Outsider (14 page)

“What’s
wrong with that?”

“No
telling who they’ll accuse you of sleeping with next.”

“Probably
you,” she said with a smirk.

“Maybe.
But more likely Dare or Max or anyone you happen to glance at. You don’t want
them to have to deal with this shit too, do you?”

“No,”
she said. “So act like I’m not bothered that they’re all a bunch of nosy jack-ass-lanterns
and pretend I hope they forgive me for living my life as my own. Got it.”

Butch
grinned and shook his head. “No need to be a smart ass. You have five steps to
get to the door. Use them wisely.”

Oh
yeah, great. No pressure there.

Butch
opened the door and even though the congregated press—or whatever they were
calling themselves these days—was standing yards away behind the barrier fence
manned by the surliest-looking members of Exodus End’s team, Reagan could still
hear them yelling their ridiculous questions at her.

“Reagan.
Reagan! Does Trey realize that you’ve had sexual relations with his brother?”

She’d
slept with Dare? When had that happened? She was pretty sure she would have
remembered that.

“Is
it true that all your live performances are actually recorded and you’re just
pretending to play?”

Did
she look like Milli Vanilli? Better invest in some dreadlocks and bicycle pants
to wear with her combat boots to complete her farce of a career.

“Pyre
Vamp of Hell’s Crypt says you cheated to win Exodus End’s Guitarist for a Year
Contest and that he should have won. Do you have a comment?”

Reagan
stopped one step from the door and spun toward the crowd, her eyes narrowed.

“Yeah,
I have a comment for Pyre Vamp,” she yelled. “He can go fuck himself! And you
all can go fuck yourselves too.”

Butch
shoved Reagan through the open door and marched in after her.

“What
are you doing?” Butch yelled at her.

She
was too pissed to shrink away from his rage. She stood up straighter and stood
on tiptoe so she could get in his face.

 “Do
I need to remind you what that Pyre asshole did to me?” She traced an imaginary
line around her throat where the bruise he’d left there with a guitar string
had once been. “He tried to fucking kill me because he was jealous that I beat
him. And now he’s telling the press that he won and that I cheated. There is
absolutely no truth to that.”

“There’s
no truth to any of those questions they were asking you. Unless you did sleep
with Dare . . .” Butch raised both hands. “It’s none of my
business—”

“Of
course I didn’t sleep with Dare!”

“So
why are you pissed about one lie but not another?”

“Because,”
she said. “Because I allowed Sam Baily to snow me into letting Vamp get away
with hurting me, with almost killing me, and I’m tired of taking shit and not
standing up for myself.”

“Okay,
cool,” Butch said, taking her by the arm and walking her quickly toward her
private dressing room. She didn’t understand why until she noticed several
members of the press were inside the building and writing down everything she
said. Once they were inside the room and the door was securely shut behind
them, he resumed talking.

“I’m
not sure Baily’s decision on that issue was wise, but now is not time to dig up
another scandal. Don’t you have enough to worry about?”

“If
they focused on that talentless hack and the
truth
about what he did to
me, they’d have someone else to harass.”

“Depends
on which story sells more papers. What do you think people will want to read
about, an unattractive failed guitarist’s hurt over not getting the chance to
realize his dream, resulting in your long-gone neck bruise, or a very
attractive rising-star guitarist who’s sleeping with Sinners’ ornery,
much-adored guitarist
and
her dark, mysterious bodyguard?”

She
hated that Butch was right. It made her want to kick him. She flopped herself
into a chair instead and tried to scowl a hole through his head.

The
walkie-talkie on Butch’s belt screeched, and he answered the summons. “Yeah?”
He sounded almost as pissy as she felt. She supposed dealing with all this
bullshit was trying for him as well.

“The
guys are here.” A somewhat familiar voice came out of Butch’s handset. “Do you
want them to come directly inside or talk to the press?”

“Give
Max five minutes to sweet-talk the press,” Butch responded, “but send the rest
of them in.”

Reagan’s
jaw hardened. “Why does he get to say whatever he wants to the press?”

“If
you want me to throw you outside and let you fend for yourself, I will,” he
snapped at her.

She
was half tempted to take him up on the offer, but she crossed her arms over her
chest and shifted her glare of death to the floor.

“Max
knows how to work a crowd, Reagan. He’s better at it than anyone. He’ll keep
his head no matter what they ask, and he’ll charm them all. It’s what he does.
When you get to his level of finesse, you can speak to the press, but until
then—”

“Keep
my mouth shut.”

“Please,”
Butch said with a relieved sigh as he rubbed at his eye.

“Fine.
But can I hang out with the guys until the show? I don’t want to sit here by
myself for hours.”

Trey
and Ethan usually kept her occupied before a show, but since they were both
absent, she knew she’d go mad if she were left to dwell on all the bullshit she
was forced to endure.

“I’ll
ask them.” Butch let himself out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He’d
ask
them? What did he mean he’d ask them? Wasn’t she part of the band
too? She’d always assumed she got her own dressing room because she was female,
but maybe it was because she was an outsider. She was feeling supremely depressed
about her lot in life when the dressing room door opened and Steve bustled into
the room.

“Jesus,
it’s a paparazzi circus out there,” he said. “It wasn’t even this bad when they
were hounding me through my divorce.”

“That’s
because your divorce wasn’t news to anyone.” Logan said, following Steve. “It
was bound to happen.” He sidestepped to avoid the fist Steve swung in his
direction.

Dare
brought up the rear and closed the door behind him. He crossed the room and
squatted in front of Reagan’s chair, taking her hands in his and staring up
into her face. “How are you holding up?”

She
meant to yell about the injustice of it all, but somehow ended up crying
instead. As an only child, she’d never had a big brother’s shoulder to cry on.
She hoped Trey didn’t mind that she used his.

“Toni
feels so guilty about what happened,” Logan said. “Even though she didn’t do
anything.”

Reagan
sniffed her nose and pulled away from Dare so she could wipe at her eyes. She’d
always dealt better with anger than self-pity. If she felt sorry for herself,
she ended up taking no action. If she was angry, she went after the root of the
cause. And she had every intention of going after the son of a bitch responsible
for this mess. “She should feel guilty.”

“I
guarantee she didn’t sell those stories, Reagan. If she did, I’ll serve you my
left nut on a platter.”

Reagan
laughed and shook her head at him. “Your left nut? Why the left one?”

Logan’s
blue eyes twinkled as he grinned at her. “It’s my favorite.”

“I
don’t want to know why,” Reagan said, waving her hands. She shifted her
attention to Dare, who was still watching her with concern and holding her
upper arms. Did he realize how much strength that leant her? “Thanks for the
shoulder.”

“Don’t
mention it,” he said. “How’s Trey?”

“He’s
fine,” she said. “It’s kind of annoying how fine he is about all this.”

Dare
chuckled. “He’s only happy when he’s being himself. I’ve been reminding him of
that fact for years. To think, my advice finally sank in. Now if the two loves
of his life would figure out how to do the same.”

Dare’s
stare made Reagan feel like she was about five years old, had been disobedient,
and needed to stand in a corner to contemplate her wrongs.

She
squirmed and scowled at him, but she wasn’t really cross. Deep down she knew he
was right, but following his advice was hard. Part of her still wanted to be
normal
—whatever
that was—and love only one man, but her heart refused to cooperate. And her
body didn’t want that outcome either. Dare ruffled her hair and straightened
from his crouched position.

Max
entered the dressing room and shut the door against the din of loud
conversations in the hall. “I don’t know why I always get stuck talking to
those fuckwads.”

“Takes
one to know one,” Steve said, helping himself to the snacks that had been set
out for Reagan. She noticed that the bouquets of flowers and gifts that usually
filled her dressing room before a gig were missing. It hadn’t taken long for
her admirers to turn their backs on her.

“So
what did you say?” Logan asked.

Max
grinned. “I used the answer-their-questions-with-more-questions technique. It
always confuses them.”

Reagan
perked up. She needed to learn how to talk to the press without telling them to
go fuck themselves. “How does that work?”

Max
sank onto the sofa and stretched his arms over his head, giving Reagan a lovely
view of his toned and tattooed abdominals.

“Uh . . .”
His hazel gaze met hers. “Do you really want to know?”

She
nodded. “Teach me, master.”

Max
smiled, nearly knocking her out of her chair with his natural charm. He didn’t
smile all that often, which was probably a good thing. Women might walk into
traffic or tumble down stairs while distracted by it.

“Okay,
so for example, when they ask
is Logan really the biggest pussy who ever
cried into his pillow over his mommy
 . . .”

“Hey!”
Logan threw a cashew at Max, who tilted his head so that it missed its mark.

“. . . I
say,
are you speaking of an actual domesticated feline or are you
insinuating that Logan commonly displays characteristics that are more
befitting a cantankerous toddler
?”

“Hey!”
Logan turned to Steve. “That was an insult, right?”

“He
said,
so you want to know if Logan is a regular pussy or a giant pussy
?”
Steve opened his arms as wide as they’d stretch. “I’d go with about this big.”

Steve’s
stretch left his gut wide open for Logan’s elbow.

Reagan
laughed. “That’s so mean.”

“Don’t
worry,” Max said. “I didn’t answer any of their questions. They probably won’t
figure it out until they’re going over their notes to write their articles.”

“What
did they ask about me?” Reagan leaned forward in her chair and rested her
elbows on her knees. Whatever he responded, she could handle it. She hoped.

Max’s
smile faded. “They were more interested in my involvement with Vic,” he said,
his gaze flicking to Dare.

Dare
turned away and crossed to the mini-fridge in the corner. “Where’s the scotch?”
he asked. He pulled out one of Reagan’s favorite strawberry wine coolers. “Do
you really drink this shit?”

“They’re
good,” she said. “Get out of my fridge.” She didn’t drink wine coolers on the
bus, because she’d known the guys would tease her about her girly beverage of
choice, but she’d thought her secret would be safe in her private dressing
room.

Her
fault for telling Butch she didn’t want to be alone.

The
door opened again, and Reagan expected to see Butch, but it was the band’s
manager, Sam Baily, who entered the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing
to gawk at him.

As
usual, Sam Baily was perfectly put together, from his ridiculously expensive
crocodile loafers to his impossibly unwrinkled gray Armani suit to his
immaculately styled gray hair.

“Hey,
Sam,” Max said, climbing to his feet and offering his hand for a stiff
handshake. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“I
heard we’ve had another run-in with the tabloids,” Sam said. “A full issue this
time. I’m impressed.”

Reagan
blinked at him, but was too intimidated to speak.
Impressed
? Why the
fuck would he be impressed?

“It’s
not
good
publicity,” Dare said, closing the open fridge door with his foot
and twisting the top off a bottle of water. “Every article they published was
derogatory.”

“All
publicity is good publicity,” Sam said. “We had a spike in sales yesterday. The
record label is very pleased.”

“That’s
because all they care about is making money,” Steve said.

“We
need to discuss strategy and how to turn this situation to our advantage,” Sam
said.

“I
think we’d rather ignore it until it goes away,” Logan said.

Reagan
nodded. That was exactly what she wanted to do.

“We
take opportunities when they present themselves,” Sam said. “Why do you think
you’re so successful?”

“Talent,”
Reagan blurted.

Sam
smiled at her, and she suddenly felt like prey. “There she is. Our little money
maker.”

“You’re
not going to use her that way,” Dare said, as if he knew what Sam was going to
suggest.

Before
she could even thank Dare for sticking up for her, Sam stepped closer and
Reagan tried to magically melt into the sofa at her back. When he turned to
focus his attention on the guys, she sucked in a relieved breath.

“Most
of your fans are males,” Sam said. “And it doesn’t matter if they’re fifteen or
fifty— when they see a woman who looks like Reagan and they know she’s capable
of having sexual relations with multiple men, they start to think they’d have a
chance. They fantasize about her. Want to be as close to her as possible. They
buy tickets to see her in concert and merchandise with her face on it. They
look her up on the Internet and stare at her image while they play with their
pathetic peckers, oblivious to all the ad income they’re generating for us.”

Reagan’s
jaw clenched tighter with each word the man spoke. “Are you offering me up to
the fans as your whore?”

“I
didn’t have to,” Sam said. “It’s already happened. We had new shirts printed
last night with your image on them and had them shipped overnight so the merch
stands could sell them tonight. They’re already sold out.”

“You
can’t sell shirts with my image on them!” Reagan yelled.

“It’s
in your contract,” Sam said. “Tonight, when you’re onstage, I want you to rub
up against the guys and flirt with men in the audience. We’re going to try a
new segment where you bring an audience member up onstage, strap your guitar on
him, and stand behind him while you play a solo.”

“I’m
not going to do any of that,” Reagan said, looking to her bandmates for
support. None of them would even meet her eyes. Not even her usual champion,
Dare.

When
her gaze finally returned to Sam, he smirked. “It’s in your contract.”

“Acting
like a slut so you can sell T-shirts and internet ad space is
not
in my
contract,” she bellowed.

“Calm
down, Reagan,” Dare said.

“I’m
not going to fucking calm down. This is bullshit, and you all know it.”

“The
price of fame,” Steve murmured from behind the hand covering his mouth.

“We’ll
let the rest of the garbage that was printed settle down,” Sam said. “But we
can give the tabloids this one angle as a distraction to keep their attention
off my talent.”

Reagan
felt as if someone had slapped her. “You’re using me as a publicity stunt?”

“We
hired you as a publicity stunt,” Sam said. “Or have you forgotten?”

“I’ve
forgotten,” Dare said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So
have I,” Max said.

Logan
stepped beside her and squeezed her shoulder. “She’s one of us now.”

“Sorry,
Sam, we’re on her side,” Steve said. “You’re going to have to come up with
something more compelling than Reagan’s ass to drive record sales and keep the
label from breathing down your neck.”

Reagan
was too overjoyed by their support to feel the sting of Steve’s indirect barb
about her ass.

“We’re
tired of all the publicity,” Steve added. “We want to make music, not sell
merch.”

“It’s
always been a piece of the puzzle,” Sam said, looking completely unruffled by
the guys’ stand. “It always will be.”

“But
it shouldn’t be the
biggest
piece of the puzzle,” Logan said.

“It
isn’t,” Sam said. “That would be tickets sales.”

While
it was great that they had a manager who was focused on their financial
success, Reagan wondered if he was really the right man for the job.

“About
that,” Dare said. “I had a fan a couple of weeks ago tell me how excited he was
to be able to attend our show. His buddies bought him a ticket for his birthday
because he couldn’t afford it. A lifelong devoted fan couldn’t afford a concert
ticket. That’s a problem, Sam. So I checked ticket prices the other day. Since
when do we charge seventy dollars for general admission?”

“Since
people are willing to pay it,” Sam said. “They’re getting Exodus End and
Sinners in one show. It’s a bargain as far as I’m concerned. The scalpers are
getting two or three hundred a ticket these days.”

“Don’t
we get a say in ticket prices?” Logan glanced not at Sam, but at Max, who shook
his head.

“Do
we have a say in anything?” Steve said, throwing up his hands in disgust.

Reagan
couldn’t believe how little freedom they had. What was the point of being
successful if they had to answer to a bunch of record company executives
interested only in counting their money?

“Where
you buy your second mansion,” Sam said. “So how’s the book coming along? I
expected Ms. Nichols to be here with the band. Is she out gathering material
from the fans? I’d like to talk to her.”

“Uh.”
Logan’s gaze darted to the rest of them. “She went home due to a
misunderstanding, but I plan to bring her back after the show tonight.”

“What
kind of misunderstanding?” Sam asked.

“We
thought she was the one who sold all that stuff to the tabloids, but it was
someone else.”

Sam
chuckled. “Of course it was someone else. If her publishing company uses any
material gathered for the book for anything other than what is permitted under
contract, we’ll sue. They’d have to be pretty stupid to risk crossing our legal
powerhouse.”

Logan
licked his lips. “Uh, well, what if the information was accidently leaked or if
someone stole it or something like that?”

“It’s
their responsibility to protect your private information. If they hadn’t
assured me of that at the start, I would have used a larger publisher for this
biography. Were their computers hacked? Is that where those tabloid stories
came from?”

“Nope!”
Logan said. “Just a hypothetical question.”

Hands
clasped behind his back, head tilted, Sam studied him carefully for a long
moment. “If you find out differently, be sure to let me know. Lawsuit money
spends just as well as any other.”

Reagan
felt positively sick for Toni. Sure, Reagan had been pissed at her and had
hated her guts for a few hours. She might have even threatened to sue her in
one of her many rants. But she’d never want an entire team of well-paid lawyers
to financially destroy her new friend over a simple mistake. Toni was a victim
in this mess too. She might not have the added insult of an oily and
misogynistic manager who wanted to exploit her sexuality for a few extra bucks,
but she’d suffered.

“Well,
now that you’ve finished airing your grievances . . .” Sam said.

“Not
even close,” Steve said under his breath.

“Let’s
move on to the real reason it’s taken me so long to join the tour.”

Join
the tour?
He wasn’t
going to follow them around from here on out, was he? If he did, Reagan
couldn’t be held responsible for any murders she committed.

“I
recently signed a new band—Baroquen—and they’ve just finished up in the studio.
Amazing stuff, guys. Wait until you hear it. The label is rushing the release
of their first album. It drops late summer.”

“
This
summer?” Max asked, and when Sam nodded, he said, “That is a rush.”

“What
does this have to do with us?” Dare asked.

“They’ll
be joining you on the second leg of your tour as an opening band.”

“Okay,”
Max said, “but the tour is already full.”

Sam
shook his head. “They’ll be replacing Twisted Element.”

“No
fucking way!” Steve shouted so loud that Reagan jumped.

“Every
fucking way,” Sam said.

“They
stepped up to fill in for Hell’s Crypt when their douchebag of a guitarist
tried to kidnap Reagan,” Steve said, “and you’re going to drop them now?”

“It
was great of them to help us out, but frankly, they’re not that good,” Sam
said.

“They’re
sensational,” Steve said, his volume increasing even more.

“I
know about your love affair with their drummer,” Sam said.

“Oh
my God, you too?” Steve yelled. “He’s a friend.” He looked at the rest of them
for support.

Reagan
opened her mouth to back Steve’s claim, but she could seem to form words.

“That’s
what I meant,” Sam said.

“He’s
very sensitive about his love affair with Zach,” Logan said, giving Steve a
playful shove.

“I’m
gonna fuck you up later, Lo,” Steve threatened. “You can’t kick them off the
tour,” he said to Sam. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime for them.”

Sam
scratched his nose. “I’m well aware of that. We’re opening up that same
opportunity to my new talent.”

“Fuck
that.”

“Take
a breath, Steve. It’s done. I’ll tell the guys of Twisted Element tonight.”

“This
is fucking bullshit.” Steve was already storming out of the dressing room. The
crowd of reporters outside didn’t slow him down as he shoved his way through
them like a bulldozer.

“You
should practice your tact,” Dare said to Sam. “You knew he’d be upset.”

Sam
shrugged. “He’ll get over it.”

Reagan
doubted that, but she still felt as though she didn’t have a say in the
workings of the band or tour politics, so she held her tongue.

“Do
you have any other fabulous news to offer?” Dare looked like his patience had
been tried and was about to lose its battle with calm.

“I
booked studio time for November. I hope you’ve been writing. The new album is
due.”

“Who
has time to fucking write?” Dare snapped. “We’re so overloaded with promotional
bullshit, we barely have time to sleep.”

“I
understand you’re all under a lot of stress,” Sam said. “Isn’t Butch taking proper
care of you?”

“That
man is a fucking saint,” Dare said. “Don’t use him to wipe the shit off your
shoes. You’re the one who always pushes us to do more than we can handle.”

“You
can handle it,” Sam said. “You’re the hardest-working band in America. That’s
why you’re so successful.”

They
did work hard. Too hard. And Reagan had seen the strain; she just hadn’t
realized they were so close to snapping. Especially not Dare, who’d been her
rock from the start.

“I’m
going to go check on Steve,” Logan said.

Reagan
wished she’d thought of that ingenious escape plan. But when Logan opened the
door and the press started yelling their asinine questions, she realized she
couldn’t leave. Not unless she wanted to be further insulted.