For Love or Money Page 8

  “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.

  James looks nervously at the man and then me. “Hey—Lana. This is professor Sherman. Sir, this is—”

  The older man laughs. “No need to introduce. I am well aware of who Lana Webber is. It’s a pleasure, Ms. Webber.”

  I prepare myself for judgment and hate, but he stands and offers me a hand. I place mine in his, stunned a single teacher wants to shake my hand without a glove or Lysol—what with all the trashy shit they believe about me.

  “I’m a huge fan of your father’s company. He’s such an amazing man. I still can’t believe James here—”

  James stands, cutting him off. “I was just leaving. The library is closing. Can I walk you out—or back to dorms? Safety in numbers and all.”

  He’s acting insane and overly nice. It’s weird. I cock an eyebrow and am actually about to say no, but the song picks at me. “Sure. It was lovely to meet you, sir. You are both so talented. I thought I was listening to a live version on satellite radio or something.”

  He nods. “Nice to meet you as well, and thank you. That means a lot coming from you.” His eyes dart from me to James. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I need to make James sing for me again. James closes his guitar case and grabs my elbow, leading me away from the grinning prof. I look back when we are far enough from the class. “Is he a weirdo?”

  He scowls at me. “What?”

  “Why are you dragging me away from him?”

  “I just need to get going.”

  “Oh God, is he a client?”

  He turns, giving me a nasty bad look. I pull my arm from his hand, a little put off at the mad grip accompanying the evil look. “Why are we—like running? I avoid running at all times.”

  “I can tell. He’s just a musician I jam with sometimes.”

  “He seems super nice. He’s the first person to be nice to me in weeks.”

  “I was nice to you.”

  I laugh. “No, you weren’t. You haven’t been nice to me yet. Stopping to see why I’m crying doesn’t count after you scared the hell out of me in that elevator and the shower. You owed me that much. You think I don’t know why you took me from Andy’s house? You think I haven’t put two and two together? I know you assumed I was drunk, and not passing out from anxiety. You were counting on the fact I wouldn’t remember being at Andy’s and seeing you there, in my shower no less.”

  “Fair enough.” His cheeks blush. “That back there IS the nicest man on earth, and if we are being really honest—I just don’t want you talking to him about me. He’s a little naïve when it comes to you.”

  My jaw drops. “You think I would tell him?” Wow!

  His dark-green eyes flicker to mine. “I do. I think you’re reckless. You do drugs and drink and you can’t be trusted with secrets. The media is stalking you like a bear after a garbage bin, and people are always watching and recording you. So I do not trust you. No offense.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. “Did you just call me garbage? Untrustworthy garbage?” What is this guy’s problem? What did I ever do to him?

  “No. It’s a saying us colloquial folks use.” He grabs my hand again and drags me to the stairs.

  “You think that little of me?”

  He looks back at me. “I’ll walk you to your dorm.”

  I don't want that. I need him to sing. “Sing for me again and I will take your secret to the grave.”

  “Fat chance. No way, honey.”

  I jerk him back to look at me but his face is covered with sarcasm and mockery. I swallow hard and lean forward. “Yes way, honey.”

  “Are you giving me an order?”

  My gaze narrows confidently. “As a person who
has your dirtiest secret in her evil clutches, I guess I am.”

  “You want to play the blackmail game?” He sees I mean business but he stares me down.

  I nod, with venomous hate and desperate hope coursing through my veins. “I do in fact. You sing for me in this competition for my new job, and I will never tell a soul. You don’t sing and I’ll be exactly the sort of girl you just assumed I was. You want to think things about me, fine whatever. I don’t give a shit what people think of me. But if I act exactly the way you presume to think I am, you can’t be surprised or pissed.”

  He laments, hopefully seeing that he brought this on himself. “Go screw yourself and no—not in this lifetime and not even if I was in a coma and you moved my lips for me.”

  I shrug. “Okay. But when the tale of the sad and lonely Harvard gigolo gets out, you can’t be angry that I just went and acted the way that comes naturally to me.” I walk by him, hurrying down the stairs. “For the record, carrying me to the apartment building is exactly what I would have done, so you aren’t any better than me, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou.”

  “Stop.” I turn to see a serious case of hopelessness mixing with indignation on his face. He grits his teeth and seethes past them. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Rock like The Boss. I need you to be the next—Lochlan Barlow.”

  “From Thin Ice?” He cocks an eyebrow.

  I nod.

  His accent thickens as he gets all dramatic. “That’s it? Well shit, sugar you should have told me that's all you needed. I’ll get right on that. In fact, I’ll just abandon my degree and play my guitar for money. Jeeze, why didn't I think to do that all along? Why did I ever leave Nashville to come to balmy Boston if I coulda made my fortunes there?” He sounds angry in a way that makes me take a couple steps back. He scoffs. “Just Lochlan Barlow, pshhh. I am way better than he is, or was rather. He’s all married and shit now. I heard he’s taking a leave. Hell—I should just see if Thin Ice is looking for another front man.”

  I fold my arms. “You done?”

  “I was done before you even opened your mouth. You are even more unbelievable than I expected.”

  “You can win this. I am telling you—I believe in you and am willing to bet my job on it—on you.”

  “And if I don't agree to this, you really will out me to everyone?”

  I stare him down, not nodding but not shaking my head either. I would never do it, but he already thinks I’m the antichrist. Why not let him keep on believing I am?

  He takes the stairs slowly, one at a time. “You win this competition and we never have to speak again? You will NEVER bring up my sordid details and we will NEVER cross each other’s paths?”

  I nod once.

  “What guarantee do I have that you aren’t going to go back on your word? What am I getting out of this?”

  I don’t have a single thing to give him—or do I? Shit. I pull my phone out and send a text to my lawyer as I speak. “I have a dummy corporation with four executive apartments on the West End, maybe you’ve heard about them?”

  He chuckles. “In the news recently? Yeah, I did hear something.”

  “They’re worth a million a piece, literally the last thing I own beyond an extensive collection of clothes, shoes, and handbags. We will draw up a contract with my dad’s lawyers, gifting all four of them to you if I spill the secret. We’ll have a sealed envelope containing the secret and my sex tape I made when I was eighteen, like an idiot. They will remain with the lawyer until the end of the contest. If you do this with me, I will pay you with two of the apartments and my sex tape. We will go to our graves each having a daunting secret about the other person. Equal leverage and equal partners.”

  His eyes narrow. “Who’s in the sex tape?”

  Closing my eyes, I try to block out his face when I say the name. “Andy.”

  “Deal.”

  I shake my head, hating that I have become the person he thinks I am. For whatever reason, I don’t want him to think that I am that shallow and horrid. I want to be the girl Henry and Geoff think I am. The girl my dad wants me to be. This is not the road to that.

  I offer him my hand but he shakes his head. “No. We’ll shake when the papers are drawn up. And I’m going to need money for the next couple months. I’ll need all my free time for rehearsals. I’ll have to retire from the other job.”

  I nod and hand him over the Visa. He takes it, not knowing it’s literally the last thing I have, beyond a checking account that will just last me the summer. My dad doesn't know about it, just like James doesn’t know I’m betting on him, betting my entire life on him.

  Chapter Ten

  Keyboards and cold hearts

  James

  I flip the Visa over and over in my hands. I don’t even know what to do with it but I don't want to use it. It makes me feel guilty just looking at it. It’s a black card with the name Webber Records on it in gold. I can’t believe she gave it to me after threatening to ruin my life.

  I glance over at the violin and smile. What a fucking joke! I took the damned thing and agreed to try to help her. I’ve spent three years trying to come up with a way to do it. And here she not only comes up with a way for us to hang out, but she also found a way to drag me into the mud with her. Figures.

  But would she actually do it?

  Part of me, a pretty large part, doesn't think she would. She and Andy are pretty close and I can’t see her wanting to hurt him like that. Andy and me are close enough I would never want to hurt him like that. He’s a weird guy but he’s always done right by me, the scholarship kid. He became my friend the first week and has let me into the inner circle and dragged me all over the planet with him.

  Andy isn’t my only problem. There’s also Duncan and Richard, who are my friends. I haven’t slept with their moms but I date them regularly.

  And there is the issue of the school. I still have to get accepted for my MBA when I’m done my undergrad. No school will take someone with a reputation for prostitution.

  I can’t even imagine what my mom would say. She’s worked two jobs my whole life, desperately trying to help me with money and school. She would be so ashamed. I would never be able to look her in the eye again. Even worse, my little sister, Barb. I would never want this to be the example I gave her, especially since she and mom both know I had another option.

  As much as I want to damn Lana to hell, I can’t even blame her for it all. I made my filthy bed and now I have to lie in it. I took money for sex. The fault is mine, her extorting things from me for doing them is nothing surprising, but it bugs me. It picks at something deep inside of me. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that she knows about it all, but it does. I guess it’s that deep down I know there is a realness to her that she hides away from everyone. She hides goodness inside of herself, whereas I’m hiding being a whore. She’s almost a better person than me at this rate. Every second spent thinking on it, she gets to be less and less of the blackmailing skank she wants me to believe she is.

  I glance from the violin to the guitar on my dresser and chuckle.

  Damned thing.

  I swore it wasn’t ever going to be my future. In Nashville we see washed-up stars with nothing to fall back on, on every street corner. Or playing in that same bar for decades, never getting anywhere. I made a vow that wouldn’t ever be me, and now she’s gotten me to do the very thing I have been against my whole life.

  Something about those dead blue-grey eyes and that evil smile makes my skin crawl and not in the way I want. She gives me shivers instead of the heebie-jeebies.

  Damn girl.

  Seeing her being different, more human, over the last little bit has made me vulnerable to her beauty. My momma always did say girls would be the death of a boy like me. She wasn’t kidding. I am an idiot when it comes to sexy girls. Adding crazy is my kryptonite.

  I get up and pull my soccer gear on for practice and jog over to the field. When I get there, I come across Nick giving me a
look from a dark corner of the corridor. It’s almost creepy until he mutters just loud enough for me to hear. “Weaver’s okay and awake.”

  I take my first real breath in a week. “You’re not kidding with me, right?” God, please let it be true so Lana is off the hook.

  “No man. He’s good. No brain damage either. Thank fucking God. I told him to stop. I told him we had to go, but he was in that room with that rich bitch and her gothic friend. He came out of there looking like hell and passed out.”

  The plot thickens, just like it always does with the rich kids.

  He runs his hands over his face and shakes his head, taking a huge sigh. “I just want to say, you were right. We should have left with you.”

  “Alright, well let’s play some soccer and try to move on from this.” Damn, it is my lucky day.

  He folds his arms. “I’m sorry you caught shit from coach.”

  My chest nearly freezes up. I look around us. “The world IS still turning, right?”

  “Shut up.” He chuckles.

  “What? You rich shits never apologize for nothing.”

  “Well, I guess hell froze over then, whatever.”

  We walk in silence onto the field. Coach gives me a nod. I know it’s his version of an apology.

  The day is improving, I have to admit that.

  I’m fresh out of the showers and changed after practice when I run into Lana waiting outside of the locker room with ear buds in, jamming along with her head to a song. I almost walk past her, but she looks up and smiles, it’s an unnaturally friendly smile. It makes her look soft and sweet and prettier than any girl I’ve ever actually seen in person. It’s a look I’ve never seen on her. It forces me to assume the smile on her face is the one she might use to get what she wants.

  Great, she’s plotting.

  “I found a drummer and a bassist but we need a keyboard player.” She gets up to walk with me, earning me looks from the boys leaving the locker room too.