Play it cool, Steve. Play. It. Cool.
He had other things to deal with anyway. Like whatever information Butch had to share with him.
As the first person out of the limo, Steve had no one blocking his way as he hurried up the bus steps and to the back lounge. He took his phone out to see if the battery was drained or if he’d silenced the device by mistake. Nope. And no missed call from Roux. What the fuck? Did she not understand that he needed to talk to her about . . . well, about anything.
Focus, Steve. Focus.
His gaze landed on the copy of American Inquirer that contained the story that had broken his biggest dirty little secret—the existence of his second wife, Meredith. They’d parted on good terms—after less than a full day of marriage—agreeing that an annulment was the best solution to their drunken visit to a Las Vegas wedding chapel. He hadn’t seen her since, but the tabloid had made him out to be a villain, naturally, who’d taken advantage of a young woman’s starstruck gullibility.
Steve’s eyes narrowed at the irritating paper. Ah, yes. That was where he needed to concentrate his attention. Not on the irresistible mix of fire and ice that complicated Roux Williams. If she was too busy to call him, fine. He didn’t give a fuck. He had plenty of women to keep him occupied. Steve shoved his phone back into a pocket and picked up the tabloid. He scanned a single headline about the newest member of their band, Reagan Elliot, crinkled his nose in disgust, and tossed the paper back on the low table in front of the sectional sofa.
Steve needed to get to the bottom of this thing with Bianca and her dick-grabbing sister, Tamara. Or Susan. Or whatever moniker that horrid woman was going by these days. He sat casually on the semi-circular sofa and waited for everyone to get on the bus before he called out, “Reagan. Toni. I need you two back with me here pronto.”
“They’re both taken,” Logan said. “No threesome for you, Aimes.”
Steve wasn’t interested in either woman, though he had to admit Reagan was one of the sexiest women he’d ever encountered. She was doubly taken—every night, as far as he knew—by Trey Mills and her brawny bodyguard, whose name escaped Steve at the moment. Steve had written off tapping that sweet ass weeks ago.
Currently lacking in patience for bullshit—why the hell hadn’t Roux called him yet?—he settled one ankle on the opposite knee and waited for Toni and Reagan to finish teasing Logan about their potential interest in a threesome with Steve. Toni eventually came to sit beside him, and Butch entered the room behind a befuddled-looking Reagan. He was carrying his trusty clipboard and wearing a grim expression.
“So what did you find out about Bianca and Susan?” Toni asked Steve.
Steve couldn’t take any credit, so he didn’t. “I put Butch in charge of finding out more about this tabloid.” He picked up the trashy rag and shook it.
“You were supposed to find out,” Reagan said. “Not put Butch on it.”
“What’s the point of having a lackey if you don’t boss him around?”
Besides, there was no way in hell that Steve would voluntarily speak to Bianca. Every time he did, he wondered if they should try to get back together, because as shitty as she’d treated him in the end, the rest of their relationship had been pretty fucking terrific. And though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, he sometimes missed her. A lot. He also wouldn’t admit that the entire reason he’d married Meredith in Vegas was because she looked and acted so much like Bianca. He couldn’t claim the same about Roux, though. She looked nothing like his ex and was about as far from her in temperament as a person could be. So what was with the instant attraction? Steve gave himself a mental shake. Now was not the time let Roux—or her refusal to call him immediately—command his thoughts.
“I heard that,” Butch said, writing on his clipboard. “No supper for Steve.”
Steve knew the punishment would never stick. Butch loved every member of Exodus End like a son. Spoiled-rotten sons.
“So what did you find out, Butch?” Toni asked, looking cloyingly sweet in her nerdy glasses and tight sweater. The chick had tits for miles. He tried his best not to stare at Logan’s territory, but it was a constant struggle.
“Not much,” Butch said. “American Inquirer has only been on stands for a few months, which I guess is good for us, because its circulation is relatively low for a tabloid.”
“That is good news,” Toni said, nodding eagerly. As the person indirectly responsible for the entire mess—it had been her snooping notes about the band that had been stolen to fill the pages—she probably wanted the whole situation to be shoved under the nearest rug and forgotten.
“With some digging, I found out American Inquirer is actually owned by a business conglomerate. Tradespar West.”
Steve’s heart skipped a beat. Un-fucking-believable. He slammed his fist on the table, wishing it was their record label’s face—if record labels had a face. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Butch shook his head. “I wish I were.”
Of all the crazy coincidences. Steve didn’t believe such twists of fate existed. Maybe this was the evidence Max needed to finally drop their label once and for all.
“Max!” Steve yelled. “Get your record-label-ass-kissing self in here.”
“What’s going on?” Reagan asked.
“Yeah, I don’t get it,” Toni said. “What’s Tradespar West?”
Steve snorted. “They’re a vast network of entrepreneurs who own all sorts of companies, most of them in the entertainment industry. Movie studios, a publisher or two, agents, production companies, advertising giants, a modeling agency, I guess a tabloid now, and most importantly, our record label. Max!” he yelled.
“Do you have to be so noisy?” Max stood in the doorway massaging one temple.
Maybe he did. Not that it mattered. Max never listened to him no matter how loud he became, not even when Steve was right and their self-proclaimed band leader was wrong. Which was most of the time.
“You know that tabloid that published all those bullshit stories about us last week?” Steve asked.
“And this week,” Reagan added.
“Not really,” Max said.
“Guess who owns them?” Steve asked.
“You?”
This gem would wipe the smug out of Max. “Tradespar West.”
Max crossed his arms and shrugged. “So?”
Or not.
“So?” Was he a goddamned idiot or what? Couldn’t Max let go of his pride for the greater good of their band for a single second? Steve jumped to his feet and pushed a crumpled page of the tabloid toward Max’s chest. “Don’t you see what this is?”
Max glanced at the paper. “A page from a tabloid.”
Was he dumb or just playing dumb? Surely Max could see that they’d all been played. “A publicity stunt. I bet you every article in these pages is about stars connected with Tradespar in some way.”
“Every star is connected to Tradespar in some way,” Max said, looking entirely unaffected by the bombshell that had just dropped. “Directly or indirectly.”
“But if that’s true, then why have they been so focused on Exodus End?” Toni asked.
There was only one obvious answer to that.
“Because,” Steve said, “our record sales have leveled off over the years, and they’re looking for ways to increase sales.” And the only thing record labels cared about was dollar signs.
“And making our temporary rhythm guitarist out to be a whore sells albums,” Max said, glancing at Reagan. “Is that what you think?”
Reagan’s unconventional romantic life was a huge rag seller; Steve had no doubt about that. But there was a deeper connection here. He could practically taste it.
“There’s something suspicious about all this,” Steve said. “Don’t you think?”
“I think you’re paranoid,” Max said.
And no amount of logical discussion would sway Max into admitting that their record label was involved in shady business
that affected them either directly or indirectly, but maybe if Steve got Max involved with trying to sort this shit out, he’d see the light, and they could cut ties from the corruption of big business once and for all. Steve knew they could be successful on their own. They didn’t need a record label or a manager to tell them what the fuck to do.
After several minutes of arguing, Max asked, “So what do you want me to do about this tabloid situation?”
A spark of hope. Steve could scarcely believe Max was finally willing to cooperate. Unbelievable as it sounded, Steve was tired of hearing himself talk about the issue. He wanted some fucking resolution to their problems. He’d been spinning his wheels for years and getting absolutely nowhere.
“Ask Sam what he’s up to,” Steve said. “Ten bucks says he’s behind this entire thing.” Because like their record label, their manager only saw them as a paycheck with lots of digits.
“I’ll ask him,” Max said. “Not sure why you think he’ll admit to anything.”
“Because he likes you,” Steve said. “He thinks the rest of us are a bunch of idiots, but you’re his best pal. He trusts you.”
“What are you guys talking about back here?” Logan asked from the doorway.
“Steve’s continued search for a reason to cut loose from our record label,” Max said before leaving the room.
“We don’t need a reason!” Steve called after him. “But we have millions of them,” he said under his breath. He’d never been a patient man, and he was resolved to get to the bottom of this mess with or without Max’s help. He might even have to break his personal commitment to avoid Bianca for the rest of his life. How had her tabloid ended up under the umbrella of Tradespar West? Was it her tabloid? Her idea? Or was she just the head editor? The easiest way to find out would be to call her and ask.
Which reminded him that Roux hadn’t called yet.
He checked his phone one last time before shoving it aside and concentrating on what was important at the moment—winning a decade-long argument with Maximillian Richardson. Steve promised himself he would prevail. Roux’s ignoring him only added fuel to his fire.
*~*~*
It had been days—days—since Exodus End had left behind New York and the stubborn female who still hadn’t contacted Steve via his personal and usually coveted number. He hadn’t yet found the gumption to quiz Bianca about her involvement with Sam, Tradespar West and the stupid tabloid, and Zach—Steve’s lover, according to the same stupid tabloid—had been particularly vocal about Steve’s cowardice. Not that Steve found that surprising. Zach knew him better than anyone and wasn’t afraid to kick him in the proverbial—or literal—ass when he needed it.
Zach was a little moody because the tour was set to wrap up in a couple of days, and he was convinced this was the end of his glory days. Plus, his boyfriend was a jackass, and giving him the runaround. Not to be outdone, Steve was very moody because he’d figured out the thing that must be keeping Roux from calling him was the continued tour. As soon as he was on break, he was certain she’d call. So, because neither guy was in the mood for a big after-party tonight, the two of them had ventured off to a local bar to brood in shared misery.
“What do you think Bianca is going to do to you if you call her?” Zach asked. He took a swig of his beer before adding, “What can she do to you that she hasn’t already done?”
Steve scrubbed his face with both hands. Despite popular opinion, he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. Just thinking about talking to Bianca after years of no contact made it hard for him to breathe.
“I’m not sure I’m over her.”
Zach coughed and scratched his eyebrow. “How can you not be over her? She destroyed you.”
And the effects were long-lived. Bianca had probably been over him for a solid five years. Steve was the one who could not move on. He might have been able to finally get over her if Roux had bothered to call him, but no. The one woman he’d been willing to take a chance on, the one woman who had gotten under his skin, wasn’t interested, as she’d told him several times in their short acquaintance. The problem was that he hadn’t believed her. Still didn’t, in all honesty. She’d cave eventually.
“Bianca didn’t destroy me.” Lie. Steve dipped his finger in his whiskey. His stomach wasn’t strong enough for alcohol at the moment, so maybe he could absorb the mind-numbing whiskey through his skin.
“She did something to you. Why else would you be sitting here with me instead of accepting that pretty brunette’s open invitation?” Zach inclined his head toward the woman at the bar who repeatedly glanced at Steve and smiled.
Not accepting that invitation had very little to do with Bianca and a whole lot to do with a certain redhead he couldn’t get out of his thoughts.
“Maybe instead of calling her, you should go see her,” Zach said.
Steve’s heart rate ticked up at the thought of seeing Roux. “I should have gotten her number. That was stupid of me. Butch insists he can’t get it, but I think he’s punishing me for arguing with Max. The asshole.”
“If you can’t locate her, all you have to do is show up at her office. You know where she works.”
Steve rubbed his tight forehead. Had Roux mentioned where she worked? He couldn’t recall. “I do?”
“Uh, the American Inquirer.” Zach rapped on Steve’s forehead with his bony knuckles. “Earth to Steve. How much pot did you smoke tonight?”
Oh. Zach was talking about going to see Bianca, not Roux. What a buzzkill.
“I don’t want to see her.”
“I’ll go with you,” Zach said. “The tour is almost over. God knows I don’t have anything better to do.”
“I’d rather go to New York.”
“To see that woman responsible for the destruction of Twisted Element?”
“She isn’t—”
“I’m joking. Don’t get so fucking defensive. I know it’s not her fault.”
Steve couldn’t help but feel guilty. Even though Zach was cool with how things had turned out, Steve was not. He’d never forgive Sam for kicking Twisted Element off the tour without consulting anyone. It was one thing to fuck with Steve and his career and his money, but an entirely new level of suck to do the same to his brother from another mother.
“How about this idea?” Zach said, leaning closer to keep his words secret. “You go see Bianca and get your shit straightened out with her and her stupid fucking tabloid and her dick-grabbing sister”—yes, Zach knew all of Steve’s secrets—“and then, as a reward, you head to New York to figure out why Red hasn’t called you.”
Steve couldn’t help but laugh. He’d barely mentioned Roux to Zach, but the fact that he’d mentioned her at all made it very clear to his best-friend-since-forever that he was interested. Far more interested than he was in the brunette who was slowly stroking the side of her bare thigh while she sent him seductive glances.
“We didn’t have much time to live it up in New York,” Steve said. “Sounds fun.”
“We? You want me to third-wheel your romance?” Zach gave him a sidelong glance. “What’s gotten into you?”
“You’re never a third wheel.” He poked Zach in the side. “Spare tire, maybe.”
Zach ran a hand over his perfectly flat belly. He never did get the level of ab definition that Steve pulled off—and they did the exact same workout—but there was no extra flab on him.
“Is that why the ladies don’t look at me like that?” He nodded toward the brunette who was now hiking her skirt a few inches higher. “I work out.”
“It’s probably the blaring wail of their gaydar keeping them at bay.”
“And your overbearing heterosexuality keeps all the guys away, so I get no action.”
“That’s a tragedy,” Steve said, swirling his finger in his whiskey and lifting it to his mouth for a tiny taste to test if his stomach was ready for a gulp. He knew Zach didn’t want any action. At least not with anyone but his current boyfriend, Enrique—an up-and-coming film a
ctor who was determined to keep his personal life out of the spotlight. Enrique liked that the world thought there was something going on between Steve and Zach. It took some of the pressure off him, and he knew Steve was no threat for Zach’s romantic affection. Steve’s love for Zach was deeper than the ocean, but purely platonic.
“Let’s get out of here,” Steve said, shoving his glass toward the center of the table. “I’m not in the mood for the bar scene tonight.”
Zach tapped his forehead. “I wonder if we could figure out how to get Roux’s number on our own. There is this thing called the Internet.”
Steve stood and tossed a few large bills on the table. “You don’t think I googled her?” Because he had.
“And?”
“Their band is surprisingly good at keeping personal information separate from their stage personas.” Steve wished Exodus End was good at that. And there were no listings for Roux Williams anywhere in New York.
“So you have no clues. Nothing she talked about that might give you a hint as to her whereabouts.”
Zach chugged down Steve’s abandoned whiskey before following him toward the door.
“I know she was raised by a foster mother in Boston. All the women in her band were.” But he’d searched for Roux Williams in Boston directories too. No matches. He’d even tried a few different spellings. It was as if her real name wasn’t Roux.
“Sounds like something a local paper might pick up on and publish as a special interest story.”
Steve slapped Zach on the back. Brilliant. Steve should have tried looking her up through her family connections. “I don’t know why I asked Reagan’s ex-cop boyfriend to dig up dirt on Sam. I should have asked you, Sherlock.”
“I don’t like to dig up dirt. I just think it’s time you found yourself a decent partner, and not a single woman has turned your head except this Roux. So even if you’re timid enough to let her get away, I’m not.”
“Timid?” Oh, those were fighting words.
Staged (Exodus End World Tour, #3) Page 9