The Daymakers, page 20
The label wanted us to make a public appearance somewhere to make it clear it wasn’t the band personally, but none of us wanted to go on parade while Lottie was rotting in a cell.
Hero had called Sampson Rubio, who we knew from boarding school, to get the number for his criminal defense lawyer. Sampson had gotten into some trouble a little while ago, and his lawyer was a fucking shark. He had a reputation as the best, and we wanted the best for Charlotte.
Grand larceny… The hell? I’d thought Shep was going to punch Whitt when he suggested that maybe the charges were true. Luckily, Tricia had done it for him.
Whitt had been running interference with the label the best he could, but he wasn’t as invested in Lottie as we were. The label wanted to cut her loose, move the tour on. Distance ourselves both physically and metaphorically.
I wasn’t leaving her behind. No fucking way. It burned that I couldn’t be there, but I couldn’t exactly walk into a police station as fucking Knight, mask and all. And that was the crux of it—these made-up personas had no legal standing, but the real me? I could throw around some weight. But it would mean unveiling ourselves, which would breach our contracts with the label.
They weren’t scared about threatening us with legal action if we didn’t honor the terms of our tour contracts either. They’d used that stick to beat us several times in the last six hours.
Fuck. She’d been sitting in a cell for six hours.
I looked at Hero, who was staring at his phone. “Anything from the lawyer?”
He shook his head. “No.”
The show had already loaded out to head to Nashville, and we were delaying. I’d walk off this bus if I had to, the tour be damned. When had Lottie become so important to me?
I looked over at Poet, who was staring at nothing, his thoughts obviously far away. I knew now that there was no way I was going to just wish her luck at the end of the tour. I wanted her to stay with me, without the promise of money at the end.
Shep was on his phone to god knows who, but judging by the language, he was trying to figure out where the bogus charges had come from. I knew the look on his face; I’d seen it all through our teenage years after he’d kind of adopted us. Feral protectiveness. He would have killed men for us—still would—but I didn’t know when Lottie had become important enough to him that she qualified for that kind of loyalty too.
They hadn’t even slept together, from what I was aware. Was there more going on with them than they let on? Was she going behind our backs?
Jealousy burned in my chest, but it was a bitter feeling from old wounds. When Laura had tried to fuck Royal, her cheating broke something inside me. That had been the moment I’d gone from trusting implicitly to wary of everyone’s intentions.
Shaking my head, I pushed the negative thoughts back down. Now was not the time to start overthinking. Lottie needed us, and if that meant she got Shep too, that was good with me. I was already sharing her with my three best friends—what was one more?
Honestly, I’d thought it would be hard, but it felt almost right. Laura had almost torn us apart, but Charlotte had brought us closer together. Getting to know her, caring for her, having her care for us? It meant something.
A knock at the door had me leaping to my feet. Was she back? Had Hero’s fancy lawyer shut this bullshit all down?
Shep opened the door to find one of the roadies standing there. “There’s a lawyer at the gate,” he said quietly. Alexi was one of our regular roadies, and I trusted him more than others.
“Dreamer?” Shep asked, his voice purposefully neutral.
Alexi shook his head. “There’s just the lawyer.”
“Send him up,” Shep growled, and I could see the defeated feeling in my chest mirrored on his face.
We were silent as we all slipped our masks back on. They felt ridiculous right now, like we were playing dress-up while Charlotte’s future hung on the line. I wanted to down an entire bottle of vodka, but I also didn’t want to be drunk if she needed me.
There was another knock on the door, and Shep opened it. His face turned from pleasantly neutral to rage in the space of a second. He was out of the bus in a dive, laying into the guy in front of us until Hero and Alexi got him around the shoulders and pulled him off.
“How does it feel to be on the other end of fists, you fuck?”
Hero dropped Shep’s arm as his words penetrated. The guy climbed to his feet, spitting blood, his face already blackening into a bruise.
“I’m going to have you charged with fucking assault,” he spat back, and I was kind of glad to see there was a tooth in the blood on the ground. Because the guy wasn’t any random person.
He was Tom. Charlotte’s ex, Tom.
Abusive psycho Tom.
I growled low, and he held up a hand. “Before you attack me again, you might want to wait and hear what I have to say.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you have to say.” I wanted to fucking wring this puny asshole’s neck with my own two hands.
“You might want to reconsider that stance, Mr. Beck.”
“I don’t want to reconsider… What did you just call me?” My heart pounded in my chest, and my eyes went wide before I shut it down.
But that fucker knew he had me.
Had us all.
He gave me a smirk that made me want to rip his head off. “Why don’t we go inside and talk—unless you want to have this conversation out here, among all your employees with their cellphone cameras and social media pages?”
I flicked my eyes to Alexi, who was gaping at us all. Using my last name had given nothing away to Alexi, but if this guy ran his mouth much more, the secret would be out.
Shep ground his jaw so hard, I wondered if his teeth might crack. He shook off Alexi’s arm and stepped aside. The guy showed he had no actual self-preservation because he walked up the stairs like he owned the bus, showing his back to a real predator.
Shep looked at Alexi. “Not a fucking word.” It wasn’t a request.
Alexi shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he walked away. Yeah, that was why Alexi had been with the band so long.
As we climbed the stairs, Tom and Royal were having a staredown. Royal looked like death, the mask making him look more ominous than his golden-boy visage would normally allow.
Tom gave him an effusive smile. “Ah, Rourke Stokes, infamous playboy son of even more infamous playboy Roman Stokes. Guess the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree, seeing how you’re fucking every whore this side of the Mason-Dixon line, my girlfriend included.” He turned to Poet, who was standing behind him. “And Moss Aguilar, beloved son of Formula One driver Olivier Aguilar. Tragedy that he fucking drove like a lunatic into another car, right? Lucky you only lost your foot and not your life, unlike everyone else in that accident, including your dad.”
Immediately, Hero stepped forward to pummel the fucker, because no one—especially not this fuck—got to poke at Poet’s wounds. But Poet gripped the back of his shirt, holding him back.
“He’s not worth it,” he murmured softly to Hero, before facing Tom. “Yeah, I know who you are too, Tom fucking Granville Junior. Abuser. Piece of shit. Has just as much to lose as we do.” Poet’s voice was soft, but I could hear the rage beneath the words.
“Listen to your boyfriend, Curtis Hawkins. Not even your family’s money could get you out of a murder charge.” The asshole held up his hands in front of him. “Look, gentlemen, I have no argument with you, despite the fact you’ve been fucking my girlfriend. I just want my Charlie back. I’ve missed her so much, and I want these last couple of months to go away. I made mistakes, but I’ve gotten into anger management and I swear, I will make her happy again.”
“Bull-fucking-shit,” I snapped, but Royal held up a hand.
“And what do you want us to do about it? Charlotte’s an adult, not a prisoner on the tour. If she wanted to go home to you, she would.”
Tom snorted. “And leave the glamor of touring across the country with a famous rock band? She’s always had a bit of a wandering soul, that one. Probably comes from being booted from foster home to foster home for seducing her foster dads. That one has serious daddy issues. I can’t blame her. Her father was a meth addict who took as many drugs as he made, before he was sent to prison. Honestly, she’s so fucked up, it’s no wonder she stole all my firm’s money, then skipped off to join a music tour to be a glorified prostitute.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Ah, Jessie Beck. This little setup should feel just like home, considering the articles written about your home life. A family of degenerate deviants means you never stood a chance.”
Yeah, my family were notorious swingers. So fucking what.
Royal gripped my arm. “Make your point and get the fuck out, asshole.”
“She was amusingly easy to find, considering how hopped up on anonymity you are. My PI asked the right questions in LA and then Vegas, and this sudden appearance of Dreamer?” He snorted, like we were the ridiculous ones, then steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Look, I’ll make this simple for you. You kick Charlotte to the curb. Go on with your tour, keep your anonymity, and forget she ever existed.” He rolled his eyes at me. “I can already tell by your faces that you don’t believe me. I’ll write up an NDA to sign, make it ironclad, as long as a few conditions are met—starting with you fucking off to Nashville and leaving Charlotte behind.”
Shep snarled. “We aren’t abandoning her to prison, you piece of shit.”
Tom’s eyes slipped from Shep, like he was inconsequential, and I guess if you judged power only by wealth and family name, he would be the least powerful here. But he was a child of the streets, and physically more dangerous than all of us combined.
Tom just frowned, nodding in a condescending way. “I see. I promise that I’ll get the charges against her dropped completely. My colleagues are lawyers; they’ll understand that when the money is returned, making it go away will be better for business than a drawn-out court proceeding.” His gaze sharpened. “But only if you agree to my terms. It’s simple. You leave Charlotte alone, and everything gets fixed. Your tour contracts won’t be in jeopardy, your careers won’t be in tatters, your anonymity stays in check and Charlotte’s charges disappear. It’s win-win. Think it over. I’ll see myself out.”
Shep was already moving after him, making sure he left the lot, and hopefully this fucking mortal coil. I slumped back onto the couch, ripping off my mask and looking around at the men who were my brothers. Everything we’d ever worked for was in jeopardy, but so was Lottie.
“What the fuck do we do?”
But no one had any answers.
THIRTY-ONE
CHARLOTTE
The interview that occurred after I offloaded my entire sordid history onto my new lawyer was nothing if not torturous. The detective from before, plus another I didn’t recognize, returned and the cameras were turned back on.
Tobias sat beside me, a notebook in front of him. He’d told me to be honest with the cops, and that he’d watch for any statements that could be misconstrued, or if the police were leading me down a path that might sound incriminating. All the evidence they had so far was circumstantial, so without a confession, it was going to be a hard sell to the DA.
It had to be Tom, and that’s what I told them. Repeatedly.
My tone was monotone as I explained about first meeting Tom at a bar where I was working. How he’d been charming and kind, buying me drinks and walking me to my car after my shift to make sure I wasn’t attacked by random drunks. How he started coming to sit at my bar every Thursday and just talking to me, like he cared about what my dreams were.
I felt like such an idiot when I admitted that I’d moved in with him after only a couple of months. His pristine apartment with its shiny chrome appliances and fancy coffee maker had seemed like paradise. How, when the bar went belly-up, he’d told me that I didn’t have to find another job, because I could look after the house and he’d look after me.
As soon as he had me cut off from everything, he changed. How it was just slowly at first, telling me we should eat better, go to the gym. How he’d call me fat and then restrict what I could eat, even when he’d eat fast food. How he’d complain about the way I loaded the dishwasher or vacuumed the floor. How the food I cooked was trash. How I wasn’t as pretty as his coworkers’ girlfriends. How I was lazy and using him. How he’d dress me for corporate office parties, fuck me in his office, then berate me for being a whore when we got home.
I told them about when he started hitting me. How he’d worn me down so much that I believed him when he said it was just because of a hard case at work, that he didn’t mean it. That he’d never do it again.
Again and again. Until I was convinced there was nowhere I could go and nobody who would help me.
When I got to the part in the back alley of the club, how he’d beaten me and tried to sexually assault me, my words caught in my throat. It had been the best and worst night of my life. Tobias gripped my fingers tightly, a show of support from a stranger that I desperately needed.
“This is when you joined The Daymakers tour?” the detective from earlier, Detective Ball, asked, making his own notes.
I nodded. “I scaled the security fencing and hid under a truck. The band’s manager found me and kind of took pity on me.”
Detective Ball looked at his notes. “Manager-slash-security personnel… Grover Shepherd?”
I snorted a laugh, before slapping a hand over my mouth. “Sorry. I just call him Shep. I didn’t realize his first name was Grover.” If they ever let me out of here, that was the first thing I was going to ask him about. I cleared my throat. “Yeah, he took me to see the tour doctor, and she patched me up.”
“So you never attended a clinic or the hospital? Made a police report about your injuries?”
I let out a shaky breath. “No. I just wanted to escape. I wanted to get away. They offered me the chance.” I shrugged. “What was a hospital going to tell me that I didn’t already know from having the shit kicked out of me for years? I’ve had broken ribs before, Detective, and I wasn’t going to sit in urgent care for them to look at me with pity in their eyes and then tell me to ice it.” I’d been there way too many times already.
Tobias tapped his pen on his notebook. “Can we get to the actual charges now? Because this looks like revenge to me, but you’re the detectives.” His sarcasm in his tone was so sharp, it was a wonder it didn’t shred the cops to pieces.
Other than the shell company with my literal name, the firm had video surveillance of me looking at Tom’s computer after an office party for someone’s retirement. What they couldn’t see was the screen.
I remembered the night clearly. I’d been looking at the time, hoping that I could leave. Tom had banged me against the door, his hand plastered over my mouth to keep me quiet, not caring that I could barely breathe. He’d finished and left, telling me to fix myself up. That fucker had known the camera was there too, because he’d looked directly at it at one point.
To complement that was Tom’s statement that he’d caught me on his work computer at home, as well as the fact that I was listed as the only beneficiary on a huge transfer of money to the Caymans.
The detective gave my lawyer a droll look. “The evidence isn’t inconsequential.”
“All you have is hearsay and literal grasping at straws.”
“Enough to charge her with larceny, though. Proving it wasn’t her is a you thing, Mr. Lecter. Not a me thing.”
Tobias sighed heavily. “We both know this won’t go past preliminary hearings.”
The other detective—Detective Michaelson—shrugged. “The firm seems intent, and they have friends in high places.”
Putting away his notebook, Tobias fixed narrowed eyes on the detectives. “I have a history of bringing those friends in high places back down to earth where they belong. I won’t let my client be railroaded by some piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend. I want her arraigned as soon as possible, so be a decent human being and put her ticket in immediately, if that’s the path you wish to take.”
Detective Michaelson just gave him a hard look, but didn’t comment. “We’ll give you one last moment with your client. Someone will be down to take her back to her cell shortly.” The detectives stood and left, and Tobias turned to me.
“Don’t worry about the bond. I’ll get the band to arrange it, and if they can’t, I’ll do it myself. I know a few people who’ve been in your position who wouldn’t mind helping you out. Trust me, you’re never going to see inside the walls of a prison.” He stopped short of promising me, though.
I let out a shaky sigh. “Thank you, Tobias. I know this isn’t what you wanted to do with your Monday morning.”
He gave me a pat on the back. “Still better than my morning commute. Is there anything you want me to tell your friends?”
I hesitated. “Tell them thank you. And that they need to go to Nashville for the next show. I think they might try and stay, but I don’t want them to get in trouble. So tell them that I said they have to go.”
A uniformed officer appeared then to escort me back to the cell. Trying not to look as panicked as I felt, I waved to Tobias and walked back toward the lock-up.
Twenty-four hours later, I was transferred to the courthouse. I stood there in crusty clothes, my hair like a rat’s nest on top of my head, probably smelling like asscrack. I wanted to cry.
Whitt and Shep sat on a bench at the back of the courtroom, and just looking at Shep had me close to losing it. His jaw kept flexing, like he wanted to race over here and bundle me into his arms, and I desperately wanted him to do it.
Tobias was there, and he smiled at me confidently. “Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice, and I nodded. I was okay. I’d been through worse. I wasn’t some rich princess who had never been in trouble with the law. It made me tougher, but didn’t make it any easier to bear.
