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The male host’s reply is gobbled up by laughter. “It sounds like you’re throwing her a lifeline, Tahnia.”
“That’s because I am.”
“Why?” the male host instantly fires back.
“Because no one likes to talk about a relationship while it is in the teething stage.” Her voice is so loud several of the road crew grimace when it squeaks through the speaker near their heads. “You should know that better than anyone.”
When Tahnia’s eyes shoot daggers at the male disc jockey, he tugs on the collar of his shirt before making a face only his co-host can decipher. “We seem to have gotten off track. I thought we were talking about Nicole’s new-forming relationship?”
The audience, which is subsequently smaller than the others she’s faced today due to the minimal floor space on the rooftop, laughs when Nicole butts in. “I’m more than happy for the focus to remain on Trent.”
“Are you sure?” Tahnia asks. “This could be a great opener for I-like-you subliminal messages. The stars are out, the moon is bright, and I still have goosebumps from your performance. If you give him a taste of the magic you awarded us tonight, but in a more intimate setting, you’ll know exactly where he stands by the a.m.”
Nicole’s words are so low, if she weren’t wearing a microphone, I might have missed them. “He’s already experienced everything I have to offer.”
“What was that?” Trent asks with a cocked brow, his shock as staggering as mine.
Mindful he heard her mumbled comment, Nicole’s eyes bulge as her throat works through a hard swallow. “Nothing. I didn’t say a word.”
They know she’s lying, but since they’re still riding the high of the biggest ratings they’ve had to date during Nicole’s live performance, they let her off the hook.
“All right, girl. Don’t say another word. We’ve got your back.”
As Trent announces they’re going to the phones to take some calls from listeners, I’m tapped on the shoulder by Miranda, Knox’s accountant slash office clerk.
It is the fight of my life to take my eyes off Nicole—it’s been like this all day, sneaky, longing glances and an unlimited number of playful hand squeezes—but I’m given no choice when Miranda stuffs a thin document with perforated edges into my hand.
“What’s this?”
“That’s your first pay stub.” She highlights the 000001 written in the top corner next to my name before handing out stubs to the crew waiting for Nicole’s interview to end so they can dismantle the set. It’s been a long day, and everyone is exhausted. “You’ll get one every week.” She scans the crowd before asking, “Where’s Mason?”
“He had to take a shit,” replies one of the crew loud enough for the radio show's producer to glare at him. After mouthing his apology, he tells Miranda, “I’ll take it for him. We’re bunked in the same room.”
His confession reminds me why I’m manning the rooftop without the sidekick who rarely left my side the past twelve hours. Nicole wanted River to be a part of the proceedings as much I wanted him to be, so she had a third director’s chair added to her list of necessities by her second interview.
She also ensured there was no chance of her connecting her eyes with the wrong supporter first. My chair butted Knox’s during her second interview, and it was closest to the stage.
I tried not to look into her diva demands too much. I miserably failed.
I’ve been prancing around like a soft cock all day.
“River went to bed early too. Do you want me to take his pay stub?”
“Ah…” I can’t tell whether guilt or distrust hardens Miranda’s face. “He… umm…” She scratches at her brow and releases a husky cough before admitting, “He doesn’t get a pay stub.”
“He doesn’t?” If my voice were any higher, I’d check my neck for testicles.
Dark locks swish on Miranda’s shoulders when she shakes her head. “His pay barely covers his board, and the rest Knox requested I put against his expenses.”
Now my voice is fueled with annoyance instead of shock. “What expenses could he rack up that cost more than fifty K a year?”
Miranda’s brow is lost in her hairline. “Fifty thousand?”
“That’s Knox’s going rate for his team. I’ve heard it a hundred times in the past week. Fifty thousand flat rate and a share of the royalties…” My words trail off when surprise softens Miranda’s cut features.
“River is paid two dollars an hour, Laken. Before his…promotion”—she says the word like it doesn’t hold the importance of its dictionary definition—“he only cleaned enough toilets to pay him a maximum of twenty dollars a week. His board is ten times that, so he owes Knox almost one hundred thousand dollars.”
I try to simmer my anger by reminding myself Miranda isn’t responsible for Knox’s decision, but my concerns fire from my mouth like bullets from a gun. “What the hell are you talking about? He doesn’t owe Knox a damn cent. We agreed that Knox would take care of River while I was away. Thatallhis needs were covered. But even if that term was misunderstood like every other fucking agreement I made with Knox’s family, what happened to the money I sent River each month?”
