are? What you’ve done? This is huge.”

  “You know what? Do it. Tell everyone. I don’t care anymore. Burn my life to the ground. It’s what you’re good at, after all, but don’t think you won’t get backlash from Hazen. He won’t let this go quietly.”

  Hazen? What the heck? Her heart lurched. Was Hazen a Whitebird? Was he setting up all these “attacks” to promote the show? Maybe to garner sympathy for VidaCorp? If he was, it wasn’t working. Was Bode involved too? A family terrorist affair? What did that mean for her cure? Would they—

  “No one will care that I’m gay. If you’re trying to ruin my career, it won’t work, but Hazen will take you down for outing him.” Foster wrapped his arms around his rippled abs, his wide green eyes shimmering with tears, but he gritted his teeth and stared her down.

  She couldn’t stop the words. “You’re gay?”

  He jolted. “You didn’t know?”

  “Hazen’s gay?”

  “Wait. What? You …”

  Wren cursed enough to make Mak proud. Did she know nothing? A hysterical giggle bubbled up her throat and shoved out from between her lips. Then she snorted. She clapped a hand over her mouth. And she’d thought she was good at reading people? Maybe people in Sunshine Heights, but the celebrities in Hollywood were Link-like when it came to hiding their real selves.

  “You had no idea?” Foster tried again. “What did you find, then? Why … I thought you knew. I thought you found the videos on my tablet. I thought …”

  The camera was still recording. It was catching all of this, because Wren was on the bed. Producers would hear this. She’d inadvertently leaked Hazen’s secret—and Foster’s. She had to warn Bode before anyone watched the footage.

  “I was just looking for something to take the edge off,” she said. She forced her mind back on the right track. Foster knew nothing of the Whitebirds. If he did, the evidence wasn’t in his room. “I thought I could trick you into giving me some.”

  Foster slumped onto the bed, jostling her again. He put his head in his hands. “Everyone will know now,” he murmured. “I love him. I can’t stop myself. He’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  This was the creepy leech who’d repulsed her with his lewd advances. He lived between the twins’ legs. If his tongue wasn’t down someone’s throat, he was nursing a stiff drink. And it was all fake. Not only was Wren horrible at reading these people, she was also the worst actor here.

  Even Hazen had convinced her that Foster repulsed him.

  She fought the urge to touch his shoulder and comfort him. Sloane never would, but Wren didn’t have the heart to dice and slice like her.

  “No one will know.” There was no point in whispering. The microphones would pick up everything anyway. She’d just have to get to Bode fast enough so he could pull the footage. “Hazen will never let anyone see this footage. Your secret will be safe, if you want it to be.”

  Foster peeked at her from between the longer bits of hair falling over his face. His scruff was longer than normal, a bright red like copper. “You think?”

  “I know so. If Hazen doesn’t want it out, it won’t make the episodes, but you should make it clear to him and all the producers that this footage implicates you both equally. If this makes the episode and they somehow remove Hazen from the exchange, then bring the ship down with you.”

  Foster let out a breathy laugh. “You really know how to manipulate people, don’t you?”

  Wren hesitated. She shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t let the words go without speaking them. They weren’t Sloane’s. They were purely hers. “Foster, you shouldn’t have to hide this. No one will care if you’re gay or bi or whatever you are. Do you really enjoy dry-humping every female on set?”

  He laughed again, louder this time, sounding surer of himself. “What do you think? But the people buying my music are young girls who like to get high and rave. They want to picture fucking me while they grind to my music. That’s the image I cultivate. If I came out, my sales would crash and burn.”

  “So cultivate the image that makes you happy.”

  Foster shrugged. Then, almost belatedly, he realized who he was talking to. “Why do you care? You’ve held my serking over my head for years.”

  Honestly, screw Maddox’s plan. Screw whatever reasons Hazen had for not caring about Sloane’s recovery. This footage was never making television, and her words mattered to a human being who shouldn’t be affected by VidaCorp’s bullshit.

  “I did that,” she said, forming the words in her mind as she spoke them, “because it was easy to punish you for something I did too. I had no clue about this, though. This is different. I’d never out you on purpose.”

  Foster scoffed. “You did worse to Vik.”

  “I was a different version of myself when I did that. I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

  That, more than finding her in his room and realizing she knew nothing about his secrets, shocked Foster most. “Seriously?”

  “I’m trying. It’s all I can do.”

  Wren climbed off the bed. Foster watched her retreat to the black hallway door. She had to get to Bode. How was she going to explain this to Hazen? How would he react when he found out she knew? Did he even care about Foster’s feelings?

  More importantly, did he think so little of her that he’d thought she wouldn’t find this out while investigating Foster?

  At the door, with her hand on the handle, Foster said, “Sloane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I won’t say I like you, because I hate you. Seriously, you’re the freaking worst. But this”—he gestured between them—“wasn’t so shitty.”

  “Just keep your penis out of my face from now on and we’ll call it even.”

  He flipped her off. “Happy birthday, you old ha
g.”

  Wren returned the gesture and left his room. She didn’t have much time to find Bode and call a meeting with Hazen before she had to report to Makeup and begin the process of getting ready for her party, which was set to start in less than two hours.

  In her mind, she drew a thick line through Foster’s name on her suspect list and added another one.

  Hazen Bafford.

  28:

  Wren knocked on Hazen’s office door. His assistant’s desk was empty; everyone had gone home for the day.

  On her fourth knock, no one answered. She tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  The room was dark. Bode must have been upstairs dealing with deleting the Foster footage, and Hazen was likely caught up in an interview in some faraway state.

  The thought of telling Hazen she knew his secret left an acidic taste in her mouth.

  She hit the lights and prepared to wait. She’d been on set long enough that she now checked the corners of rooms for mounted cameras every time she stepped through a door. No cameras. Hazen’s computer sat quiet and dark on his desk. The gleaming mahogany surface was clean, except for a stack of papers.

  Papers. Wren rolled her eyes. This company was purifying the world’s water supply and they still used paper.

  Even as she had the thought, her mind supplied the answer: paper was easily destroyed. It could be burned or shredded. Information dealt through electronics was never really deleted; it was forever in the ether of the nets, discoverable with the right resources.

  Paper meant sensitive information.

  Wren circled closer to Hazen’s desk, her ears straining for any sounds coming from the other side of the door. She refused to be caught snooping again, and she doubted it would go as well as it had with Foster—if that could even be described as good.

  A yellow piece of paper was stuck to the top page. Wren couldn’t read the slanting cursive, but she assumed it was a note from Hazen’s assistant. She’d likely brought the papers in before leaving for the afternoon and forgetting to lock the office door.