37. Chapter 27
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
Blue Grace
Despite all the money in it, clean or otherwise, the music industry is small and full of fucking gossip.
When Lou Braun reached out with a plan to revive the Deviant Dreams tour, I initially called bullshit.
After the last fiasco with The Preaching Pistols and their Crash and Burn tour, Viktor Vetrov had to be downright stupid to invest in another one of Lou’s schemes.
It didn’t take long for rumours to reach me via my manager, Corbin, that Lou Braun was reviving Deviant Dreams. Initially, I assumed they were bullshit.
The industry’s rumour mill has been swirling for a while about something big coming.
Honestly, a rumour probably started by Lou himself.
Not that I mind. As one of the co-investors in Orange County Records, a tour like Deviant Dreams is a fucking cash cow.
One that might help me solve a few of my other problems. Problems like my wife, Delilah.
Or Franklin Barrett. Both of whom are safely back in Barrett Hills.
Leaving me free to forget my troubles poolside.
I had our manager book these shows at Asterix on purpose so that I could get the fuck out of Barrett Hills and away from Delilah.
Between some of my favourite party favours, like the bikini-clad blonde smiling at me from across the pool and the coke, I was having a grand old time.
That was, until this morning, when the headlines finally reached me that The Preaching-fucking-Pistols were back together and doing a small revival tour across the great wild north.
The stench of Lou’s scheming was all over it.
Instead, I’m getting sucked back into the past drama, the kind that landed me in the deepest shit of my life. Ten years ago, Lou Braun made me his fucking stooge. And all I have to show for it is a fat fucking accountant and a major debt to not one devil, but two.
Somehow, someway, Franklin Barrett, CEO of Barrett Holdings and miserable S.O.B.
, found out what we’d done that night and, worse, what we did afterwards.
He’s been using that information to blackmail me ever since.
Blackmail me into some kind of money-laundering operation that I didn’t really understand.
Thank God, Bruce Cooper did. Which is why I hired him to manage my books all those years ago.
Speaking of that fat accountant, he is texting me every damn day lately.
And let me tell you, nothing ruins a Vegas pool party faster than Bruce’s bitching.
The man is convinced that I need to get the Graces in on the Deviant Dreams tour so that we can guarantee Rain Gamble keeps her damn mouth shut.
I figure that since she’s kept quiet this long, she’s not about to start blabbing now. Even if she did, it would make her sound like nothing but a drunk slut who couldn’t keep her legs closed.
Well, unless she’s somehow figured out the second part of what we did. But even then, it’s been years, and she’s got no fucking proof. I said as much to Brucey-boy in my last reply.
That blonde piece of ass is still eyeing me from across the pool. I lower my Gucci sunglasses, appreciating the other perks that come along with performing in Vegas, like her big tits.
I have moves to make on blondie, and the last thing I need is another interrupting text. Doesn’t stop him, though. My phone pings again, and I pull it from my pocket to turn it off.
Damn thing is, the message he’s sent contains a question that stops me dead.
Lou Braun
If Rain didn’t say anything, riddle me this, Blue—how did your man Franklin find out?
That very question has plagued me for years. Exactly how did Franklin Barrett find out what we did to Rain Gamble and The Pistols? And how did he get video evidence?
Lou Braun
Because it sure as shit wasn’t me or you. So, it was either Rain Gamble or…
There’s no good way to fill in that blank because the only other option is that Lou Braun, either by accident or more likely on purpose, royally fucked us over.
I’ve spent years wondering, but right now the need to know makes my blood run cold in spite of the blistering sun. Rather than reply, I turn my phone off as planned. I still make my way over to the girl and manage to get my dick wet inside the cabana I rented for the day.
It’s not until later that night, after the show and another shag—different girl, of course, because I don’t double dip—that I scroll online looking for the next available first-class ticket to Calder.