The first article was about Bellerose going into hiding to work on their overdue album and speculation that they were in shit for both canceling the international leg of their tourandfor excessive partying lately. It hurt to read, seeing these boys I cared for being discussed with such insensitivity, but this was the life they chose. It couldn’t be easy to be famous.
I paused on a post that led with a full-page photo ofme. Me and Angelo. It’d been taken some weeks ago when we were leaving the country club luncheon where that bitch whose name I’d already forgotten dumped wine on me.
I had a coat on when they’d taken the photo, so my bump was hidden entirely, but the blogger was quick to comment thatBillie Bellerose has gained plenty of pounds since leaving the band in disarray, looking festively plump ahead of Thanksgiving.
“Seriously?” I spluttered. “How do people write this shit?”
At least the author had commented that I looked good with the extra weight.
The next article was much more confrontational, and my palms sweat as I read all about howI’dtorn the band apart by sleeping around. Fucking hell.
I scrolled down, skim-reading posts about Flo and Tom’s breakup and speculations about him taking all her money. Good. Bitch deserved it. I’d have been happier if it was Tom getting his just desserts, but I had faith that karma was coming for him.
Then countless posts about Rhett’s drug use and Jace’s womanizing. There were even several uncensored photos of him fucking girls publicly, which made me shift uncomfortably in my seat.
After a few more posts, some of which focused on my history with Angelo and Jace—facts totally skewed to favor Jace—I had to stop reading. They’d touched on my parents’ deaths, and I just couldn’t face that right now.
“Okay, so they’re in the media. That’s nothing new for Bellerose. What do you need from me?”
Brenda rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “Well, shit. I came here to ask if you’d be open to visiting with them. I thought if you and Rhett could talk, maybe it’d help him heal. But this…” She waved a hand at my belly. “This would be like throwing a can of gasoline on a campfire.”
“Maybe that’s what they need,” Angelo mused.
Brenda’s look of shock probably mirrored my own. “I don’t think—”
“I do,” he countered, smiling an evil smile. “All their best music came from pain and anger, not reconciliations. You want good songs? Let’s blow shit up.”
My jaw dropped. “What? No. Angelo, I can’t meet with them likethis.” I flapped my hands in distress. Had he just had a stroke? In no world was this a good idea.
“Meet them? No, we can’t just do that. For one thing, thisDirty Truthsprick seems to have eyes everywhere, and for another, they’re locked away on a writing retreat. We’ll have to go andstay, of course.”
I nearly fainted. “We?”
Angelo’s grin spread wide. “I can’t let my pregnant mistress stay with a bunch of rock stars alone. It’d be unseemly. Besides, Brenda, you know all Jace’s best shit wasn’tonlyabout Billie.”
I had nothing to say. Speechless. I was fuckingspeechless.
Wait. No, I wasn’t. “Why? This makes zero sense, Angelo. I’m sorry but you’re fucking up to something and don’t for a second try to pretend you want to help Bellerose finish their album because you’re a fan of their music. What gives?”
Angelo and Brenda exchanged a glance, then hisdon’t give a fuckstare returned to me. He shrugged. “Maybe I do have ulterior motives, but last I checked, I don’t have to explain myself. You want to see your boy toy Rhett again, don’t you?” I nodded before I could catch myself. “So just go along with it, Bella. My reasons are my own, and Brenda can’t afford to question them any more than you can.”
Brenda winced, but also nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “You might have a point there, Angelo. Christ, this will either produce some amazing music or end in a bloodbath. Let’s do it.” They’d both lost their fucking minds.
twelve
GRAYSON
I’d been closely followingThe Dirty Truthsas part of my investigation. Their information was only a few steps behind mine, and on the rare times Johnson or I missed something in our surveillance, they tended to find it. I managed to avoid any question from my bandmates about my lack of surprise when Brenda brought it up, and after another couple of days had passed, we were all too focused on the music to worry about the outside world.
Except for my once-a-day updates from the dickhead-of-the-year-investigator, Johnson. In his last update, I’d been surprised to hear that Billie was in Naples, seen exiting the Big Noise head office. Angelo was with her, of course. A captor never allowed his prisoner to roam freely without him.
Speculation of why she was there, and in our label’s office, dominated my mind, even as I mindlessly drummed along to the beat Jace was experimenting with for his current song. This house had a basement studio and music room with the most incredible equipment and acoustics. We’d been down here most of the time, only moving to the main level when we needed to eat or sleep.
“It’s missing something,” Rhett said shortly. “We sound like fucking amateurs.” He was more with it on our third day here, but his temper was out of control. If Brenda didn’t hook him up with something soon, I was going to be burying a bandmate out in the backyard. Asshole was getting on my last nerve.
He wasn’t wrong though. For all of his issues, Rhett had an ear for music that rivaled Jace’s. Sometimes it was far greater.
“I think the issue is—” Florence barely got those words out before Rhett growled and stomped off, guitar still over his shoulder. If she added harmony, he didn’t flip out, but the moment she offered an opinion, he lost his shit.
