“Our gross royalties go up every year.” He flipped pages in front of Steve in rapid succession. “And that discrepancy goes up along with it. This was at the peak of our career.”
Steve’s jaw dropped. “Seven million dollars!”
Dare crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the table beside Steve. “And we didn’t notice, because we were bringing home fat stacks then.”
“Now we’re in a decline,” Max said. “And the discrepancy shrinks. A lot. I think he was starting to worry that we’d catch on.”
“You’re sure Sam is taking the money.”
“Not for himself. Not all of it. Our auditor got his hands on Tradespar West’s books too. Small-time bands with not enough royalties to pay their expenses have money appearing out of nowhere.”
“So he took money from us to help other musicians.” That wasn’t so bad. Steve didn’t need the cash, and he knew how hard other musicians struggled in the business.
Max slammed his fist on the table. “Exactly! Can you believe this shit?”
Oh, that was what he was mad about. Steve put on a stern face. If it got rid of Sam, he could pretend it pissed him off too. If Sam had been using the cash to buy his ridiculous shoes, that was one thing, but if it was too help fellow musicians succeed, Steve felt differently about the situation. Would Baroquen have gotten a deal if Sam hadn’t fiddled with the books a little? Or rather, a lot?
“I’ve known he was a weasel for a long time,” Steve said. “This just proves it’s all about dollars for him.”
“Our dollars,” Max bellowed. “No one fucking steals from me and gets away with it.”
“Right.” Steve nodded. “I wonder if they’re even reporting the right royalties.”
“Not for the past three years. The bastard started skimming from the top instead of the bottom when our record sales declined.”
“He’s been taking a higher percentage of ticket sales as well,” Dare said. “I thought it was weird that the ticket prices had been raised and we’re still selling out stadiums, yet we’re seeing lower profits.”
Dare was the financial wizard of the band. Why hadn’t he caught on to this series of scams sooner? Because Dare was a trusting bastard, that was why. It was very hard to get on Dare’s bad side. Steve’s distrust of Sam had always been personal. He couldn’t stand a guy who put money-making above every other consideration, including creative license, the personal lives of the band, and the happiness of the fans.
“What are we going to do?” Steve asked, preparing his foot to kick Sam’s ass out the door and into the gutter where he belonged.
“We’ll decide when Logan gets here,” Dare said, ever the diplomat.
“How much does he owe us?” Steve asked. “If he pays it, we can’t take him to court.” And that was what Steve preferred even over a simple return of funds—to get the jerk out of the business entirely. But what would happen to all those less popular bands who couldn’t afford to fund their own tours? If Exodus End got some of their money back, maybe they could sponsor up-and-comers out of their pocket. They’d probably been doing that for years already without knowing it, and Steve had everything he needed. Why not help out struggling musicians?
“Going on thirty million,” Dare said.
Steve blinked. That couldn’t be right. “He won’t be able to pay that.” Steve clenched a victory fist under the table. This guy was so screwed. They were going to drag his name through the mud in an ugly legal battle. They wouldn’t have to resort to fabricating stories in some stupid tabloid to make him look bad, not like Sam and Bianca had done to Steve and his bandmates, including poor Reagan.
“He better fucking pay it,” Max said. “Plus interest.”
His jaw was held in such a tight line, Steve feared it would shatter.
“We should have had an audit done years ago,” Dare said. He shook his head. “I completely dropped the ball on that.”
“No blame lies with you, man,” Max said. “It’s all Sam.”
A loud whine blew over the house, announcing Logan’s arrival. When they weren’t using the jet, it was kept on Dare’s private landing strip. It was no wonder that the guy didn’t notice a measly seven or eight million of his dollars missing. Even Steve hadn’t noticed.
“Wait,” Steve said. “If we do get reimbursed, will Bianca be entitled to a cut?”
She’d taken him to the cleaners in the divorce, but some of that missing income had been made while they’d been married.
“If so, she won’t be entitled to much,” Dare said. “The big chunks were taken after you divorced.”
Steve released a relieved breath. He hadn’t minded her getting a large settlement in the divorce as, at the time, he’d still loved her, but he was past that now. She continued to be a thorn in his side all these years later, and, frankly, he no longer cared if she couldn’t pay her credit cards or if her Mercedes got repossessed.
“Does this mean you’re finally going to move out of that tiny hovel you call a house?” Max asked.
“I’ll never leave Venice Beach,” he said. Unless it was to be closer to Roux. He wondered how she’d deal with the news of seed money for her band coming illegally from Exodus End’s royalties. He hoped Baroquen weren’t mixed up in this mess. He wanted them to succeed even if it was at his expense. They deserved their time in the spotlight.
“It’s a cool place to visit,” Dare mused.
“Are you putting on airs, Mills?” Steve lifted his brows. “Don’t want to rub elbows with the common folk?”
“That’s not it. Venice Beach is just . . . busy.”
Dare was a solitary creature by design and by choice. He’d likely never leave his walled-in, gated mansion or his distant private island if he had a say in the matter. And he didn’t have a say, because Exodus End would not exist without their talented lead guitarist.
“We won’t have to cancel the tour, will we?” Steve asked.
Max went still, his face slightly ashen. “I-I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
Steve knew the only thing Max loved more than cash due was the stage’s spotlight.
Logan arrived not long after, and, as always, accompanied by Toni.
“Not to be rude, but she can’t be here,” Max said.
“Why not? I’m going to marry her someday.”
Toni flushed prettily and pushed her glasses up her nose with the back of one wrist.
“Because we have a nondisclosure agreement on this crap,” Steve said, “and we aren’t going to fuck up this opportunity to destroy Sam Baily because of some lame technicality.” He shifted his gaze to Toni. “Why don’t you explore Dare’s mansion? We’ll try to find you when we’re done here. You might want to leave a trail of breadcrumbs.”
“Is your groupie girl here?” Toni asked.
What groupie girl? Oh, she still thought Roux was his groupie when the opposite was closer to the truth.
“Nah. Why would I bring her?” Steve shrugged as if thoughts of the woman in question weren’t currently tugging at him in all sorts of uncomfortable places.
“You seemed to like her pretty well.”
“I like all my groupies.” And as much as he liked Toni, he didn’t like being questioned by someone with ties—even if indirect—to a damned tabl
oid.
Logan pulled Toni aside, kissed her for an obscenely long time, and whispered to her. She smiled brightly and nodded, then left through the set of monstrous pocket doors. Logan slid them closed behind her.
“Does she always do your bidding?” Steve asked as Logan settled into the chair next to him.
“Putty in my hands. I told her to make me a sandwich.”
“And she wasn’t offended?” Dare asked.
“She likes taking care of me. And I like taking care of her.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “In the bedroom.”
Steve rolled his eyes. He seriously doubted Toni was making Logan a damned sandwich. Then again, she was a bit of an odd duck. A sweet, loving, and sensitive duck, but definitely odd.
“What’s this meeting about?” Logan asked. “And why was it important enough to ruin my much-needed vacation?”
“Bassists don’t need vacations,” Steve teased, because he just couldn’t resist. “All they do is play one note repeatedly. Hell, they can’t even handle a full six strings.” That earned Steve a kick to the shin, but he loved giving Logan a hard time.
“Someone—most likely Sam—has been embezzling money from our account since we signed on with our label twelve years ago,” Max said, righteous anger flushing over his face once more. “And more recently, our royalties have been underreported.”
“Don’t forget about ticket sale profits,” Dare said.
Steve’s phone vibrated in his pocket as a text message was delivered. Roux? Maybe Zach, though Steve hoped he was sleeping. Everyone else likely to text him was in the room. Already bored with Max’s repeated spiel, Steve pushed his chair back. “Can you draw me a map to the nearest toilet?” he asked Dare.
“Second, no, third door on the right. Or use any of the guest room on-suite bathrooms.”
“Just how many bathrooms does this place have?” Steve asked.
“Nine, I think.” Dare shrugged.
Nine? The dude had probably never used most of them.
“Don’t make a decision on Sam Baily’s annihilation until I get back,” Steve said.
Max lifted a hand to let him know he’d been heard, as he continued to show a bewildered Logan his never-ending stack of spreadsheets.