Schemes

Crash

Tommy's right on her heels, but Dan rolls his eyes at me.

It's so hard not to glare at Dan. But he doesn't even notice, just stares at the space where Kelly was.

"Women, huh? Impossible to please. She's been crying over you two for a year, and now you're here, she doesn't want you to know she cares?" He shakes his head, then seems to think better of making her sound clingy. "I mean crying figuratively, of course. Even though it doesn't look that way right now. She's just pissy. Gosh, you boys must have it so good—all the woman you want without the hassle of putting up with them in your space. Sounds like heaven."

I grip my hospital gown like I'd like to grip Dan's throat. He beams at me again, as if this is an invitation to share stories of tomcatting my way around the United States. But I'm too busy debating the merits of putting Dan in his place (a word in the shift nurse's ear and he'd be shuttled off to Three Rivers Public in under an hour) versus keeping him on-side and maybe gaining Kelly a little more freedom. Or at least, freedom with me and Tommy. I have a dark feeling I could tell Dan outright I'd enjoy some of that tomcatting with Kelly in the bathroom here, and he'd usher me in himself.

Sicko.

He's Mr. Chuckles now, but when the pain meds wear off, he'll make her life hell, blaming her for all this. He makes Kelly so anxious she gets nauseous.

I need to help her. "You know, now that we're alone, Mr. Berkstram, there is something I'd like to ask you."

"Do you need some advice about girls? You don't have a dad, right? Are you having trouble—"

"No. That's not it." Asshole. "But I would like your help with something."

"Anything. You tell me, it's yours."

"Well, I'm writing a new album, and without Kelly's help it's been really hard. You know she helped us with this on the last album?"

Dan blanks, but nods.

"Well, um, the label is on my ass to get these songs finished before we record—the studio time is expensive and they don't want it taken up with writing—so I'm wondering, would you let Kelly help us? Purely professionally."

Everything hinges on how he takes this. I'm desperately trying to be casual. But if Dan sees through the ruse--or isn't impressed with our fame enough to ignore it--instead of giving her some room (and giving me a chance to show her how sorry I am) he's going to take an even tighter grip on Kelly. And she'll never forgive me.

As Dan stares at me, I swallow hard and pray.

Let her come spend time out from under your suffocating presence, you bastard.

Dan isn't beaming anymore. He sits back. "Can't one of your people help you like that? She's not experienced like you guys."

I shake my head. "No. Most of them are too educated. They keep trying to put our stuff in a formula, and I don't want that." True. "Plus, Kelly's voice blends really well with mine, and she has this ear for editing. She knows what's working and what's not. I haven't found anyone better. I miss that input a lot."

"Tommy can't help you?"

"Tommy's great, but he doesn't have Kelly's head for music." I bite back a laugh. Tommy would be speechless if he heard that.

Dan grins. "A little slow, huh?"

"Well, we just like to say it's a good thing he's a drummer."

Tommy finished high school a year early, despite starting a year late because he was at the Parkvale Music Academy. When he was six.

"Wouldn't your people just send some professional—"

"Oh, they would," I say hastily. "But I write best at home, and you can never tell whether staff will keep your secrets, you know? Kelly's had plenty of chances to sell her story, or make a buck off of knowing us for so long, and she hasn't. So I feel safe working with her, you know?"

Shit. Dan's eyes have practically glazed over with the idea of all the millions Kelly could earn him.

"So, if you wouldn't mind letting her work with us after school for a few weeks, that'd be a huge help."

Dan stares at me. I gotta hand it to him, he's got the evil bastard look nailed.

Then again, so have I.

"Well, you can come to our house anytime—"

"See, that's the thing, sir. Me being at your house is a recipe for some paparazzi to chase me down, and then your address shows up in a newspaper or a magazine and anyone could show up. You see that, right?"

Dan may be enamored by fame, but he's not stupid. He stares at me, having his own internal tug-of-war—let his precious, under-the-thumb stepdaughter loose on the streets with two musicians, or lose access to the potential stardust that might drift off their skin?

"If Kelly could come to my house, it's fully secure, completely monitored by CCTV, and we have a gated community. So she'd be totally safe."

For the first time since we entered the room, Dan drops the congenial uncle act. He sits back against his pillows. I keep my face innocent.

"Seems like if she's working for you, and she's gotta drive across town every day, she should get some kind of compensation?"

Give me a fucking break. "You're probably right. Though, since she's still a minor, it'd have to be at the youth rate."

"Well, sure, sure."

"Then I guess we have a deal! That sure does take a load off my mind. Thank you, Mr. Berkstram. I'll talk to Kelly when she gets back and work out what days will suit—"

"Just for a few weeks, while I'm getting better," he says, low and flat.

Damn. He's good. But it gives me an idea. "Sure. I'll talk to Kelly about which days—"

"Oh, every day. I mean, you guys aren't doing anything anyway, right?"

Actually, Dan, yesterday was the first full day off I've had in almost a month. These three weeks vacation (in which I'm supposed to write a least a dozen songs) are the first I've had in over a year. And after that, we start rehearsal for the next tour, during which I'll often work twenty days in a row without a break—on only three or four hours sleep a night. But, sure, there's not much going on.

"Sounds like we have a deal," I say.

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