Page 11 of Dirty Love

“Yeah. Looks like the Secretary for Homeland Security sees Best’s presidential campaign as having some legs.”

“The guy’s total scum.”

“Tell me about it. He’s on the witness list for the civil case against Gerome Lively.”

“Do we have a dossier on him?”

I point to my third screen. “Already updating it. Should have a complete picture of what he’s been up to by the end of the day.”

—six—

Tabitha

We hit the road a bit before noon. Next stop is Portland.

I thought last night’s show had been awesome, but the ticket numbers Grant dumps silently in front of me show a different reality.

I knew we weren’t sold out, but only seventy percent sold is…ouch. The promoter organizing this tour deliberately priced my tickets competitively, almost twenty bucks a pop less than my last tour. The attendance numbers hadn’t jumped, making the deal a terrible business decision.

And now it looks like my manager is trying to pin that on me.

Fuck him.

There’s a sticky note on top of the sales numbers, a reminder from Grant that I have a doctor’s appointment for my quarterly B-12 shot in the morning. I pull it off and crumple it up. Jackass. I put all my appointments in my phone and I never miss any of them.

I look over the numbers, but I don’t say anything. He fumes in the opposite seat for a few minutes, then gets up and goes up front where Frankie and some of the crew are watching a fight recorded from the night before.

The sounds drifting back in my direction made me think of Wilson.

I’d tried to say no. I’d tried to stopus, but there’s no stoppinghim.

And even though I won’t let him come and see me—it’s too hard, too much, especially while I’m on tour—he’s still where my mind goes.

Grant knows it. I don’t know if he’s pieced together the details, but it’s not like it’s any secret that Wilson doesn’t like him.

Fucking hell. This is a nightmare, and one of my own making.

I don’t like anyone at the label. Or any label for that matter. I’ve spent a decade burning bridges and flipping people off, so it’s not like I’ve got allies if I wanted to break away from Grant. He holds everything together. I do my thing on stage and in the studio. That’s the deal.

When he comes back, I’m halfway reconciled toward some kind of apology. I wouldn’t mean it, and we’d both know that, but it’s what I need to do to maintain the peace.

Except he doesn’t want to talk about numbers first.

He wants to make my head explode.

This time, he doesn’t sit across the aisle from me. He takes the seat right next to me, close enough for me to unwillingly catch a whiff of his aftershave. He’s worn the same brand for ten years. It still makes me want to vomit.

He gives me a cool smile. His eyes are hard. “Victor Best will be in Portland tomorrow. He wants to come by and take a picture with you before the show.”

Revulsion rises in my gut. Best is a part owner in the radio network that also owns the tour promoter. He famously hates the Pacific Northwest, and we hate him right back, although I suppose that doesn’t mean he can never have any business there.

Being from the Seattle area myself, I know how people talk about him. How happy they were when he bought a place in Florida and loudly proclaimed he’d never come back to the Pacific Northwest. Too bad that didn’t last.

He’s crazy. And kind of gross. I’ve met him twice before, once in Los Angeles and once in Italy. He runs in the same circles as Gerome Lively, and the mention of him immediately makes me think of Wilson.

Of the first time I met him, and everything that has happened since then.

“Sure,” I hear myself say to Grant. “How about we invite him backstage? I can…” I let my mouth twist into something that he’ll see as a dirty offer, a smile of sin. “I can entertain him a little.”

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