For Love or Money (7 page)

Betting
on you

Lana

The
club is noisy and the band sucks ass. I don't know where Henry got his intel
from, but it’s the eleventh bar I’ve been to and I haven’t seen a single
possibility of a Lochlan Barlow yet.

I
wince, leaving as my brain threatens to explode with the speakers that can’t
take what they’re being given.

Este
nudges me. “No raw talent in there?”

I
sigh. “I am never going to find a hot band, like ever.”

“Girl,
you have seen like what—fourteen bands? You need to give it some time.”

I
wish I had time. “I can’t. The competition starts at the end of May. It’s the
network’s summer blockbuster. June is showcasing the band or singer as they
enter the contest and start the trials. July is the big ‘getting rid of people’
and drama-filled teary goodbyes. August is final six all the way to the finale.
I have two weeks to find a band or an individual artist or make a band. Two
weeks. They’ll need April and May to practice and get used to the other
members.”

She
winces. “Well, at least he gave you a heads up before he announced it on TV.”

I
roll my eyes, they almost roll on their own. “Henry e-mailed me yesterday and
said five bands have already been found by competition. It’s been leaked. He
thinks my dad is doing it to spur me on.”

She
laughs. “I read your dad was getting a divorce in the papers and that you got
expelled, and he cut you off for being a high-priced hooker. Oh, and Nance
Hensley’s dad and you were engaged. So honestly, a little competition is the
least of your troubles.”

It
makes me laugh, God love her. I nod. “That's true, it is the least of my
troubles.”

She
wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Things could be so much worse. At least you
still have me.”

I
cock an eyebrow. “You’re sort of stuck with me, sharing a wall and all.”

“I
could’ve gotten moved. The dean asked me if I wanted to. I was like dude, the
devil you know over the devil you don't?”

I
scowl. “Are you calling me the devil?”

She
nods slowly. “Okay, we can go with that one, or I could tell you it’s an old
saying. But you are the devil.”

When
we get to the dorm, I don't feel like sleeping so I go for a walk. The night is
young, thanks to the lame-ass band. And I’m trying to get back my spine. The
whole foot dude thing has me hating the dark and constantly looking over my
shoulder.

Leo
passes me with a group of guys. He nods his head but I keep going, like we
never were friends. He stops and backs up, holding a hand out. “I need to talk
to you.”

I
have to fight every urge to slap him in the face, but I don't need any more bad
press. Growing up in the spotlight I have seen what happens to the bad girl du
jour when she goes even more rogue.

I
keep walking, shaking my head at the gall of some people but he follows.

“Look,
it was Nance’s dad. It was all him. She called when we realized what happened,
and he told us to take the kid downstairs. He knew you owned the apartments. He
said your dad would pay to make it go away, he always does.”

“Guess
he was wrong about that one, huh! Did you hear the police are investigating me
for drug charges and distributing alcohol? Did you hear they’re interviewing
witnesses?” My blood starts to boil. “I wouldn’t have done that to you. I would
have just split and lied. How hard was it to say Nance gave the keys to the kid
so they could party?”

“We
couldn't. There were too many people still there. The easiest thing was to grab
some drugs and the kid and leave him down one floor. The cops never even came
up to the penthouse till after we got it all cleaned up and left. They called
and asked if Nance heard anything. She said no, she hadn’t been there. The
doorman covered for us.”

“You,
not me! I wasn’t even there.”

He
cocks an eyebrow. “Look, I just need those pictures of the weekend we spent in
Grand Turk last year. I’ll never bother you again.”

It
hits me then. “You think those are the only pictures I have of you—doing
your thing? You don't think I have a million pics of you and your boy toys?
Don't worry, Leo, if I’m going down, everyone is coming. I have plenty of
decent shots of you and Nance, keeping it real.” For once I am grateful I
forgot my cameras in LA last time I was there. He can ransack my room, which he
probably already has, and he won’t find shit.

His
eyes widen and I can see he’s about to lose it so I back up, giving us a little
space. The way he vibrates when he speaks is creepy. “You need to give those to
me. They’re my property.”

“Yeah,
whatever. Just like the drugs were mine? Screw you, Leo.” I walk backward,
watching him. I’m not a hundred percent, but he seems kind of high.

God,
I miss being high.

“Lana,
don't make me do anything I don't want to do. Just give me the photos.”

I
walk right back up to him, getting right in his face. “Push me, Leo. I have
nothing to lose. I have nothing left. Clearly, you haven’t heard Daddy cut me
off. The next place I have to get money will be from selling those photos. I
owe you and Nance, so piss me off and you’ll be bumped to the head of the line
of people I have dirt on. That's the fun thing about being out of shit to lose.
I don't even have a scrap of dignity left.”

His
jaw drops.

I
spin around and leave him there, no doubt flipping out. He’s been a bad boy,
and I have all the proof I need. I turn around. “If anything happens to me,
Henry has instructions.”

His
face is pale, not red with anger but losing color with sickness.

It
inspires me to tell a little fib. “I have some video footage too, in case you
are curious in about ten years where those blackmail messages are coming from,
it’s just me.”

I
am so done with college. I have a sudden desire to win this absurd contest and
show the world I am not just some imprudent trust-fund kid. I have a brain,
granted it’s hidden under layers of sleeping pills and antidepressants and E.

Luckily,
Henry stole most of my pills that were working the day he left me. The ones he
left me sucked anyway, so I stopped taking them. I’ve been sober for two weeks
and it’s been odd to say the least. I haven’t had any of the normal
withdrawals, apart from thinking about them when I felt a panic attack coming
on and when I had a hard time falling asleep. I Googled it and it’s supposed to
bounce back after a couple weeks.

Este
has me drinking green tea instead of coffee and taking vitamins. She swears
I’ll feel better if I just take better care of myself. Her dad is a naturopath
in Atlanta. I don't understand the whole science behind it, but I have some
celebrity friends who see them for everything. It’s probably why her skin is so
soft and shiny, compared to my pale ass. She has a glow and she’s never winded,
no matter where we walk.

I
stroll over to the fine arts library, trying desperately to come up with an
idea of what to do about my problem. It’s bright and a little too intense but
it’s better than hanging out in the common room—as if that would ever
happen.

A
man walks through the front doors just behind me, looking too friendly for a
middle-aged dude. “Lana, I was hoping you had a statement? You’ve been really
quiet about the whole last couple weeks and avoiding the press. I figured you
wanted to defend yourself maybe.”

Shit!

I
look around for the security guys but no one is here—of course. I put my
hand up to block the camera that I suspect will pop up any second. “Look, you
guys want statements, go ask the cops.” I turn away from him, but he grabs my
arm. “Lana, just one question.” He holds something in my face and blurts, “What
kind of sex games did you play at the party that almost killed that kid? Did
you take his virginity?”

My
hand comes back, but before I punch him in the face, someone grabs me. I snarl
as I turn but my rage is deflated when I see it’s Andy.

He
shoves the reporter. “Beat it, before I let her smack you around. Fucking
parasites.” He spins us both and drags me farther into the library as two
guards come rushing to his aid—figures. They talk into their radios on
their shoulders as they escort the press dude out the front door.

Andy
pulls me to the very back of the arts and architecture section, sliding us into
a nook and smiling down on me. His handsome face is like staring at the sandy
beach, a welcome sight until he decides to lecture me. “Why do you always have
to take the bait? Just walk past them. Don’t let them get you going.”

“He
asked if I took that kid’s virginity. I almost need a curled-up mustache to
twirl while I do my evil laugh at my next interview. When did I become the
villain mothers warn their sons about?”

He
chuckles. “My mother has always warned me about you. It’s what drew me to you
in the beginning.” He shakes his head. “That guy wanted you to hit him. You
have to walk away next time. You don't need more bad press.”

“Easy
for you to say, Andy. Your dirty little secrets have been left in the dark
where they belong. Mine are plastered across the country and almost none of them
are true. You know they’re not. There’s no way I was at that party.”

He
lowers his face to mine and whispers something I don't expect. “I know. That’s
why I’m here. I stopped by your room, but that girl you live with said you went
for a walk.” He winces at my jaw dropping but says the next part anyway. “I
need to make sure we are on the same page for keeping the shit we do in the
dark—where we do it.”

My
stomach sinks. He goes from knight in shining armor to skeezy bastard in a
heartbeat. I push him off of me and walk away.

“Lana,
wait.”

I
shake my head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Andrew. Your secrets are
safe with me.”

“Want
to just make this all less awkward between us and come sign this thing I got
from my dad real quick?”

It
makes me laugh. I’m certain I’ve pulled the same paperwork out a dozen times or
worse—gotten Henry to do it. I shake my head and look back at him. “Never
speak to me again and we won’t ever have an issue. Bring this up to me again,
and I will sell to the highest bidder. Didn't you hear? I’m broke.”

His
jaw drops. “Come on. You know we have a good time, we just need to make sure we
keep it professional.”

My
face burns and tears are threatening my eyes, but he won’t EVER see me cry.
“You want professional—hire someone next time like your mom does.” I turn
away, forcing back the tears and shame as I hurry to the stairs where I run to
the second level. When I find a quiet spot I slump amongst some shelves on the
floor. The library is going to close any minute, but I don’t know where else to
go. I wish I could take some E and hit a club and dance my face off and end up
in some random’s bed.

But
that's sort of what got me here. That temptation is a cul-de-sac that leads
right back to this place—the last place on earth I actually want to be.
The place where I’m alone, facing possible charges of drugs and God knows what
else, and everyone in the world, including my family, thinks I’m a dirty whore.

No,
drugs and bars are going to be a thing of the past for me.

I
want to curl up and go to sleep, but thanks to the foot pervert I rarely feel
safe anymore. I can’t sleep and my mind won’t stop wandering about, desperate
for a solution beyond the obvious—work for my money.

I
close my eyes and try to remember what chestnuts of wisdom I might have gained
over the years via osmoses from being around my father, but I have nothing. I
haven’t listened to him about grooming a singer into a star. I haven’t listened
to him about anything. Once I quit being the daughter he wanted, I stopped
paying attention to the business and started paying attention to the people who
made me happy—my friends.

Great
investment there.

My
pity party is disturbed by a sound that makes me lift my head. Someone is
playing music on the second floor. It’s a guy and guitar singing a haunting
song I have never heard before. The subtle drumming of his fingers on the
acoustic guitar adds a warlike sound to the song. It draws me out of the
crevice I’m hiding in.

Is
God answering my prayers or mocking me?

The
song echoes a little, losing me in the hallways and corridors. As I get closer,
a different guy starts to sing. His voice is perfect, scary perfect.

What
is this song? How have I never heard it?

The
bridge hits and the guy’s voice lifts, giving me chills. I pick up the pace,
like a mouse chasing down a piece of cheese in a maze. When I round a corner
and stumble upon the worst-case scenario, I am stunned still. Instead of cheese
I find shock therapy.

“James?”
The name leaves my lips like I’ve whispered something toxic.

He
lifts his face and the haunting song stops. He’s sitting in a small room with
an older man, both playing guitars on stools like we are in a jam session in
Nashville.