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Vance’s gaze whipped from the Luxes and he zeroed in on her. “You signed Harper?”
Before the Luxes could reply, voices called out from the audience.
“Vance Vibe copied my music!”
“He stole our stuff, too!” came another voice.
Vance peered into the crowd. “This is a misunderstanding. I’ve never stolen anybody’s work.”
As soon as the words fell from Vance’s lips, a video with LookyLoo clips from other bands playing so-called Vance Vibe songs graced the screen with the video upload date printed at the bottom. Then a clip of Vance performing the song with the release date printed in red letters. Clip after clip proved that Vance had copied and stolen from dozens of artists.
The crowd booed every time Vance appeared, and rightly so.
The guy hadn’t written anything original.
Nothing.
He’d stolen everything in his music catalog.
“You’re a thief and a fraud, Vance Viberenski,” Mrs. Luxe called in her buttery Donna voice.
“Your goose is cooked, son,” Mr. Luxe exclaimed, following his wife’s lead and reverting to Damien’s drawl. “Vance the Cheat is no longer welcome at Luxe Media and Entertainment. Effective right this very second, he is banned from every Luxe hotel and media platform.”
The fraud’s jaw dropped as he connected Donna and Damien to the powerful Luxes.
“And he’s not welcome at the Double-Dog Dare music festival either.”
Landon.
She gasped as her husband walked onto the stage, owning the spotlight, and the crowd went wild. He scanned the area near the base of the jumbo screen and stilled when he met her gaze. Her pulse hammered, and her mouth went dry as Landon looked at her like nothing else existed. Holy hot rock star, she’d missed him. He smiled, and damn the man for tossing her that sexy as hell boyish half-grin.
Landon raised his hand, signaling for the crowd to quiet, and the amphitheater went from roaring cheers to hear-a-pin-drop silence.
“Hey, bonbon.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Hey, heartthrob.”
He looked her over. “I like your shirt.”
She shrugged, playing it off. “I can’t seem to get rid of it.”
That boyish half-grin stretched to a wide, grateful smile.
“Hold up a second, Vance,” Aria called, coming out of nowhere and skipping across the stage.
She’d nearly forgotten about the pop poser.
Vance looked ready to lose his lunch. “Yeah, kid?”
The child peered into the audience and waved. “Aunt Harper?”
“Yes?”
“This is for you,” the girl said, then marched up to Vance and took the mic out of his hand. “Vance Vibe, keep fighting the good fight and vibe on, you butthole douche nozzle.”
The kid had unleashed a firestorm of bad words, and she’d never been prouder of the girl.
Vance stared at the kid, wide-eyed, looking ready to crap his pants.
