Outsider (51 page)

Mamá
had insisted she was fine with Butch dropping her off at the airport that
morning, though Ethan wasn’t fine with it. He’d wanted to say goodbye to her,
sure, but he also didn’t want
Butch
saying goodbye to her. They’d hit it
off a little too well for his tastes. But Reagan was in need of her bodyguard
today, so he couldn’t shirk his duties. He’d already escorted two overzealous
fans from the hotel restaurant during breakfast, and he was sure several of the
dudes with press passes had stolen them from real reporters they’d rendered
unconscious in the men’s restroom.

He,
Trey, and Reagan had had damned little time alone together since he’d returned
from San Antonio, and the press, seduced not only by Reagan’s talent but also by
her recent engagement, wouldn’t leave her alone. Ethan tried not to be jealous
of all the affection she shared with Trey without any concern over who was
watching, but he couldn’t help but feel completely left out. Again. At least
the bus was leaving soon. Maybe they could catch a moment’s peace when they
pulled out of Little Rock and headed for the upper Midwest. There were only
three more shows on this leg of the tour. Surely he could retain his sanity for
that long.

Ethan
kept a sharp eye out for potential threats while Trey and Reagan said goodbye
to her dad as they waited for the valet to bring his SUV forward. Mr. Elliot
seemed completely accepting of his daughter’s engagement to Trey—which was
good. He also seemed to like Trey—which was baffling. He claimed to hate rock
music and electric guitars and rock stars with loose morals; Trey was the
embodiment of all those things. Perhaps Ethan had misjudged Mr. Elliot’s
ability to look past what he considered flaws to see the true person within.
Ethan shook his head and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Some
teenaged boy was trying to catch a selfie of himself with Reagan in the background.
He stumbled off the curb and almost fell on his ass.

“If
you wait until she’s not busy, you can ask her to take a picture with you,”
Ethan said.

The
kid jumped as if he’d been caught committing a felony. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“So
you, like, know her? Personally, I mean.”

Ethan
smiled at the awe in the kid’s expression and nodded.

“Is
she as cool in person as she is onstage?”

“Even
cooler,” Ethan assured him.

“I
almost left after Sinners last night. Not a real fan of Exodus End. My
dad
listens to them.”

The
horror! Ethan thought wryly.

“They
were pretty good, I guess.” The kid shrugged as if he were talking about some
unknown opening band. “But Reagan makes them cool, so I’m glad I stayed until
the end.”

It
was one kid’s opinion, and Ethan hated to even think it, but maybe Sam was
right. Maybe Exodus End did need an image change to help them appeal to the
younger generation. But then, maybe they didn’t want to appeal to that
generation. That generation tended to steal music online instead of paying for
it, and if the band catered too much to kids, they might alienate the fans they
already had. Ethan was glad he didn’t have to concern himself with such a
conundrum.

Reagan
waved at her father as he pulled away and then gave Trey a tight hug and a tender
kiss. “That went so much better than I thought it would.”

“So
you’re ready to tell him everything?” Trey asked, his gaze lifting to meet
Ethan’s.

“Not
yet. But I think soon. Maybe.”

Ethan
knew she needed more time, and maybe if the negative press stayed at bay for
more than a day, she could handle telling her father that there was more to her
relationship with Trey than she’d led him to believe. A whole extra person
more.

“Is
she not busy?” asked the teenaged boy beside Ethan.

He’d
already forgotten he was there.

“Reagan?”
Ethan tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned, dazzling him with a brilliant
smile.

“Do
we have time to go back to the room before the bus leaves?” she asked, the
suggestion in her blue eyes making his pant legs shorten.

“Maybe,”
he said, now wishing he’d told her young fanboy to get lost. “Do you have a few
minutes for a fan?”

Her
gaze shifted to the kid beside him wearing an official Reagan Elliot T-shirt,
and she smiled. “Of course.”

“I
just want a picture,” he gushed.

When
she wrapped an arm around his shoulders to get in the frame, he began to
tremble uncontrollably. She threw up a set of rock horns on one hand and he
snapped a selfie, cringing when he looked at it. “It’s all blurry.”

“I
got it,” Ethan said, taking the phone and adjusting it until the pair came into
view.

“And,
uh, could Trey—” The kid motioned to the other famous guitarist just hanging
around a hotel breezeway.

Trey
grinned and squeezed into the shot. Ethan feared the kid was going to have a
stroke while sandwiched between the two talented musicians. Reagan kissed the
kid’s cheek, and Trey manhandled Reagan’s boob in their next shot. Ethan
laughed as they turned the opportunity into a hilarious photo shoot—the three
of them playing air guitar, peeking over each other’s heads like a makeshift
totem pole, displaying silly duck faces, and checking their invisible watches
as if waiting for an important event. Ethan wasn’t sure how many pictures he’d
taken, when Butch appeared at his side.

“Your
mother is a delight,” he said. “She made her flight without a problem.”

Ethan
handed the phone back to the kid and avoided looking at Butch. “Should we head
for the bus?” he called to Reagan and Trey, who gave the excited kid a parting
hug before starting toward the bus parked around the corner.

The
fan immediately began flipping through the photos on his phone. Ethan was sure
they’d be all over social media within ten seconds. And he was sure that would
be good for Reagan’s image. It often took a lot of positivity to overshadow even
a little negativity, but her taking the time to be silly with a young fan was a
start.

Ethan
trailed behind Trey and Reagan with Butch at his side. Ethan liked Butch. Admired
him, even. Butch was a great guy. But any man who even thought of making a move
on his mother was at the top of his shit list.

“Do
you think she’ll be in Vegas for Reagan’s wedding?” Butch asked. If he was
trying to be nonchalant about his interest, he was failing.

“Probably,”
Ethan said.

“Do
you think Reagan will invite me to the ceremony?” he asked loudly.

“Of
course you’re invited!” Reagan called over her shoulder. She stopped so she
could loop her arm through Butch’s and walk beside him. “So did you kiss her
goodbye?”

Butch
chuckled. “No. I chickened out.”

“She
likes mustaches,” Reagan said, grinning at Ethan’s discomfort. “She said so
herself.”

“I’ll
keep that in mind,” Butch said, the corner of his thick mustache twitching with
the hint of a smile.

Ethan
didn’t bother suppressing his snarl.

Sitting
on the sectional in the back lounge of the tour bus, Reagan looked over the
contract carefully, but it might as well have been written in Sanskrit.

“Don’t
sign it,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“If
she doesn’t sign, we can’t release the single,” Max said. “She has to sign it.”

She
didn’t
have
to sign anything, but she wanted to. She wanted something
she was a part of to help the band. Sam had approached them about doing a live
recording of “Under the Bridge” on their final U.S. tour stop in Atlantic City.
Since Reagan was prominently featured in the live version, she either had to
give up her rights (not happening), strike a deal (a scary proposition), or
refuse to let them release the single with her cello accompaniment. Apparently
whoever had written that shitty contract she’d signed when she’d won the
contest hadn’t thought to include a provision about having the right to release
live-recorded music with her playing cello. She mentally stuck her tongue out
at the person responsible for her original contract.

“At
least have a lawyer check it over,” Dare advised.

“Just
let me pull one out of my pocket here,” Reagan said, sliding her hand into the
back pocket of her jeans. “Damn, I guess he escaped.”

“The
show is tonight,” Max said. “If we want to get on top of this, we have to do it
before the window of opportunity disappears.”

“All
you care about is money,” Steve said.

Max
shook his head. Everyone but Steve seemed to recognize what truly drove Max,
and it wasn’t cash. Max was afraid to fail, afraid to fall into obscurity after
they’d risen to the top. And Reagan would love to help keep that from ever
happening.

“I
want to sign it,” Reagan said. “I think having my name featured as part of an
Exodus End release would be phenomenal. I’m just sure there’s something in here
that will bite me in the ass.” She squinted at something called a non-compete
clause. She was pretty sure it was a bad thing. Did it mean she’d never be able
to release another song featuring her on cello or just not with another band?
And what happened if she later started her own band and wanted to include some
cello pieces—would that go against the contract? Or did the contract end when
her contract for this tour ended? “What I wouldn’t give to have a lawyer right
now.”

“We
have a lawyer on tour,” Trey said. He was reclining on the sofa, sucking a
cherry lollipop and staring up at the lounge ceiling.

“Who?”

“Jessica
Chase.”

Sed’s
fiancé was indeed a lawyer, but not the kind Reagan needed. “She’s not a
contract lawyer, is she?”

“She
plans to focus on sexual harassment lawsuits,” Trey said, “but she understands
legalese. Wouldn’t hurt to ask her opinion.”

Reagan
and Trey found Jessica in the RV where most of the Sinners girlfriends and
wives lived while they followed the tour. She was bouncing baby Malcolm in one
arm and scowling at a seating chart in her opposite hand. Malcolm cooed and
reached out for Trey as soon as he came into view.

While
Trey entertained Malcolm, who giggled nonstop at his godfather’s silly faces,
Jessica read through the contract. “That non-compete clause has to go.”

“How
should they reword it?” Reagan asked, peering over the top of the page.

“Not
reword it, take it out entirely.”

“I
don’t think they’ll agree to that,” Reagan said.

“You
have something they want, something they can’t get from anyone else. Tell them
it goes or you aren’t signing.”

Jessica
didn’t have any idea how hard the ball was that these people played with.
“But—”

“No
but. Those are your terms. And while you’re at it, try to get this royalty
percentage bumped up. Start at thirty percent. See how they like that.” Jessica
grinned at her.

“Thirty
percent? That says three.”

“Which
is ridiculous. Tell them you’ll take your exciting new cello music elsewhere.
And also have them put in a termination of rights clause. You don’t want these
people to own the rights to your part of that song forever, do you?”

Reagan
leaned forward as if a change in position would help her arrive at the correct
answer. “No?”

“Hell
no. They make their money off your hard work. In exchange, they connect you
with an audience. To be honest, you’re bringing the audience to them. You
should get a much larger cut of the profits.”

“Oh.
I guess that makes sense.”

“I
know it’s hard for you creative types to see beyond delivering your work to the
fans, but this business will eat you alive if you let it. Don’t let it, Reagan.
If they don’t jump on the contract changes you want, don’t cave. Stand your
ground. Make them feel like you don’t need them. That you’d be better off
without them.”

“You
sound like Steve,” Reagan said, surprised that a woman as smart as Jessica
would share an opinion with a hot-headed anarchist like Steve Aimes.

“Well,
then, maybe you should listen to him.”

“He’d
have everyone completely abandon the establishment.”

Jessica
shrugged. “If the establishment no longer works, why keep it?”

Jessica
wrote down the terms Reagan should fight for in the contract negotiations. “Uh . . .”
Reagan swallowed the queasiness in her belly. “Maybe you should do this for
me.”

“I
don’t have the right license, or I would,” Jessica said. “If you want, I can
call some friends who do this sort of work.”

“Can
they negotiate this today?”

Jessica’s
eyes widened. “Today?”

Reagan
nodded. “They want to record at tonight’s show.”

“They
could record it and not release until the contract is signed.”

“Don’t
give them any wiggle room, Reagan,” Trey said. He immediately bent over to blow
a raspberry on Malcom’s stomach. “They give you what you want or you tell them
to shove their contract up their executive asses.”

“You
can do this,” Jessica said, patting her back. “But leave shoving contracts up
their executive asses out of the negotiations.”

Reagan
chuckled, and after thanking Jessica for her expertise, she returned to her
band to discuss her plans. Trey managed to sneak the baby out of the RV and
onto Exodus End’s bus, much to Dare’s delight. One of those two Mills brothers
needed a baby of his own, and since she would be the one that would have to
make one with Trey, Reagan volunteered Dare for fatherhood.

When
she told the guys her plans to negotiate the contract, they were supportive,
but when she sought Sam to relay her demands to the higher-ups, she went alone.

She
found Sam in the room he’d commandeered for his office inside the arena. She
waited for him to finish his phone call before sliding the contract across the
folding table that served as his desk. “I won’t sign this unless the no-compete
clause is removed, a termination of rights clause is added, and my royalty
share is raised to . . . twenty-five percent.” She knew she
wouldn’t get even that much and asking for thirty percent seemed insulting as
there were four other band members who should also get their fair share of the
royalties.

Sam
slid the contract back toward her. “No.”

“No?”

“You’re
wasting your time, mine, and theirs if you honestly think they’ll agree to any
of those terms.”

“Oh,”
Reagan said flatly. “Well, in that case . . .” She lifted her
gaze to Sam’s and could tell he thought she would back down and just sign the
damned thing. “No deal.”

She
didn’t bother taking the contract with her. She had no plans of signing it.
Before she could open the door, Sam said, “Sit down. Let’s hash this out.”

“I’m
not signing . . .”

“The
guys say they want this. Sit.”

She
sat. “The guys say they want it?”

“Max
said they did.”

“Is
Max the only one you speak to?”

“Typically.
He understands why the record label required I be the band’s manager. I get shit
done.”

“You
definitely tried to ruin me as quickly as possible,” Reagan said. She pursed
her lips into a sour scowl.

“I
didn’t try to ruin you,” Sam said. He was busy scratching notes in a margin of
the contract and didn’t look at her as he spoke. “I merely used what you gave
me. Be glad I haven’t let her publish the entire truth.”

“Who?”

“My
little mole.” He laughed.

“Bianca?”

“Why
is everyone so fixated on Bianca?” Sam turned the page and circled a paragraph,
marked out a couple of lines, and then wrote more notes in the margin.

“Her
sister then?” Susan? No that was what Toni knew her as. “Tamara?”

Sam
either hadn’t heard her or was purposely ignoring her question. “I’ll try for
twenty-five percent split equally among the five of you, and we’ll limit the no-compete
clause to the next year and offer them first right of refusal in its place. I
know they won’t limit their rights to the live version of the song. They
already own the rights to the studio version.”

“I
didn’t come here to compromise.”

Sam
sighed and scratched through some handwritten notes. “The first right of refusal
could actually play in your favor,” he said, “but I’ll take it out. You have no
idea what’s best for you.”

She
couldn’t help but be ticked off by his condescension. Or the fact that she
always felt like he was threatening her to keep her in line.

“Are
you working in the best interest of Exodus End or yourself?” Reagan asked.

“Neither.
So are you ready to go forward with this agreement?”

“The
record label?”

“I
can’t get the ball rolling on this until you assure me you’ll sign if—and that’s
a big if—they’ll agree to these changes.”

“Will
you stop talking over me? I want to know who you’re working for.”

“Tradespar
West. Just as Exodus End does. Just as you do.”

“What
about your nephew? Does he work for them too?”

Sam’s
fingers gripped his pen so tightly, it almost snapped in half. “Poor judgement
on my part. I always did have a soft spot for my little sister. It seems she
can talk me into anything.”

Well,
that would be one person on the planet. “So is Bianca your sister?”

Sam
lifted an eyebrow at her, his expression asking if she’d been dropped on her
head as an infant one too many times. “If Bianca was my sister, don’t you think
Steve would know that?”

Reagan
nibbled on her lip. “So you don’t know how Bianca wound up being the editor of
the
American Inquirer
, how her sister ended up working for Toni’s mom so
she could snoop on the band, or if your nephew is distributing tabloid papers
before the shows to spread my so-called notoriety?”

“I
didn’t say that,” he said, pointing at her with his pen. “Sign here.”

“You
haven’t even talked to anyone about the changes yet,” she said, crossing her
arms. “I’m not signing anything.”

“It’s
all for the good of the band, Reagan. You have to trust me on this.”

“I
wouldn’t trust you if you paid me.”

“I
do pay you.”

“The
band pays me.”

“And
who pays the band?”

“The
record label.”

“And
who owns the record label?”

She
felt like she was on some stupid game show, but she answered. “Tradespar West.”

“Exactly.”

She
was missing something here. One very important piece of the puzzle. Someone had
to make decisions for the corporation. “Who’s the CEO of Tradespar West?”

“You’re
looking at him.”

Reagan’s
head tipped forward as if the idea were too large for her brain to support.
“What?”

“When
I say you’re not going to get a better deal than what’s already in this
contract, you can bank on that.”