Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) Read online

  “It’s not drugged. Here,” he says, taking sips from both glasses. I finally take the cup. My throat is dry, and I quickly drain it. “More?”

  I shake my head, taking a seat again and resting my chin on a fist. “So what’s this really about?” I twist slightly in the chair, waiting for him to come back to the table.

  “I got your text the other night.” He pulls a phone out of his inner jacket pocket and slides it across the table. I catch it, seeing the message pulled up already.

  Sadie: I quit

  I smirk and slide it back, maybe a little harder than necessary. He catches it anyway. “You must have been laughing your ass off this whole time. Months and months you were pulling this over on me.”

  He leans back in his chair. “Don’t be stupid. If you had met me in the first two months I asked, you would have known who I was at the hospital. But no, you had to be stubborn and prove what? That you didn’t take orders from the man? Well, guess what? You take orders from me, don’t you?”

  “Fuck you.” My voice stays civil. I’m proud of that.

  “So soon?” he shoots back quickly.

  I laugh and put my head back on my chair. “Oh, that’s right. You’re more of a one and done guy, aren’t you? It doesn’t take five minutes until I hear your car leaving my driveway again. Is that a performance issue?”

  His look tells me he’s not impressed with my questions. “That was me not making things more complicated than they already were issue. I didn’t like you until that day. You have to realize I didn’t expect to sleep with you that first night. ”

  “You need a ride?”

  I look to the right at my car then to the left and up to meet his eyes.

  “Yup.”

  My psychiatrist had told me I didn’t have an appreciation for how short life is, then handed me a card. From the first look, Batty had me hooked, dressed in his Batman costume. I immediately left and returned as Robin. Not only Batty, but the kids in that cancer ward changed my life. They gave me something to look forward to: Sundays.

  “When my shrink suggested going to see the kids, I didn’t think it was going to be like that,” I admit.

  “It wasn’t like that at all, until you got there. Now look at what we’ve been able to do. You inspire me, those kids, everyone.”

  That visit I looked away, uncomfortable at a little boy’s appearance, and panicked at the hurt in his eyes. We went on an adventure that would be the first of many for us, but for most, it was the last dream they had. Their one check on a bucket list made too small by age and circumstance.

  “So what did you call me in here for?” I say, getting to the point.

  I watch Batty get to the point; he shifts nervously. “This is—” He places his hand on a manila envelope that seems to suddenly take up the rest of the room. “This is something I wanted to tell you a long time ago, but you didn’t give me the opportunity.”

  “So what is it?” I ask greedily, wanting to get this over with.

  “Have you looked at your financial statements at all?”

  I look at the envelope and pull it toward me. “I don’t understand.”

  Batty licks his full lips and looks decidedly uncomfortable. “That’s what I’ve been trying to draw to your attention the last few months. At first it wasn’t serious, but it’s gotten to a point I can’t ignore.” I watch him warily, finally pulling the papers the rest of the way toward me.

  I slide them open, slightly recognizing my bank account number. “This is my bank?”

  “Yes. It’s your bank statements for the last year, though the most evident would be the last six months.”

  “So you had me investigated?” I ask, indignant that he would look so far into my finances.

  “Absolutely,” he respond immediately. “It’s my job to know when my artists are being taken advantage of.”

  “And I assume that you think I am?” I ask warily, flipping the page.

  “Yes. That’s the extent of what I have.”

  I read over the documents carefully. It seems to be a third party account. Withdraws and deposits not adding up.

  “So what you’re saying is . . .?” I ask him.

  “That you’re broke. Move to the last page,” Batty says, flipping to the last page for me. “This is your last known account balance.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He definitely looks nervous.

  “This says one hundred thousand dollars. I don’t see the problem,” I tell him as I look over the numbers.

  “Do you know what you’re mortgage is, Sadie?” he asks me, dumbly I think.

  “My house is paid for,” I tell him deliberately.

  “No. It’s not. Who told you that?” he shoots back.

  “Brian . . .” I say, looking closer at the withdrawals. “So this is tens of thousands of dollars put into their accounts.”

  “Yes. Brian and—”

  “Tammy,” I finish.

  “I’ve been trying to get you in here for months because this is what the numbers say every month. You charge everything, correct?” he asks. I think back to my entire adult life, where I’ve never thought about anything but what I wanted and sliding over a black AmEx card.

  “I . . . I suppose,” I say, looking at the number more carefully.

  “You thought you had your parents in an assisted living facility in Oregon, I assume?”

  “Assume?” I croak. Of course I thought they were taken care of. What kind of person does he think I am?

  “They’ve been in a state facility for the last five years. When’s the last time you checked your finances?”

  I blink. “I don’t understand,” I mumble, flipping through the statements, looking for another zero or comma.

  Batty’s big hand comes down on top of my endless flipping. “Brian and Tammy have been syphoning off money from you since you were fifteen years old. They haven’t been taking the ten percent they signed for.”

  “So you’re saying?” I ask numbly.

  “That you’re broke.”

  I sigh loudly and close my eyes. “Where are my parents?” I mumble.

  “When’s the last time you saw them?” he asks. I wave my hand.

  “A long time ago. I thought they were comfortable. You’re saying they’re in some half bit place waiting to die?”

  Having spent time in the oncology unit of a hospital, I understand people giving up hope on someone. I thought my parents were getting the best money could buy.

  “So they’re where?” I ask. I was an accident. My parents had their kids, were happy, then had a rambunctious spitfire they didn’t know what to do with. Me.

  “You need to go see your folks. I understand you intend to quit the band?”

  I lean forward. “You’re saying my brother and sister stole all of my money and put our parents somewhere that cost the least amount of money possible?” I ask him, still incredulous.

  Batty meets my eyes without flinching. “Yes. I’m sorry, Sadie.”

  I swallow back my emotions. “So . . . my siblings have been stealing from me since I was a teenager, treating me like shit, while I thought our parents were taken care of?” I ask him, just to clarify. At this point, I’m sure I’m repeating myself, but what the actual fuck?

  “Yes.”

  “And what business is this of yours?” I want to know why he had someone look into me.

  “Because I pay your salary. At first, I thought you were just heartless and didn’t care. But after seeing you with the kids, I knew you weren’t aware of your parent’s care.”

  I shoot up from my chair. “Of course I didn’t know!”

  Batty raises his hands. “Sadie—”

  “Shut up.” I run my hands through my greasy hair as I pace. “Let me think.”

  Batty is quiet in his big leather chair. I ignore him to think of my almost ten million dollar house on the beach, my expensive car, everything I’ve pulled out my credit card for, while my parents were what? Being fed? I don’t fucking
know.

  “Can I sue them?” I ask feebly. My, have the self-righteous have fallen.

  “Absolutely. It may take years, but I can get you the information you need,” Batty answers readily.

  “So, in the meantime I do what? I quit. I can’t go back to singing for that band, Batty. Maury . . . I can’t,” I drift off.

  “Absolutely fucking not. Maury is a pedophile as far as I’m concerned. I won’t be signing a contract with them again,” Batty growls.

  “I’m over eighteen, old man. Twenty-two in fact,” I remind him.

  “He’s been after you for longer than I’ve been in charge. Now that you’ve quit, what do you want to do?”

  I look at him. “What do you mean?”

  He lifts a shoulder and taps a pen against the desk. Where did he get another one? “What do you want to do now that you don’t have any money? You want to go work at the mall where you buy your Chuck Taylors?”

  I smirk, thinking about the first time I bought a pair . . . okay, twenty pairs of Chuck Taylors at the mall. “What do they make, like twenty—”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten dollars an hour? Seriously?” I ask, thinking about how many times I asked for a different size the last time I was there.

  “At the most,” he verifies.

  “Shit.”

  I take a deep breath through my nose and put my palms on the table. “What are my alternatives?” I ask. I’m not stupid. For him to come to me with proof in hand, he has to have a way out. I hope.

  “You work for me.”

  I stare into those grey eyes, the sky behind him almost too bright to see the color, but I look carefully. “How?”

  It’s his turn to stand. “I have a project I’ve been working on.”

  “What kind of project, and can I sue the shit out of my manager and publicist in the process?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll pay for the attorneys if you let me. There should have been a clause in your contract where someone was keeping track of your money when you were a minor. That’s the record label’s fault and we’ll take full responsibility, since you started at fifteen. What I have for you is a solo gig, but it’s like nothing you’ve ever done,” he cautions.

  I shrug. What do I have to lose? “How much is my mortgage?” I ask.

  “About fifty-eight thousand. You have maybe a month before you have to file bankruptcy.”

  “What do I do?”

  Chapter 5

  “How do you feel about reality TV?”

  I throw the papers down on the table where they slide and fan out. “I don’t even own a TV, Batty! Shit, I can’t even fucking afford one now!” I cannot lose it in this room, not in front of this man.

  “No, I’m talking about singing competitions. You must know the one’s I’m talking about.”

  “You want me to sing?” I ask in surprise. Not what I was expecting.

  Batty puts his hands through his hair. “Sometimes. I want you to be a judge on my new singing competition reality show.”

  Never in the history of the world did I ever think I would be considering something like this. I sigh and slump back into my seat. “Tell me more,” I mumble.

  Batty smirks. “Now who’s pouting like a little kid? I can think of better things to do with that bottom lip if you don’t suck it back in.”

  Oh, so tempting. But no, I’m fucking broke. Is this what people worry about all the time? Five minutes and I feel like I’m about to have a nervous breakdown. I pull my lip back in so we can stay on track.

  “There would be two other artists. The idea is that you each find your contestants through different mediums. YouTube, live auditions and live performances stumbled upon like at a bar. Now since you—”

  I raise my hand and cut him off quickly. “Live gigs, I want the scavenger hunt.”

  “—would be the last judge, you’re stuck with live gigs,” Batty finishes with a shake of his head.

  “Yes!” Finally, something is going my way.

  “There are other twists with the game, but it’s a paycheck.”

  “How much of a paycheck are we talking about?”

  My eyes track his tongue as it swipes his lips again. “You would get half up front and all expenses paid.”

  “How much is half?” Okay, so my voice raises. Batty was starting to worry me with his avoidance.

  “Five hundred.”

  “Thousand? How much are the others getting? Who are they, anyway?”

  “Fandy Merna and Daniel Walsh. What they’re getting isn’t up for discussion,” he says shortly.

  I laugh and shake my head. “You know it’s going to be public knowledge shortly. They’re going to freak out when they find out I’m on board for this, I can tell you that. It’s like the only reason I’m being considered is because I’m fucking the boss,” I say caustically.

  Batty nods his head. “That would be correct. The only reason you’re being offered this job is because I’m fucking you.” At my glare, he holds out his hands and smiles. “Hey, I thought you would be happy. That means I don’t want you to starve, babe.”

  “Don’t babe me. I assume it goes without being said that no one can know about the two of us?” I ask with an eye roll.

  Batty raises his eyebrows and leans forward in his chair. “That means you want this to continue, then?”

  I look at him in his expensive suit, absolutely not looking like he had sex twenty minutes ago. “I’m still pissed at you,” I say for good measure.

  Batty’s smile starts slowly as he stands and moves closer to me. “Of course.” He puts a hand on the back of my chair and drops his eyes to my mouth.

  “I’m serious. I haven’t decided if I’m kicking you in the balls yet or not.”

  His mouth sips at mine, his teeth nipping my lip. “Then you would just have to kiss them better.” Another kiss, this time I feel his tongue. “Your choice.”

  I open my mouth fully to bring him further inside of me, but he pulls back too quickly, walking to the center of the table where the phone is as my hair falls down. I see him pocketing the pen that was holding up the long strands and glare.

  “Are you ready for this, Sadie? I don’t think they’ll wait too much longer to see if you’ve killed me,” Batty says with his hand on the machine.

  “Do I get to kill them?” I’m only half joking.

  “No.”

  I cross my arms as he pushes a button on the phone. “Please send them in, Dayna.”

  I pick up the papers that are all over the table, bringing them down to straighten the edges just as they walk in, little bitty Dayna behind them holding my water. As soon as I feel the cold, wet plastic in my hand, I meet eyes with Tammy, then Brian. Both take steps back as I stand. I bring the bottle of water up to point first to one then the other. Both flinch when it’s their turn.

  “You’re fired. And you’re fucking fired. You better tell me where Mom and Dad are before I lose my shit and murder your asses.”

  Brian’s head jerks back indignantly, transforming his double chin into three and four. Tammy slaps his arm and starts to back away. “Come on, Brian. Our gig is up. It’s about time, too. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her career going.”

  I’m moving before I think to do it, my hand rising to throw the bottle, the other ready to pull her extensions out of her head. “You fucking bitch—” I growl, but it gets cut off by Batty’s arms around my chest, squeezing tight enough to lose my breath.

  “I believe you’ve both been fired. Please leave the premises,” I hear from behind me. Batty’s so calm, even as I try to reach them with my feet. So close.

  Brian clears his throat and straightens his jacket the best he can. “We’ll see you on tour, Popper. I’m the band’s manager as well, not just yours.”

  “I quit the band, you asshole!” The words explode from me almost faster than my mouth can form the words. The sense of relief that comes with knowing I’ll never have to go back to stripping and screaming for them m
akes me wish I had done it sooner. So much sooner.

  Brian’s face turns red, but Tammy is tugging him out the door. Dayna reaches into the room and closes the door, leaving Batty and I alone again. I pant and bend slightly forward, which brings my ass into his very evident erection. My head whips around. “Are you for real right now?”

  I feel his chuckle rumble through my back, as well as hear it in my ear as he sticks his mouth there. “You’re hot when you’re hot.”

  “You’re certifiable is what you are.” He sighs and lets me go.

  “Fine. I’ll grab the papers for you to sign. You may want to consider selling the beach house, though . . . and the Mercedes.”

  I glare and snatch the pen away when he offers it. “Says the CEO to the pauper. Ha! Get it?”

  He shrugs then slides his hands in his pockets. “Then do well on the show so the network asks you to come back. If you tank this, I can’t do anything for you.”

  Chapter 6

  The drive back to my house in Malibu is silent but for the roar of the engine. When I park the car in front of my house, I sit and stare at the accumulation of my life. This is what I have, a car and a house, but apparently can afford neither.

  I get out of the car and walk through the silent house, my heels echoing in the near empty space. I walk straight out the back door and fall into my favorite chaise on the deck overlooking the ocean. The waves have always calmed me after the volume of my existence. I didn’t give a second’s thought to money when I quit the band. I knew, or I thought I knew, that I could do anything. I suppose I still can, but the day-to-day logistics never occurred to me. I worked my ass off, sacrificing a passable singing voice to growl for these people since I was fifteen years old. I should have had something to show for it, or at least fall back on.

  I suppose that would be a singing competition now. I thought of the other judges and if I really had a chance to win. Did I want to even do that? Win? Did I even care? My gut was yelling hell yes. My head was saying I’m fucking tired as hell, can’t I just rest? But no. Brian and Tammy stole that from me. Red hot rage fills me, and I shift in my seat. No. There would be no retribution except to get what they stole from me. No baseball bats to their cars, nothing physical for me to take my anger out on. Maybe I should start kickboxing or something. Shit, so many questions.