by Renee Rose
She pales. She picks up her champagne glass and throws the rest back. “I can’t leave you,” she mumbles into the glass. “I don’t trust Hugh… to do right by you. He’s a selfish prick.”
I’m touched. “Thanks,” I crackle. “I appreciate it.”
It’s funny, because I haven’t really considered her a friend until this moment. She’s not the friendly type. She keeps to herself in a moody-broody kind of way. But maybe that’s just introversion. And now that I think about it, she’s always there when the shit hits the fan. Always right beside me, like she was tonight.
I look back at Sondra and Corey. “Anyway, it’s not that I don’t want to be here,” I croak. “I’m just exhausted, and losing my voice.” I finger my throat.
“Yeah, they’re going to cancel your shows for the rest of the week so you can rest,” Sondra says.
My brows shoot up. “They are?” The words crack and break in my throat.
“Yeah. I heard Tony telling Nico during the show.”
For some reason, my face gets hot and tears prick my eyes.
Don’t be stupid. He’s not cancelling because he cares about you.
Or is he? He already told me the shows are sold out for the next week and he’d lose money if he rescheduled. Or maybe he’s just afraid to risk the lip synching.
But he made the decision after hearing from the doctor that I should rest, not after finding out I was lip synching. Why does it feel like I get more consideration from Tony than I do from the people who are supposed to be making my life easier? From Tony, or Anton. From my parents, even.
Does Tony care? Or is it just his way? Some innate need to protect women because of his upbringing.
He’s not your hero.
I give my head a shake. Why in the hell am I analyzing Tony Brando’s behavior toward me, anyway? I definitely shouldn’t care so much.
I climb out of the hot tub and pull on a luxurious spa robe. “Well, thanks, ladies,” I chirp with my broken voice. “This has been fun, but I’d better get to bed.”
They climb out also. “We’d better walk with you,” Corey says. “Do you need to go back to the dressing room? You don’t have your room key or anything.”
“I’ll go back and get your stuff,” Izzy offers.
“Really? Thank you.”
“And I can call someone to let you in your room,” Sondra suggests. “The Bellissimo has excellent service and you’re a special guest. Don’t hesitate to make demands while you’re here, okay?”
I smile. “Thanks. Yeah, having someone let me in my room would be great. I don’t even feel like getting dressed,” I attempt to say, my words lost in a whisper.
“So don’t,” Corey says. “Fuck it. We’ll all go out in our robes.” She grins at me.
Sondra picks up her clothes and tightens the robe belt. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Screw that,” Izzy mutters, already back in her faded baggy blue jeans and a Big Lebowski t-shirt. “I’ll meet you at your suite.”
My limbs are heavy and relaxed from the hot water and despite the shit-tastic day, despite getting slapped by my manager and strong-armed by a mafia enforcer, I feel better than I have in a while. Maybe it’s just the champagne talking.
Or maybe it’s about friends. Or taking care of me for once.
Who cares? All I know is it’s something different from the existential rut I’ve been in for the past months.
I can breathe for a change.
When I get back to my room, I pick up my acoustic guitar and mess around. Nothing amazing happens, but I don’t have that dead, stuck feeling I’ve had for so long, either. Maybe the muse isn’t dead, after all.
Chapter 7
Tony
I send a messenger to Pepper’s room the next morning with a note.
Pepper,
I’m cancelling your shows for a week. No talking!
You must remain here at the Bellissimo during your hiatus.
An acupuncturist and herbalist will come to your suite to treat you at 11 a.m. this morning.
Other than that, your time is yours. Book any appointment at the spa for yourself. If you want me to show you around the casino or Vegas, text me at 872-394-4424.
-Tony
It took me ten tries to write it and as soon as I send it, I wish I hadn’t. I should just leave her alone. I’m already too involved. If I get in any deeper, I’m gonna make bad decisions. I won’t be able to do the job.
Funny how it’s hard to give a shit about the job any time I’m thinking of her, though.
I want to know her more. Want to find out what makes her happy. What slows her down. I get the sense she sees herself as a failure right now, and I’d give anything to be able to turn that around for her.
But what do I know about the music business? Or pop stars? Or Pepper’s untainted millennial heart?
I definitely have nothing to offer this girl.
I don’t hear anything about her other than that the acupuncturist saw her and left her with Chinese herbs until late afternoon, when my security team alerts me to a situation.
“Mr. Brando, we have a large crowd gathering on the pool deck near the west waterfalls. Pepper Heart has been signing autographs for the past forty minutes and the crowd has grown.”
Another agent adds, “We may want to pull the plug on this before it gets out of control, boss. It’s been posted on social media and people are coming in off the street now.”
“I’m on my way.” I stride through the casino, trying to ignore the pressure under my ribs. Pepper is fine. My guys are there. Her bodyguard is there. Nothing’s going to happen. Still, I don’t breathe until I’m on the pool deck, pushing through the crowd. That’s the good thing about being a big, mean-looking guy—no throng is too thick for me to get through.
I force myself to slow down and unclench my fists when I get to her side. The urge to start barking orders and immediately disperse the crowd is strong, but I have to take into account Pepper’s enjoyment. She’s all smiles. She’s using the notepad I gave her, holding up signs to answer their questions. She’s posing for selfies with them. She’s signing autographs and bumping fists.
She likes her fans.
She’s happy doing this.
I hold up my finger to the young people holding up their phones to take photos and lean over to speak in Pepper’s ear. “Same drill as yesterday. Squeeze my arm when you’re ready for a break.”
She doesn’t look at me, but she nods and keeps up her fan interactions. Waiters appear carrying pizzas, which they pass out to the people. “Compliments of Ms. Heart,” they say. The kids cheer and dive for the food like ravenous beasts.
My guys are right; the crowd keeps growing. The more of a spectacle the Pepper Heart fans cause, the more people join.
I don’t like it.
I fucking hate it.
Still, I make it my job to facilitate. “Ms. Heart’s resting her voice right now, so she can’t speak. If you’d like a selfie with her, please form a line here to my left.” I point to the ground beside me. “Right here.” My voice booms out over the crowd and bodies shuffle into formation.
“Autograph or a selfie, not both.” That’s my next executive decision in the effort to move people through the line and away. “When you’re finished, please clear this area to my right. Thank you.”
Ten minutes goes by. Twenty.
The crowd is only getting larger. Every person who bought tickets to the show tonight is apparently here, trying to make up for the loss.
Finally Pepper turns to me, but she doesn’t squeeze my arm. She writes on her pad, What can we do? I feel bad about letting them all down.
“Yeah, so do I, songbird. It’s life. You ready for a break?”
She worries the inside of her cheek. I’m pretty sure she’s wiped but feels guilty leaving them unsatisfied.
“Okay, everyone. That’s it for now. Ms. Heart needs a break.”
The fans groan and shout their protests. “I bough
t tickets for tonight. I should get a chance!” one girl yells.
“She’s staying here in the casino all week, even though she won’t be singing. Stick around and there may be other pop-up meet and greet opportunities. Remember, tickets are all refundable if you can’t come to a rescheduled show. Go and see the booking office for more information. Thanks, folks!”
I wrap a loose arm around Pepper’s waist and hustle her away before more people make demands. Her bodyguard stays on the other side of her, sticking close. It’s exactly what he should be doing, but I still want to punch his teeth in. I’m beginning to hate her whole fucking team, except maybe that blue-haired roadie who stuck by her last night. Shouldn’t she at the very least have a personal assistant helping her manage situations like this?
Or hell, arranging them? I don’t know.
I don’t like feeling like Pepper Heart is hanging out in the wind for everyone to take advantage of.
I especially hate knowing I’m a part of that shit.
Pepper
I shouldn’t be so happy to be in Tony’s keeping again, but I am. The guy should’ve been a band manager. He’s ten times better than Hugh. He just seems to get it. He knows the fans are important. He understands sometimes it’s about giving back to them, and not just selling albums or tickets to a concert. That it’s about loving on them.
He sees that but he also takes care of “the talent.” Of me. He knew when I was done, even when I wouldn’t admit it.
And I am totally and completely exhausted.
And famished.
I elbow Tony and he looks down, a wrinkle of concern on his forehead. “What is it, songbird?”
Songbird.
I love his pet name for me. So much better than when he throws out sweetheart, which always sounds a little scornful.
I put my fingers to my lips and attempt the sign language sign for eat or food or something like that.
“You’re hungry? Let’s get you some food. You want fancy or casual?” He holds two palms out, talking with his hands, as always. I slap the palm he put out for casual.
He chuckles. “Casual? Okay. You like burgers? There’s a great joint up the strip. I’ll take you there.”
I nod.
He directs his attention to Anton, who we’ve both been ignoring. “You take a hike. I got it from here.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Brando. My job is to stay with Ms. Heart at all times.”
“I respect that, I do. But I don’t want you tagging along. Your boss can take it up with me if he wants.”
“Where are you taking her?”
“For a burger.” Tony’s already leading me away, and he doesn’t bother to turn around to answer Anton. “Trust me, nobody’s gonna fuck with her when I’m around.” He sounds every inch what he is: a dangerous mobster and I have zero doubts it’s true.
Nobody screws with a guy like Tony Brando unless they want to end up with cement shoes.
And that should scare me, like it did yesterday, instead of making me feel all glowy and safe.
Tony leads me through the casino and into an elevator to the parking garage below. He opens the passenger door to a black BMW. I’m not sure if I should be impressed with his manners or not. Is chivalry normal for mobsters? I try to think of the mafia movies I’ve seen. Yeah, I think they might be chivalrous. There’s an old world code these men live by, and it involves protecting women. Tony, especially.
I get in the car and we take a short drive to a hipster diner—one of those retro kind of places with the 50’s decor and a classic menu with upgrades. Like BLTs with avocado on gluten-free bread. And ten different kinds of burgers.
“Whad’llya have?” Tony asks before the waitress gets there. I point to the bacon burger and sweet potato fries. “To drink?” I shake my head. “Does that mean water?” I nod.
Tony grins. “Never imagined I’d be playing twenty questions with America’s darling of alternative pop.”
I flip him off.
“Watch it, songbird. Don’t forget I own you.” His smile is fond, like this is a game we play and he enjoys his role.
Well, hell, I’m starting to as well. More than that, I’m starting to enjoy myself. It’s like I’m thawing out from the ice cube I was frozen in. Coming back to life, minute by minute.
“How was acupuncture?” Tony asks.
Not as scary as I feared, I write and his lips curve. I actually do feel better now. She gave me some herbs to make a tea with.
The waitress comes and Tony places the order while I write on my notepad, How’d you get involved with the Tacone family? I slide the pad across to him after she leaves.
His eyebrows shoot up. “You really asking this of me?”
I nod.
He mutters something that sounds like a curse word in Italian. I want to ask if he speaks it, but I wait for the answer to the more important question. He rubs his jaw. “Known them since I was a kid. Grew up with Nico—same grade in school.”
I wait, knowing from Sondra there’s more. When he doesn’t elaborate, I pull the notepad back. So what? They recruit in grade school?
He reads my words and then stares back at me. “Sweetheart, you remember what the first rule of fight club is?”
I roll my eyes. I print, I’m not asking for anything that can be used in court against you. I just want to know how you got in with them.
He rubs his face again and taps the table with his fingers. “You want something from me. Something personal.” It’s an accusation. Or maybe it just sounds that way from his tough guy inflection.
But he’s right. I’m digging for signs of humanity here. Scraping off the veneer to see what’s underneath. Is there a soul beneath the expensive suit and the aggressive personality? I nod, holding his dark gaze.
“I was in a jam. Something bad. The don pulled me out of it. Got me through. Took care of me and my ma. He was a scary, demanding bastard, but to me?” Tony shrugs. “My salvation.”
What jam? I’m sure I wouldn’t have the guts to ask with my real voice, but it’s like the pen gives me power. Makes me bold.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t talk about it.”
Is he here in Vegas? I write on the notepad.
“Who?”
The don.
Tony shakes his head. “Federal prison in Illinois. His oldest son runs the Chicago operation. That’s who you borrowed money from.” He narrows his eyes. “Or Hugh did. Tell me, how did it go down?”
Ugh. Heaviness descends on my body at the mention of the whole thing. At the end of the day, I could point my fingers all over the place, but I’m the one to blame. If I’d ever chosen to grow up sometime on this seven year rollercoaster ride, I would’ve taken responsibility for my own financial picture.
But I was sixteen when my first album went platinum. Hugh was my dad’s manager and a good family friend. He and my parents called the shots. They’d been in the business forever. They knew how things worked. I kept making music, enjoying stardom, loving life.
Until it all came crashing down around my ears.
My mom got breast cancer and my parents had to stop touring with me while she went through her surgery and treatment. She kicked it, but she and my dad never recovered. It’s like they needed to hunker down, stay in the house, stare at each other. My mom says she’s enjoying life.
Maybe she is.
Anyway, by then I was twenty-one. I didn’t need my parents tagging along. I thought I was all grown up. I was a late bloomer sexually, but I got involved with Jake, the drummer in the band. But Jake and I didn’t work out, and Hugh got rid of him the first chance he could. And my muse went quiet.
Somewhere, at some point, I got lost in the world of people who want to use me, make money off me, or suck me dry.
“Spill, songbird.” Tony raps the table with his knuckles.
I pick up the pen. We had a disagreement with the record label on Solid Rain, the album before the last one. Hugh thought we’d do better on our own, and he found a
loophole in the contract. He produced my last record, which sucked.
It still pains me to think about the piece of shit album we put out. I put out. Again, I’m failing to take responsibility for my career and life.
He was so sure we’d make millions. He and my parents bought their Beverly Hills mansions. Then, when the money was slow coming in, he said he found investors.
Tony’s reading my words upside down. “Junior Tacone.”
Yeah, I guess.
So you know the rest. The album tanked. We’re nine hundred grand in the hole. I’m your bird in a cage until you set me free. I smack him with an accusing gaze.
“Why not sell the mansions?”
Something thick and heavy shifts in my belly. Why not, indeed?
“You said it’s your parents’ mansion? Or it’s yours? What did you get out of this deal?”
I’m pissed off by the tears that spring into my eyes. I blink furiously, looking away.
Tony abruptly slams back in his chair like he’s pissed. “I fucking knew it. Don’t tell me everyone around you is making themselves comfortable while you’re hanging out to dry. I already want to kill your asshole manager.”
I get up from the table, sending my chair skittering back behind me. I run for the door, covering my mouth with one hand before the sob caught in my throat comes out.
Tony’s surprisingly quick for such a big guy. He’s right out the door behind me, wrapping a strong arm around my waist and pulling me against him. “Songbird, don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” His chin rests on the top of my head, his large hand splays over my belly, stroking heat in my body, despite my angst.
“I’m not crying,” I croak through my tears.
“Shh.” His lips are at my ear. “Of course you’re not.” He turns me around and produces a handkerchief. Who in the hell uses a handkerchief anymore? I dry my eyes with it and we both look back through the plate glass window to see the waitress delivering our burgers. “Come on, baby. I know you’re hungry,” he coaxes.
I hand the handkerchief back and push back through the door.