"I'm Dion's stepdaughter," I said. "Well, one of them. The one that doesn't live here."
"Nikki?" she asked, and I nodded. "Mr. Davis said you would be arriving soon."
She stepped aside and I entered the ridiculous foyer. A sweeping staircase greeted me, but my mom took all the class right out of it, replacing its sedate wooden spindles with a garish etched class. There were neon lights under the bannister. Mercifully they were not on.
"Nikki," my mom called from the top of the stairs, sweeping her arms out for dramatic effect. Wearing a caftan, her long, bottle blonde hair was wild and unbrushed, like she had just rolled out of bed. Amber liquid spilled out of the rocks glass in her hand. It was barely Noon.
"Don't come down, Mom," I said, noting her wobble at the top step. "I'm late for practice."
"I know," my mother slurred. "Presley won't shut up about it. She's ready to kill you."
Then she laughed, a high pitched cackle. Not unlike the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. The Wicked Witch of Bel Air, I muttered to myself while she turned back to her bedchamber, fabric and mussed hair flowing around her.
"Mr. Davis asked that you come to the library," the maid said, beckoning me to follow.
"I'm late meeting my sisters," I said, heading for the kitchen. "Don't worry, I know the way."
"I'm sorry, miss," she said. "Mr. Davis insisted you see him first."
I slumped. The wrath of Presley would not be swift. And she would not be merciful. But when Vince Davis beckoned.... And I didn't want the maid to get reamed for my petulance.
As I followed her to the library, my eyes moved from the maid's dark hair, which was pulled into a tight bun near the nape of her neck, down to her ass. The skirt was so short that each stride made it ride up, exposing enough for me to know that she wore expensive lace underwear. Vince was probably reaming her in other ways, I snorted to myself. For my mom not to notice Vince's plaything told me her drinking was off the charts.
I ran down the list of recent family encounters in my head. Nothing stuck out to merit an audience with Vince. And that Gary Grimm was in the house added to the weirdness.
I followed her perky, lace-covered behind into Vince's library. It was the one room in the house untouched by my mother's garish tastes. The walls housed all manner of leather-bound books, making this room a favorite to my sister Jett. Not that Vince was much of a reader himself. The library was carefully curated by The Strand bookstore in New York City. Based on the number of interviews that took place in this room, I figured Vince staged it simply for press purposes. Not that it mattered to Jett. She was usually wrapped up in a blanket in a corner club chair, nose in a book.
But not today. Vince and three suits, including Grimm, who was wearing a doctor's mask over his mouth, sat at a library table at the far end of the room. The wall behind them was covered not in books but in Vince's awards —there was a smattering of Grammys, a bunch of MTV Moon Men, and an IHeartMusic award was shoved in there somewhere. He had left space for an impending Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Award. It wasn't wishful thinking—Anthem would get a nod eventually, quite possibly this year because of the tragedy of losing his son to drugs. The requisite Rolling Stone interview was already in the bag.
Every dude in that room had their eyes on the maid. I don't think they even noticed I was right behind her.
"Vince, what's up?" I asked to grab their attention. "I'm late for practice so—"
Vince stood up, his arms open as if for a hug. "Nikki!"
I stood my ground in the middle of the room. "Hi, Vince. Like I said, I'm late for practice and Presley's already not happy with me." I was not interested in playing family for the sake of his record label.
"Please, have a seat," he said, his voice dropping from faux warm to cordial. "This won't take long."
Once I slumped into a chair at the unpopulated end of the long table, one of the suits started droning on about the financial impact Kyle's death had on Rogue Nation. My fingers brushed along the table's expensive wood grain, polished to a sheen, while my ears focused on the rhythm of the suit's speech. I drummed my fingers in time to his words. Not loud, like a petulant teenager. But establishing a beat to go with words was habit by now.
Not like anyone noticed. Well, anyone except for Grimm, who pulled the mask down to his chin.
"Facts and figures are not interesting," he interrupted the bean counter. "Young lady, we'd like to offer you a job."
My fingers stopped drumming. "A job?"
"We'd like you to drum for Rogue Nation," Vince said. His smile showed off a row of perfectly capped teeth.
"You want me to drum for Rogue Nation?" I repeated like a simpleton. "Like on tour?"
"I see you're a smart cookie," Grimm said and he pulled the mask back over his face.
I shot him a dirty look. Based on the look Vince shot back me, he saw it and wasn't happy about it.
"Why would I go on tour with Rogue Nation?" I asked, leveling a pointed look at the finance drone. "Canceling the tour will wipe out the band's finances, not the label's. Bands front the costs for their own tours, remember? In fact, remind me why we have labels again?"
"We are music curators," suit number two chimed in. "We know what the public wants to listen to."
That response told me he was Rogue Nation's A&R guy. The A&R guys always believed they were more musical savvy than anyone else in the room.
"I am sure there are one hundred drummers who would love to be part of this tour," I said. "Why me?"
"Shouldn't you be flattered?" Vince spat out.
"Am I annoying you, daddy?" I shot back.
Grimm removed his mask again. "We fronted the band money for this tour. With our contracts with the venues, we stand to lose a significant amount."
My eyes went wide. "The label fronted my three stepbrothers a significant amount of money? You've met my stepbrothers, right?" Grimm actually chuckled at that, much to Vince's consternation. I continued. "And isn't what happened to Kyle considered an act of god or something?"
The bean counter cleared his throat. "Actually, the out clauses in the contract do not specify the untimely death of a band member as reason to cancel. I mean, it would if it was Dion, the front man is the face of the band after all. But the drummer? They're replaceable."
I opened my mouth to tell Bean Counter off but Grimm stepped in. "We knew while we recorded the album Kyle had problems. We knew exactly why his drum playing wasn't up to par. And that is exactly why we needed you to re-record the drum tracks after the band left the studio. So Nikki, the point is, you already know Rogue Nation's music."
"So you knew Kyle was drugging hard? Then your contracts were stupid," I said, staring the bean counter. "Contract writers are replaceable, too. Particularly shitty ones."
"He was supposed to get clean for the tour," Vince said, his voice quiet. He slumped back in his chair, his face drained of color. "He promised me."
For the first time, I noticed how exhausted he looked. Kyle's death aged him.
"With the tour scheduled to start tomorrow," Grimm continued. "Well, you see that we need someone who already knows the music."
"Besides, you are the best drummer out there, Nik. The best," the A&R guy jumped in, spreading on a thick layer of charm.
"The money's solid," Bean Counter said. "We have you at the top end of sideman per-gig fee, and that's based on union wages. Plus, we've worked in a bonus structure based on the number of tickets sold for each performance. Not to mention a very healthy per-diem while you are on the road."
He pushed a stack of papers over to me. I stared at the contract, the black and white ink blurring as I turned their offer over in my mind. The men's expectant looks faded with each tick-tock of the antique Grandfather clock in the corner.
I pushed the papers back to towards them. "This isn't the deal I want."
Bean Counter's mouth dropped open. "This is the most contract I've ever seen written for a novice drummer land."
"What do you
want, then?" Grimm asked.
"Satan's Sisters goes out on tour as the opening act," I said, adding quickly. "And Grimm Records covers our tour costs. In addition to this side woman deal for playing for Rogue."
"You're out of your mind," Bean Counter roared. "Labels do not cover tour costs—"
I interrupted him. "Hey, you're the shitty contract writer who covered my stepbrothers' tour costs. And I expect Satan's Sisters to get favored nations treatment, or there is no deal."
"You're not even on the label," A&R guy said, his voice rising. Of course he panicked. Favored nations meant Grimm Records had to match every single payout—and cover every single cost—just like Rogue Nation had written in their contract.
"And we don't want to be on the label," I said. "No offense, Mr. Grimm. Your A&R department is pretty pedestrian. Not exactly taking any musical risks these days."
"I suspect you are probably right, young lady," Grimm said, getting to his feet. "Miss Benson, you have a deal. Satan's Sisters are on tour as the opening act, we foot the bill. You get your side woman salary. Write it up, gentleman. And good day."
He gave everyone at the table curt nod before turning his attention back to me. "Young lady, will you do me the honor of walking me to the door."
I got to my feet and matched Grimm's brisk pace. "I've been at this game for a long time," he said. "And I don't think I've ever met someone with quite as much moxie."
"Is that a compliment, Mr. Grimm?" I asked.
"You're more than a skilled drummer," he said. "You have talent. And that is a compliment. However, you are taking advantage of an unfortunate situation."
"My stepbrother's death," I said.
"Yes," he responded. "And I just want to make sure you are aware how I feel about that."
"I saw exactly how you felt with the parade of reporters you invited to his funeral," I snapped.
He put a frail arm loosely around my shoulders, his voice low. "You're a savvy young woman. You know why we had to do that."
"Yup, I know you are marketing the tragedy for all it's worth. And now you need to capitalize on that work. Because footing the bill for their tour was a huge miscalculation."
"I beg to differ," he said.
"Mr. Grimm, you and I both know that Rogue Nation is a mid-list band at best that will not be the hit machine that Anthem was for your label."
"And how do you know this, Miss Benson?"
"I grew up around failed musicians, not successful ones," I said, thinking about my own father, now working as a plumber somewhere in Maine. "That gives me a very different perspective."
"You know what, Miss Benson, I believe I will sign your band by the end of this tour," he said, his rheumy gray eyes twinkled. "Welcome to the Grimm family."
CHAPTER THREE
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dion roared. He paced along expensive Aubusson carpet in the library before coming to a stop in front of me. "Why do we have to take Pamela's little brats out on tour with us? Haven't we shared enough with them?"
"You can take that up with your manager," I said, nodding towards his dad Vince, who vexed me with his silence on the whole matter.
"What about us?" Jett chimed in. "I'll have to drop out of this semester at UCLA."
"Hey Ginger, you just got handed the opportunity of a lifetime," Rafe scoffed. "And you're worried about college?"
Jett pushed a few rogue red curls behind her ears and gave librarian bun a pat. "College is what smart people worry about. And I wouldn't call traveling with you two much of an opportunity."
"Shut your bitch mouth," was the best he tossed back at her.
"There's more to life than your asinine band," she sighed.
"Yeah, big tits, wet pussy," Rafe countered. He and Dion shared a fist bump. Heat creeped up my face as I recalled Dion talking about my wet pussy in the room just below us. My double-crossing heart skipped at the memory.
"Boys, please," Vince barked and I was grateful to refocus my thoughts on the situation at hand. "There will be plenty of tits and pussy on tour." All three of them shared knowing smirks. "But you need to get on the road to get some. Think of this as a means to an end."
"Maturity level of a 12-year-old, and that's the three of them combined," Jett mumbled, snatching one of Vince's leather-bound books off the shelf beside her.
I turned to Dion. "We are saving your tour. You think Grimm is happy at the prospect of losing millions of dollars?"
"Our record sales will more than make up for it," he boasted.
"Not without a tour, son," Vince said, finally speaking to reason and not their libidos. "You need the tour; the label needs the tour. And you need Nikki. End of story."
"We don't need the tour," Jett muttered, flipping through the book.
"Speak for yourself," Presley hissed.
"You mean you don't want to tour with Fleetwood Mac?" Jett asked, glaring at her through her shaggy black bangs. "You said singing with Stevie Nicks is the opportunity of a lifetime."
"It's not like I'm duetting with her," Presley snapped, twirling the end of the ponytail that held back her platinum blond hair. "I mean, it's better to front my own band. Right, Vince?" She turned coquettish, knowing exactly how to play our stepfather.
"Absolutely," he said. "This is opportunity, for all of you. Jett, you can always hit the books when you get back. UCLA isn't going anywhere."
"Maybe there's an online class or two you can take?" I suggested.
"It's not the same," she sighed, looking between at Presley and my hopeful faces. "But maybe."
"This is bullshit," Dion raged, pointing a finger at me. "I am not touring with some little cock tease in my band."
"Way to be a sexist—" I started, but Vince cut me off.
"Tread carefully, son," he said. "Grimm said that if you flipped out over this, he'd replace you with Presley."
That just pissed Dion off even more. "Replace me? Everyone knows that I am the reason why fans love Rogue Nation."
Rafe narrowed his eyes. "You're the reason?"
"You know what I mean," Dion started, then he gave up. "Oh Christ. Dad, come on, you can't make us do this."
"Out of my hands," Vince said, shaking his head. "The label's on the hook for a lot of money. She knows the songs. She goes on tour."
"But, Dad, you can talk to Grimm—"
"I did talk to Grimm, Vince said. "And this is what he agreed to."
Dion rounded on me. "You do know why you even get to do this, right?"
"Are you going to accuse us of nepotism?" I asked.
"No, I'm going to accuse you of using my father for your own gain."
Jett snorted.
"Dude," Rafe said, shaking his head. "That's nepotism."
"It is?" Dion asked Vince. Vince nodded.
"You may want to think about how you landed a deal with Grimm records after one shitty gig at the Whiskey a Go-Go," I barked back at him. "So I'd be very careful about who you accuse of nepotism."
"Kids, please," Vince stood, agitation finally propelled him to lay down the law. "You need a drummer and your tour starts tomorrow. Nikki's the only drummer who knows the songs."
"You keep saying that," Dion fumed. "How the hell does Nikki know the songs, anyway? Are you, like, our number one fan or something?"
"Your label called me in because I am the best drummer for hire out there right now. Those are my beats on your album," I fumed. "Every. Single. Song."
Dion tossed up his hands. "But Kyle was our drummer!"
"Your junkie brother was so damn high he couldn't lay down the drum tracks. Maybe if you paid more attention to what the hell was going on with him, you'd have noticed that!"
Presley sucked in her breath and even Jett looked up from the book had her nose buried in. Dion and Rafe gawked at me. The ticking of the grandfather clock was only sound in the room. Dion turned and stormed out of the room, with Rafe nipping at his heels.
"That was way out of line, Nik," Vince said, his voice a near-whisper.
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Vince glared at me, hands on his hips, waiting for me to issue an apology. I bit one back. What I said was harsh, but it was truth. And I wasn't going to apologize for telling the truth simply because it was something they weren't used to hearing. When Vince saw that he wasn't going to get it out of me, he followed Rafe and Dion out of the room.
Presley rolled her eyes at me. "Would it kill you to learn a bit of tact?"
"It's the truth," I argued.
"Too soon, hon," Jett said, agreeing with our sister. "It's been what? Two weeks since the funeral?"
"Dion and Rafe both had their heads up their own asses so they didn't even notice how wrecked Kyle was," I said.
"Dion and Rafe had their heads in groupie pussy, that's where their heads were," Jett agreed.
"Grimm Records and Vince literally yes’d Kyle to death and Dion and Rafe were just as culpable," I continued. "It's about time they were told something honest."
"Vince was trying to deal take care it, getting Kyle into rehab before the tour," Presley said, glaring at me. "You hurt him, just now. You hurt him."
"Why do you always take Vince's side?"
She pursed her lips. "I do not."
"Yes, you do," I argued.
"Jett?" she turned to our sister, who only shrugged.
"You do," Jett agreed with me.
"Well, he's the only one in the room who had a successful and lucrative music career, so who do you think is the best person to listen to?"
"I'm just saying—" I started but though the better of it. Presley gravitated towards successful men, not unlike our mother, once she cut lose from our dad. But at least Presley was career focused, and not simply trying to bag a rich and famous husband.
"The point is, we need to stick together right now," I said instead. "This is going to be a rough tour, especially for me."
"She is playing with two of the biggest assholes on the planet," Jett pointed out. "At least we don't have to interact with them on a daily basis. She does."
"I'll give you that, along with my sympathy," Presley sighed. "Sorry for being a bitch. Forgive me?" She flashed me a mock pout.
"If there was ever a bitch to forgive, it's you," I teased her and then she rushed me. Before I could get out of her way, she planted a giant kiss on my cheek, leaving a bright red lipstick outline on my face. Jett howled with laughter.
The Forbidden Beat (A Stepbrother Romance) Page 2