Tony holds the phone away from his ear, ignoring the whole thing. “Tell them now, Hugh.” He walks up to the police, radiating confidence. “Mr. Baleshire hired us to move his furniture. I have him on the phone here.” He holds out the phone.
The cop casts him a scornful look, but takes the phone and holds it to his ear. I stand back and watch while Tony leans against the moving truck, casual as can be. Like he always breaks into houses and empties them of their furniture while the police look on.
Somehow, it does work out that way, though. The cop on the phone takes down some information and goes to his vehicle. When he returns, he speaks to his partner and the two of them get in their car and drive away.
Tony takes a look inside the moving truck. Inside is Hugh’s grand piano—the one he doesn’t know how to play—and his leather couches, La-Z-Boy, oriental rugs, dining room table, and everything else that was on the first floor.
“Okay, carry on. Leave the personal shit unless it can be easily sold. Just get all the furniture to auction and let me know what you get for it, capiche?” Tony directs the men.
“You got it, boss,” the guys say, and get back to work loading the truck.
I’m suddenly ice cold. And sick to my stomach.
Whatever story I’d told myself about Tony Brando was bullshit. The man is a criminal. A dangerous, evil man.
If he’s emptying Hugh’s house, mine will be next.
Hell, maybe his guys are already over there now, telling my parents to get out and hand over the keys.
I turn and stumble back to the Range Rover, blinking back tears. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Not for Hugh. He totally deserves this.
I guess because my situation just got real again. I’m with a criminal. Probably a killer.
My life is in danger. My parents’ lives are in danger.
I could lose everything.
I climb in the back seat of the Range Rover because I can’t stomach the thought of sitting next to Brando.
He gives me a glance when he gets back in, but doesn’t comment, just drives.
When I see we’re going to the airport and not my house, next, I croak, “Was that stop for my benefit?”
“No.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t look in the rear view mirror at me.
For some reason, I get the idea that he’s sorry, but I push it away. That’s me making up stories again. I always want to believe the best in people: in my band members, the crew, in Hugh, in my parents. Because to believe differently is too terrifying. It would mean I am utterly alone in this world. No one on my side.
But sticking my head in the sand is how I got into this shitstorm in the first place. Letting Hugh use my name and credit to buy his new house. Believing in his projections for my new album. Letting him push me into making crappy recycled music instead of the real art I started with.
I’ve lost myself so completely I don’t know who I am. Who to trust. Where to turn.
A tear slides down my cheek. I brush it away.
I just have to get through this next month and then this will all be over.
Just twenty shows and I never have to see Tony Brando or the Bellissimo again.
Pepper
My mom calls when I’m back in my room.
“Hi, Mom,” I rasp. “I’m not supposed to be talking.”
“Oh honey, you lost your voice?”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t Hugh cancel your shows? You could fly home and rest for a few days.”
“That would be great, Mom, but it’s not possible.” My dad knows, but we haven’t told my mom about the situation with the Tacones. My dad basically thinks my mom is made of glass and doesn’t want to break her. That’s what happens after a cancer scare.
“Well, talk to Hugh. You’re so close to L.A. It would be easy to zip on home.”
Home. First of all, it’s not my home, it’s theirs. The one they bought with my money. Second, I was in L.A. today, not that I’m going to tell her that.
“You could come here, Mom. Fly out to see my show.” Damn the hopeful kid note that creeps into my voice.
“Oh, I don’t know, honey. I’m not sure I’m up for travel. Besides, who would feed Mr. Furry?”
“Right.” Hope bleeds black and crimson. My mom has been cancer-free for a year now, but in a way, I still lost her. I lost both my parents to their fear. Or to their comforts. Sometimes I think they’re so happy being rich, spending my money, they forgot how to live. Or that I might still need them.
But that’s stupid. I don’t need them. And keeping them far away from the Tacones is probably my best bet. No, my situation is still the same—get through the next twenty shows, get the debt paid off and then I can lick my wounds.