Page 4 of Erik

Over time, band members have added their own items, such as a full drum set, and a few bass guitars. We have been using this cavernous den as a place to rehearse new songs, a home studio to record upcoming hits, a hideout to write unforgettable music, or an informal room to hold often uncomfortable meetings. Today, it is all of the above with the looming threat of becoming intervention central.

“That looks awesome,” Kimberly Peltier, the band manager, praises the older woman as Mrs. Giry unloads the bowls of snacks on a mahogany sideboard propped against a wall.

From the sectional leather couch, Wes, Nick, and Logan whoop their approvals.

Logan unfolds from the sofa and drops an arm around my cook’s shoulders. “Aren’t you a sweetheart?” He snatches a handful of glazed pecans from a bowl before she can move it from the tray. “My favorite!”

Nick follows suit and digs into the bowl of pretzels already sitting on the sideboard. “Thanks.” He squeezes Mrs. Giry in a tight embrace, planting a loud smooch on her cheek.

“Oh, you naughty boy.” She giggles, face beaming red. “Old Gemma can’t breathe when you do these things.”

He guffaws before swirling and plopping onto the couch. “Love seeing you blush, darling.”

Wes is more interested in grabbing one of the bottles of beer I’ve deposited on the coffee table in the center of the sitting area, before taking a spot on the shorter end of the sectional. As he leans forward, he does acknowledge Mrs. Giry’s unfailing great job by nodding once at her. He sports an expression that is a mix of extreme hangover and deep annoyance. I know for a fact the sweet lady did absolutely nothing to get on his bad side. And I would bet neither did the other band members or Kim.

That leaves me as the most likely source of his bad mood, but before I can test my theory, Kim’s wide hips cladded in black leather block my line of vision. Lifting my eyes to her face, I take in her pursed lips and furled brow.

“What?” I mouth with a deep shrug.

She raises her left eyebrow at me, tapping her right foot on the stone floor, as if that should mean anything to me.

I murmur, “Kim, not in the mood for guessing games.”

Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she flips her cell phone screen toward me. It’s already unlocked and displaying the newsfeed of some social media app. A low-resolution video automatically begins to play, and I plump back against the couch, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Shit,” I grunt.

“You think?” Wes huffs from the opposite end of the sofa.

When the silence in the room becomes uncomfortable, I straighten my back and open my eyes. All members as well as the manager of the band sit on the couch, spread apart, facing me.

“Firing squad treatment? Seriously?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I grate, “I don’t owe anyone anything, much less an explanation.”

Kim raises her hands to eye level, palms facing me. “That’d be true if the man weren’t threatening to sue…”

“Let him. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever spend in ten lifetimes.”

Kim deadpans, “The band.”

Fuck.

I glance at the men in the room. “Sorry.” Then, cast my eyes down, examining the back of my hands. I sit up straight, taking a deep breath, rubbing my palms on my black jeans. Holding their stares, I explain, “The motherfucker had been stalking me for days. He’d trespassed this property and, when I found him, he was taking pictures with a long-range zoom lens through of one of the windows on the top floor.” I pause and take a hard swallow, heart rate spiking at the memory. I snarl, “You all know damn well I couldn’t let that happen. Although I wasn’t sure what he’d caught with his camera, I wouldn’t risk allowing him to get away with it.”

Kimberly rubs her right hand on her nape like it’s been bitten by fire ants, shuffles her feet, and stands up to pace the length of the Persian rug. “Alright, I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you!” I scoff.

“Still, you’ve got to get your act together, man.” She admonishes before pinching her thumb and index finger together in front of my eyes, and adding, “You’re this close to being labeled a bully by the press. Punching photographers, even paparazzi, and smashing their cameras won’t boost your bad boy image.” She pauses, but when I don’t reply, she wraps up her speech, “We’re not in the nineteen-eighties anymore, Dorothy. And in this day and age, we don’t want to be associate with a bully, do we?” She turns around to face the other band members.

They grunt their agreement, falling behind her argument. This isn’t the first time I’m left alone to face harsh circumstances. It won’t be the last. Me against the world and all that shit.

I mutter, “Fine. This is my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

“I knew you’d come to your senses.” She punches some keys on her phone, mine buzzes in my back pocket. “Just sent you his contact info. He’s expecting your call later today.”

I squint my eyes at her.

She guffaws. “As well as a fat check in the mail. His address is on there as well.”

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