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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.
