Tony

My mom calls back as we pull into the doctor’s parking lot. I grin. She must’ve gotten Pepper’s text. “Hi, Ma. Tell me you’re coming.”

“Tony, is this really Pepper Heart with you?”

“Yep, it’s really her. I’m, ah, kinda managing her show at the Bellissimo.” I steal a glance at Pepper, who rolls her eyes.

“She looks very nice.” My mother lives in a very small world. It pretty much kills me. She lives in a small house in Oak Park with her lame-ass husband, Tad, a boring, close-minded engineer. She won’t let me buy her a nicer house. She doesn’t leave her place because she doesn’t work and doesn’t know how to drive.

I flick my gaze at Pepper again, who is not even pretending not to eavesdrop. “She is very nice. Do you wanna meet her? Why don’t you come for a visit?”

I’ve been living in Vegas for ten years now and still haven’t convinced my mom to come. I want her to see the Bellissimo, see what I do. I’m pretty sure she still thinks I’m the neighborhood thug, bloodying faces for Don Tacone.

More than anything, though, I want her to get out and enjoy herself. Live a little. Tad is a miserable piece of shit, and I would kick his ass to the curb if I thought I could get away with it. But my mom would never forgive me.

She still hasn’t forgiven me for what I did to my dad.

“No, Tony. You know I don’t like to travel. But you tell her I’m a fan. Send me an autograph, okay?”

“Sure, Ma. I’ll get you an autograph.”

“I love you, Tony.”

“Love you, Ma.”

I hang up and shake my head. It fucking kills me to not to be able to make her happy. Some people refused to be saved.

But fuck if I don’t have to keep trying.

I get out of the rental car and Pepper follows.

Angela, my director of events, researched all the laryngologists and found out Doctor Shen is the one who works on all the stars. We figured she must be the best, so I told Angela to do anything she had to do to get us in.

Turns out, dropping Pepper’s name was enough.

But when they take Pepper back into an examination room, I’m antsier than a caged lion. I can’t demand to be let back in with her, nor can I insist on the doctor speaking to me about what’s going on. Fortunately, she comes out to the lobby. “Are you her manager?”

“Yes, I am.”

Pepper raises her eyebrows at me, but doesn’t say different.

“So I see quite a bit of swelling of her vocal chords, most likely from overuse, as well as a cold she had a month ago. I do want to get an MRI run this afternoon to rule out polyps or cysts, but if I find nothing, my prescription is total vocal rest—no speaking, no singing. For at least a week, maybe two. I understand she’s in the middle of a tour, but if she doesn’t rest, she runs the risk of permanent damage.”

“I understand, Doctor Shen, thank you.”

“I also recommend seeing an acupuncturist. I can give you a referral to several in L.A., if you want.”

“Eh, we’re going to be in Vegas, but I’ll look for someone there. Thanks again. I really appreciate you getting her in on short notice today. I know you had to rearrange your schedule.”

“No, it’s my pleasure. My daughter is a big fan.” She grins and waves her cell phone, where a selfie of her and Pepper graces the front. “She would’ve killed me if I missed the chance to see Ms. Heart.”

Pepper winks behind her. I shake my head. She’s so damn accommodating to her fans. There’s a generosity and general sweetness to her I didn’t expect. It makes me even more determined to protect her from all those who want to use her—from her manager/producer. From the Tacones.

From me.

Too bad that’s not going to be possible. Especially with what I have to do this afternoon.

Pepper

After the MRI, Tony drives the rental Range Rover toward Beverly Hills. I’m not sure what it says that I’m not even slightly tempted to ask for a visit to my parents’ house. Well, technically, it’s my house, but I bought it for them. Or they bought it with my money, depending on how you look at it.

When Tony pulls up in front of a mansion with a moving truck and cop car sitting in front, though, I sit up and pay attention.

“This is Hugh’s place,” I say. My voice, after resting all day, comes out perfectly clear.

Tony’s already getting out of the vehicle, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He stops and points a warning finger at me, and I totally lose my cool. Enough with acting like he’s in charge of me. It may have been fun when his hands were on my hips and his cock was buried deep inside me, but now? Real life shit? Not so much. And whatever is going down here is not going to be pretty.

I get out and slam the door. “What in the hell is going on?”

Tony’s jaw tightens, but he chooses to ignore me, walking instead toward the thugs who are standing around the cop car, talking to the police while dialing a number on his phone. “Yeah, Hugh. I’m at your house. I need you to tell the police that we’re supposed to be here moving your shit out.”

Even trailing five feet behind Tony I can hear Hugh’s voice explode on the other end. First he yells, then there’s talking. Wheedling, I’m sure.

Tony holds the phone away from his ear, ignoring the whole thing. “Tell them now, Hugh.” He walks up to the police, radiating confidence. “Mr. Baleshire hired us to move his furniture. I have him on the phone here.” He holds out the phone.

The cop casts him a scornful look, but takes the phone and holds it to his ear. I stand back and watch while Tony leans against the moving truck, casual as can be. Like he always breaks into houses and empties them of their furniture while the police look on.

Somehow, it does work out that way, though. The cop on the phone takes down some information and goes to his vehicle. When he returns, he speaks to his partner and the two of them get in their car and drive away.

Tony takes a look inside the moving truck. Inside is Hugh’s grand piano—the one he doesn’t know how to play—and his leather couches, La-Z-Boy, oriental rugs, dining room table, and everything else that was on the first floor.

“Okay, carry on. Leave the personal shit unless it can be easily sold. Just get all the furniture to auction and let me know what you get for it, capiche?” Tony directs the men.

“You got it, boss,” the guys say, and get back to work loading the truck.

I’m suddenly ice cold. And sick to my stomach.

Whatever story I’d told myself about Tony Brando was bullshit. The man is a criminal. A dangerous, evil man.

If he’s emptying Hugh’s house, mine will be next.

Hell, maybe his guys are already over there now, telling my parents to get out and hand over the keys.

I turn and stumble back to the Range Rover, blinking back tears. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Not for Hugh. He totally deserves this.

I guess because my situation just got real again. I’m with a criminal. Probably a killer.

My life is in danger. My parents’ lives are in danger.

I could lose everything.

I climb in the back seat of the Range Rover because I can’t stomach the thought of sitting next to Brando.

He gives me a glance when he gets back in, but doesn’t comment, just drives.

When I see we’re going to the airport and not my house, next, I croak, “Was that stop for my benefit?”

“No.”

I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t look in the rear view mirror at me.

For some reason, I get the idea that he’s sorry, but I push it away. That’s me making up stories again. I always want to believe the best in people: in my band members, the crew, in Hugh, in my parents. Because to believe differently is too terrifying. It would mean I am utterly alone in this world. No one on my side.

But sticking my head in the sand is how I got into this shitstorm in the first place. Letting Hugh use my name and credit to buy his new house. Believing in his projections for my new album. Letting him push me into making crappy recycled music instead of the real art I started with.

I’ve lost myself so completely I don’t know who I am. Who to trust. Where to turn.

A tear slides down my cheek. I brush it away.

I just have to get through this next month and then this will all be over.

Just twenty shows and I never have to see Tony Brando or the Bellissimo again.

Pepper

My mom calls when I’m back in my room.

“Hi, Mom,” I rasp. “I’m not supposed to be talking.”

“Oh honey, you lost your voice?”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t Hugh cancel your shows? You could fly home and rest for a few days.”

“That would be great, Mom, but it’s not possible.” My dad knows, but we haven’t told my mom about the situation with the Tacones. My dad basically thinks my mom is made of glass and doesn’t want to break her. That’s what happens after a cancer scare.

“Well, talk to Hugh. You’re so close to L.A. It would be easy to zip on home.”

Home. First of all, it’s not my home, it’s theirs. The one they bought with my money. Second, I was in L.A. today, not that I’m going to tell her that.

“You could come here, Mom. Fly out to see my show.” Damn the hopeful kid note that creeps into my voice.

“Oh, I don’t know, honey. I’m not sure I’m up for travel. Besides, who would feed Mr. Furry?”

“Right.” Hope bleeds black and crimson. My mom has been cancer-free for a year now, but in a way, I still lost her. I lost both my parents to their fear. Or to their comforts. Sometimes I think they’re so happy being rich, spending my money, they forgot how to live. Or that I might still need them.

But that’s stupid. I don’t need them. And keeping them far away from the Tacones is probably my best bet. No, my situation is still the same—get through the next twenty shows, get the debt paid off and then I can lick my wounds.

Head down, nose to the grindstone. Same thing I’ve been doing for the last seven years.