Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) (4 page)

“Absolutely,” he respond immediately. “It’s
my job to know when my artists are being taken advantage of.”

“And I assume that you think I am?” I ask
warily, flipping the page.

“Yes. That’s the extent of what I have.”

I read over the documents carefully. It seems
to be a third party account. Withdraws and deposits not adding
up.

“So what you’re saying is . . .?” I ask
him.

“That you’re broke. Move to the last page,”
Batty says, flipping to the last page for me. “This is your last
known account balance.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he
swallows. He definitely looks nervous.

“This says one hundred thousand dollars. I
don’t see the problem,” I tell him as I look over the numbers.

“Do you know what you’re mortgage is, Sadie?”
he asks me, dumbly I think.

“My house is paid for,” I tell him
deliberately.

“No. It’s not. Who told you that?” he shoots
back.

“Brian . . .” I say, looking closer at the
withdrawals. “So this is tens of thousands of dollars put into
their accounts.”

“Yes. Brian and—”

“Tammy,” I finish.

“I’ve been trying to get you in here for
months because this is what the numbers say every month. You charge
everything, correct?” he asks. I think back to my entire adult
life, where I’ve never thought about anything but what I wanted and
sliding over a black AmEx card.

“I . . . I suppose,” I say, looking at the
number more carefully.

“You thought you had your parents in an
assisted living facility in Oregon, I assume?”

“Assume?” I croak. Of course I thought they
were taken care of. What kind of person does he think I am?

“They’ve been in a state facility for the
last five years. When’s the last time you checked your
finances?”

I blink. “I don’t understand,” I mumble,
flipping through the statements, looking for another zero or
comma.

Batty’s big hand comes down on top of my
endless flipping. “Brian and Tammy have been syphoning off money
from you since you were fifteen years old. They haven’t been taking
the ten percent they signed for.”

“So you’re saying?” I ask numbly.

“That you’re broke.”

I sigh loudly and close my eyes. “Where are
my parents?” I mumble.

“When’s the last time you saw them?” he asks.
I wave my hand.

“A long time ago. I thought they were
comfortable. You’re saying they’re in some half bit place waiting
to die?”

Having spent time in the oncology unit of a
hospital, I understand people giving up hope on someone. I thought
my parents were getting the best money could buy.
“So they’re where?” I ask. I was an accident. My parents had their
kids, were happy, then had a rambunctious spitfire they didn’t know
what to do with. Me.

“You need to go see your folks. I understand
you intend to quit the band?”

I lean forward. “You’re saying my brother and
sister stole all of my money and put our parents somewhere that
cost the least amount of money possible?” I ask him, still
incredulous.

Batty meets my eyes without flinching. “Yes.
I’m sorry, Sadie.”

I swallow back my emotions. “So . . . my
siblings have been stealing from me since I was a teenager,
treating me like shit, while I thought our parents were taken care
of?” I ask him, just to clarify. At this point, I’m sure I’m
repeating myself, but what the actual fuck?

“Yes.”

“And what business is this of yours?” I want
to know why he had someone look into me.

“Because I pay your salary. At first, I
thought you were just heartless and didn’t care. But after seeing
you with the kids, I knew you weren’t aware of your parent’s
care.”

I shoot up from my chair. “Of course I didn’t
know!”

Batty raises his hands. “Sadie—”

“Shut up.” I run my hands through my greasy
hair as I pace. “Let me think.”

Batty is quiet in his big leather chair. I
ignore him to think of my almost ten million dollar house on the
beach, my expensive car, everything I’ve pulled out my credit card
for, while my parents were what? Being fed? I don’t fucking
know.

“Can I sue them?” I ask feebly. My, have the
self-righteous have fallen.

“Absolutely. It may take years, but I can get
you the information you need,” Batty answers readily.

“So, in the meantime I do what? I quit. I
can’t go back to singing for that band, Batty. Maury . . . I
can’t,” I drift off.

“Absolutely fucking not. Maury is a pedophile
as far as I’m concerned. I won’t be signing a contract with them
again,” Batty growls.

“I’m over eighteen, old man. Twenty-two in
fact,” I remind him.

“He’s been after you for longer than I’ve
been in charge. Now that you’ve quit, what do you want to do?”

I look at him. “What do you mean?”

He lifts a shoulder and taps a pen against
the desk. Where did he get another one? “What do you want to do now
that you don’t have any money? You want to go work at the mall
where you buy your Chuck Taylors?”

I smirk, thinking about the first time I
bought a pair . . . okay, twenty pairs of Chuck Taylors at the
mall. “What do they make, like twenty—”

“Ten.”

“Ten dollars an hour? Seriously?” I ask,
thinking about how many times I asked for a different size the last
time I was there.

“At the most,” he verifies.

“Shit.”

I take a deep breath through my nose and put
my palms on the table. “What are my alternatives?” I ask. I’m not
stupid. For him to come to me with proof in hand, he has to have a
way out. I hope.

“You work for me.”

I stare into those grey eyes, the sky behind
him almost too bright to see the color, but I look carefully.
“How?”

It’s his turn to stand. “I have a project
I’ve been working on.”

“What kind of project, and can I sue the shit
out of my manager and publicist in the process?”

“Absolutely. I’ll pay for the attorneys if
you let me. There should have been a clause in your contract where
someone was keeping track of your money when you were a minor.
That’s the record label’s fault and we’ll take full responsibility,
since you started at fifteen. What I have for you is a solo gig,
but it’s like nothing you’ve ever done,” he cautions.

I shrug. What do I have to lose? “How much is
my mortgage?” I ask.

“About fifty-eight thousand. You have maybe a
month before you have to file bankruptcy.”

“What do I do?”

“How do you feel about reality TV?”

I throw the papers down on the table where
they slide and fan out. “I don’t even own a TV, Batty! Shit, I
can’t even fucking afford one now!” I cannot lose it in this room,
not in front of this man.

“No, I’m talking about singing competitions.
You must know the one’s I’m talking about.”

“You want me to sing?” I ask in surprise. Not
what I was expecting.

Batty puts his hands through his hair.
“Sometimes. I want you to be a judge on my new singing competition
reality show.”

Never in the history of the world did I ever
think I would be considering something like this. I sigh and slump
back into my seat. “Tell me more,” I mumble.

Batty smirks. “Now who’s pouting like a
little kid? I can think of better things to do with that bottom lip
if you don’t suck it back in.”

Oh, so tempting. But no, I’m fucking broke.
Is this what people worry about all the time? Five minutes and I
feel like I’m about to have a nervous breakdown. I pull my lip back
in so we can stay on track.

“There would be two other artists. The idea
is that you each find your contestants through different mediums.
YouTube, live auditions and live performances stumbled upon like at
a bar. Now since you—”

I raise my hand and cut him off quickly.
“Live gigs, I want the scavenger hunt.”

“—would be the last judge, you’re stuck with
live gigs,” Batty finishes with a shake of his head.

“Yes!” Finally, something is going my
way.

“There are other twists with the game, but
it’s a paycheck.”

“How much of a paycheck are we talking
about?”

My eyes track his tongue as it swipes his
lips again. “You would get half up front and all expenses
paid.”

“How much is half?” Okay, so my voice raises.
Batty was starting to worry me with his avoidance.

“Five hundred.”

“Thousand? How much are the others getting?
Who are they, anyway?”

“Fandy Merna and Daniel Walsh. What they’re
getting isn’t up for discussion,” he says shortly.

I laugh and shake my head. “You know it’s
going to be public knowledge shortly. They’re going to freak out
when they find out I’m on board for this, I can tell you that. It’s
like the only reason I’m being considered is because I’m fucking
the boss,” I say caustically.

Batty nods his head. “That would be correct.
The only reason you’re being offered this job is because I’m
fucking you.” At my glare, he holds out his hands and smiles. “Hey,
I thought you would be happy. That means I don’t want you to
starve, babe.”

“Don’t babe me. I assume it goes without
being said that no one can know about the two of us?” I ask with an
eye roll.

Batty raises his eyebrows and leans forward
in his chair. “That means you want this to continue, then?”

I look at him in his expensive suit,
absolutely not looking like he had sex twenty minutes ago. “I’m
still pissed at you,” I say for good measure.

Batty’s smile starts slowly as he stands and
moves closer to me. “Of course.” He puts a hand on the back of my
chair and drops his eyes to my mouth.

“I’m serious. I haven’t decided if I’m
kicking you in the balls yet or not.”

His mouth sips at mine, his teeth nipping my
lip. “Then you would just have to kiss them better.” Another kiss,
this time I feel his tongue. “Your choice.”

I open my mouth fully to bring him further
inside of me, but he pulls back too quickly, walking to the center
of the table where the phone is as my hair falls down. I see him
pocketing the pen that was holding up the long strands and
glare.

“Are you ready for this, Sadie? I don’t think
they’ll wait too much longer to see if you’ve killed me,” Batty
says with his hand on the machine.

“Do I get to kill them?” I’m only half
joking.

“No.”

I cross my arms as he pushes a button on the
phone. “Please send them in, Dayna.”

I pick up the papers that are all over the
table, bringing them down to straighten the edges just as they walk
in, little bitty Dayna behind them holding my water. As soon as I
feel the cold, wet plastic in my hand, I meet eyes with Tammy, then
Brian. Both take steps back as I stand. I bring the bottle of water
up to point first to one then the other. Both flinch when it’s
their turn.

“You’re fired. And you’re fucking fired. You
better tell me where Mom and Dad are before I lose my shit and
murder your asses.”

Brian’s head jerks back indignantly,
transforming his double chin into three and four. Tammy slaps his
arm and starts to back away. “Come on, Brian. Our gig is up. It’s
about time, too. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her career
going.”

I’m moving before I think to do it, my hand
rising to throw the bottle, the other ready to pull her extensions
out of her head. “You fucking bitch—” I growl, but it gets cut off
by Batty’s arms around my chest, squeezing tight enough to lose my
breath.

“I believe you’ve both been fired. Please
leave the premises,” I hear from behind me. Batty’s so calm, even
as I try to reach them with my feet. So close.

Brian clears his throat and straightens his
jacket the best he can. “We’ll see you on tour, Popper. I’m the
band’s manager as well, not just yours.”

“I quit the band, you asshole!” The words
explode from me almost faster than my mouth can form the words. The
sense of relief that comes with knowing I’ll never have to go back
to stripping and screaming for them makes me wish I had done it
sooner. So much sooner.

Brian’s face turns red, but Tammy is tugging
him out the door. Dayna reaches into the room and closes the door,
leaving Batty and I alone again. I pant and bend slightly forward,
which brings my ass into his very evident erection. My head whips
around. “Are you for real right now?”

I feel his chuckle rumble through my back, as
well as hear it in my ear as he sticks his mouth there. “You’re hot
when you’re hot.”

“You’re certifiable is what you are.” He
sighs and lets me go.

“Fine. I’ll grab the papers for you to sign.
You may want to consider selling the beach house, though . . . and
the Mercedes.”

I glare and snatch the pen away when he
offers it. “Says the CEO to the pauper. Ha! Get it?”

He shrugs then slides his hands in his
pockets. “Then do well on the show so the network asks you to come
back. If you tank this, I can’t do anything for you.”

The drive back to my house in Malibu is
silent but for the roar of the engine. When I park the car in front
of my house, I sit and stare at the accumulation of my life. This
is what I have, a car and a house, but apparently can afford
neither.

I get out of the car and walk through the
silent house, my heels echoing in the near empty space. I walk
straight out the back door and fall into my favorite chaise on the
deck overlooking the ocean. The waves have always calmed me after
the volume of my existence. I didn’t give a second’s thought to
money when I quit the band. I knew, or I thought I knew, that I
could do anything. I suppose I still can, but the day-to-day
logistics never occurred to me. I worked my ass off, sacrificing a
passable singing voice to growl for these people since I was
fifteen years old. I should have had something to show for it, or
at least fall back on.