10. Luna

10

Delete, delete, delete.

Seriously? Mom was resorting to burner phones now? I'd blocked her number, but still she managed to get under my skin. Couldn't she take the hint?

Over the past four months, her messages had gone from fake concern to guilt trip to plain nastiness. Then fake apology, and now we were back to being nice again. Or whatever passed for nice when you were my mom.

Mom

The past few weeks have been traumatic—why don't you come home so we can talk things through?

And thirty minutes later…

Mom

Don't you realise how much I gave up for the sake of your career? I put everything into your pageants, your music, and this is how you repay me? By turning your back?

Oh, yes, she had put everything into my pageants. I'd been through two pageant systems, lived the nightmare for most of my childhood. You'd think after the Miss American Splendor pageant got raided by the FBI and the owner was arrested for child porn, maybe she'd have taken a step back, but no. Right away, she'd entered me in Miss American Radiance, and the circus continued.

Mom

You think you can make it on your own? You're nothing without my backing, child. If it hadn't been for me, you'd be waiting tables at Arby's.

Mom

Sorry, my darling. I didn't mean what I said. Your leaving has made life very difficult.

Today's message?

Unknown

Luna, I'm worried about you. Without a manager, people will take advantage. Everyone wants a piece of you—money, sex, a shortcut to fame… Don't give them a thing.

Mom had hired the accountant who cleaned out my bank account, and now she was concerned about people taking advantage? Sheesh.

Three dots. She was typing.

Unknown

Dr. Adamson says he can find a space for you at Whispering Pines. Nothing is more important than your mental health right now.

Arrrgh!

She was trying every trick in the book to get me to talk to her, and the worst part? I knew I'd cave eventually. How could I not? She held all the cards. Ryder might be able to get my car back, but Mom had everything else. My lawyer said she'd been sneaky. I'd thought my money was mine, but it hadn't been, not legally anyway. My earnings had been paid to a company, Stargirl Media, Inc., and I didn't understand the fancy jargon, but the upshot was that Mom owned most of the shares, so she had control of the company. Stargirl contracted my services and paid me a monthly allowance, or at least it had until I walked away. The house, the house I'd chosen after my first album went platinum, had somehow ended up in Mom's name.

Julius had modified our contract to work with me directly rather than via Stargirl, but he'd refused to change the clause that meant I was stuck with the creep for two more years. Even if I wanted to pay the hefty penalty to ditch him, I couldn't afford it. I had a reputation for being difficult—thanks, Mom—so most record labels wouldn't touch me, and I had no idea how to negotiate a contract in any case.

In that moment, I felt a rare scrap of sympathy for my father. We'd both been royally screwed by Amethyst Puckett.

At least I had breathing space. The apartment lease still had four months to run, so I could leave Mom to stew for a while. After that, who knew? Frank Serafini was paying me good money, but do you know how much lawyers cost? Neither did I until I needed to hire one for myself, and it was a lot. Mom undoubtedly had a bunch of my money squirrelled away someplace Ron hadn't been able to touch it, and she wouldn't be happy until she'd bankrupted both of us. Another reason to stop fighting her… Caro said that if I took a break from work, then based on my current spending patterns, I could afford to maintain my lifestyle for six more months after the show. Honestly, going back to the turtle sanctuary in San Gallicano was starting to look appealing.

I shoved the phone into my pocket as Ryder walked out of the bathroom, but he still knew something was wrong.

"What's up?"

"Just Mom. Apparently, you're using me for money and sex. Or maybe fame."

"Moon, I would never?—"

"Relax, I know. Sometimes, I think she smokes crack before breakfast."

"She knows I'm here?"

"Not yet. She was talking about people in general, trying to make me un-fire her."

Ryder sighed and did that thing where he reached toward me and then caught himself. His hand dropped back to his side. If Mom found out I was associating with a man who lent me strength, she'd double down on her efforts to worm her way back into my life.

"Good, that's good. Not that I think you should rehire her, but that she doesn't know I'm here. I'd prefer to keep a low profile." He shrugged. "Work."

Of course he wanted to stay out of the limelight. Ryder did all kinds of hush-hush stuff he wasn't allowed to talk about, and now I was ruining his career as well as my own. When I was small, I'd watched a cartoon where the evil overlord destroyed everything he touched. A brush of his fingers and rivers dried up, plants withered, and people turned into desiccated husks. Now I was the overlord. Everything I touched died.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry. I understand why you don't want to be the centre of attention, and if you need to leave?—"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"But—"

"If anyone asks, I'm just doing my job. Outside, I'm a bodyguard and nothing more. You don't look at me, you don't touch me, and feel free to bitch in my general direction."

"What about inside? In my apartment?"

He flashed me a smile. "Inside, I'm whatever you want me to be."

"They're not here. Someone took the earrings and left the bag."

"How about the note?"

I held it out between a thumb and finger and shuddered. "Here you go."

Ryder had driven us to the theatre in a black SUV, and he'd made me sit in the back seat, hidden by tinted windows, while he got behind the wheel. Before, when I'd had more money, I'd had a designated driver too, and the bodyguard would ride with him in the front while I sat with Jubilee or sometimes Mom, plotting my next outrageous social media post.

That was a lifetime ago.

In San Gallicano, Ryder had never driven me around. At first, I'd stayed on Kory's boat, and then we'd been confined to the sanctuary. When we left Valentine Cay, Ryder had sat in the back of the vehicle with me, our heads down. I'd been shaking while he'd been plotting to kill people, but despite the situation, I'd felt safe. This new evolution of our relationship, this forced separation—even if it was only by a few feet—felt off. Okay, okay, a week ago, I hadn't wanted Ryder anywhere near me, and I'd told myself it was because of his sexuality. But really, I'd just been mad at him for lying. Although if he hadn't lied, I'd never have gotten to know him and I still wouldn't have wanted him anywhere near me, so… Yeah. My head was officially messed up.

Ryder took Mark A's note and read it.

"This was the first communication?"

"I think so. I mean, I haven't seen any others, but Jubilee used to deal with my mail."

"Did you ask her?"

"Uh, no? We're barely speaking at the moment."

"Where was the bag when you first saw it?"

"Right here on the table."

"How do the gifts get delivered? Who brings them to the table?"

"How should I know?"

"Did anyone check the cameras? There are three in the hotel lobby and another in the hallway that leads to the theatre."

"It's cute that you think I might know the answer to that."

"Where's the security centre?"

I shrugged because I didn't know the answer to that either.

The theatre was quiet today. I'd swallowed my nerves and called Frank Serafini's assistant to say we were dropping by to pick up an item I'd left behind, which I'd had to repeat three times, not because the line was bad but because she couldn't believe I'd run an errand myself. She'd offered to put whatever I'd forgotten in a cab and send it over, then finally agreed to have a staff member meet us at the VVIP entrance, the one hidden away in a covered parking garage. Now our escort was standing over by the dressing room door, picking at her fingernails and pretending not to watch us.

"Hey, you!" I called.

She looked back through the door, then pointed at herself. Duh, yes, I was talking to her.

"Where do we find the security centre?"

She glanced behind her again, this time clearly hoping for help. "The control centre? Uh, is there a problem?"

Ryder stepped forward. "No problem, ma'am. I'm a part of Ms. Maara's security team, and I just need to make some standard checks."

"Oh, sure, sure. Follow me."

"Could you take a couple of pictures of me before we go?"

"Me?"

"I'd ask him…" I jerked a thumb at Ryder and rolled my eyes. "But he tells me it's not a part of his job description. Honestly"—I lowered my voice to a whisper he could still hear—"he takes himself way too seriously."

His lips twitched as I strode past him, the casino employee hustling behind. Ryder had told me to bitch at him? If there was one thing I was good at, it was acting like a diva.

Our escort took pictures of me looking pensive on stage, then gazing out at the empty theatre, then sitting on the grand piano. I had a live band for this show. In fact, I had live bands for most shows, but never the same band. Whenever I'd suggested putting together a permanent group of musicians so we could get used to each other's working styles and form a more cohesive team, Mom had muttered about costs and logistics and said it wasn't possible. In San Gallicano, Ryder had finally shed some light on the real reason, and perhaps that was why I'd finally struck out on my own. Mom had kept me isolated. Sure, there were always people around me, but nobody I could get close to. Nobody who could help me to see just how much power she wielded and allow me to wriggle out from under her thumb. She hired session musicians, contract bodyguards, and never anyone she thought I might like. The only other constant in my life had been Jubilee, and Mom had control over her too.

Now? Now, I was still lonely, but at least I was in charge of my own affairs.

"Nice touch with the eye roll," Ryder murmured as I walked past him. The casino escort was too far ahead of us to hear, and she was also facing ahead, so I trailed a fingertip over his hand. His eyes widened, but then he smiled. A proper grin, not the tight little smiles he'd been giving me since he got to Las Vegas. It was gone in a second as he returned to tough-guy mode, but I knew what I'd seen. And what I'd felt. That flicker of excitement. I had plenty of secrets—the sexual assault, my fake personality, the strained relationship with my family—but this was the first time I'd had a good secret. And it was kinda fun.

Our escort had called ahead, and the head of security ushered us inside the control centre. I'd never seen so many TVs in one place. These people could watch every single show on Netflix, all at the same time.

Ryder held out a hand. "Ryder Metcalfe. I'm on Ms. Maara's security team."

"Derek Monroe." He was a slender man with dark circles under his eyes, messy brown hair, and a harried look about him. The two men shook. "Everything okay?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Ms. Maara has received several interesting communications from a fan, and it's setting off alarm bells."

Derek eyed me up. "You want to talk privately?"

He was talking to Ryder, not to me. Trying to exclude me from my own life the way literally everyone else did. I opened my mouth to protest, but Ryder got there first.

"Whatever we discuss, we'll do it with Ms. Maara's involvement."

He took my side. Ryder took my side. He didn't treat me like a helpless female, capable of entertaining but not of being master of my own destiny. My fingernails bit into my palms as I clenched my fists, waiting to see if Derek would argue.

He didn't.

"As you wish."

Derek waved us past him into a small, cluttered side office. He moved a gym bag off one visitor chair and a stack of files off the other, then pushed a trio of empty coffee cups to the side of the desk.

"Take a seat."

Ryder closed the door behind us, and we both settled into minimally padded chairs. Was a cushion really too much to ask for? Apparently so, because the two men just continued the conversation as if our butts wouldn't start aching before it was over.

"Why are these communications a concern?" Derek asked. "What's the nature of them?"

"The first note came here with a pair of earrings. It showed up on the gift table in the theatre."

Ryder had put the note into a ziplock bag, and he slid it across the desk toward Derek. Well, he slid it most of the way. A bottle of energy drink blocked its path. This wasn't a man who got much sleep. Derek adjusted his glasses, and Luna fidgeted as he read.

"Man's a kook" was his verdict. "Every artist gets this shit."

"The other two notes were delivered to Ms. Maara's apartment."

"Same guy?"

"Same guy."

"Right." Derek glanced at the note again. "In that case, I can see why you're concerned. Are there cameras at her place?"

"There's one, but it doesn't help in this case. The guy's smart—he uses takeout delivery drivers and sends the notes with the food. The issue is that he has her home address, plus he knows where she works. How did that gift get to the table?"

"I believe there's a cart in the management office near the main hotel lobby. Anything that gets delivered goes onto the cart, and then a staff member wheels it over when it's full. The theatre is connected to the main hotel by a hallway on the first floor."

"The bags get left in my dressing room," I said. "I take a look through, and anything I don't want—which is most of the stuff—gets put on a table for folks to help themselves."

"What day did the note arrive?" Derek asked.

"Opening night. Last Friday," Ryder said. "In a gold gift bag. Ms. Maara didn't think much of it until the next note arrived at her home."

Derek reached for his mouse. "Let's take a look."

It turned out that the millions of screens in the security centre mostly showed the gambling areas. Blackjack tables, poker games, slot machines… There were cameras in other parts of the hotel, but not nearly so many. Our first glimpse of the gold bag came when the uniformed employee pushing the gift cart turned a corner, and a tourist too busy gawking at the decor bumped into him. A fluffy turtle fell onto the floor as the cart got jostled, and when the employee rearranged the gifts, the bag came into view, tucked behind a bouquet of flowers.

"If it was on the cart, does that mean someone dropped it off at the front desk?" Ryder asked. "Can we check those cameras?"

"Sure. But I think some items come by mail. Not everyone can get to Vegas in person."

We wasted an hour of our lives watching every tape from the lobby for the whole freaking day on fast forward. There was no sign of the bag.

Ryder looked far from happy about that. "Could it have arrived earlier? The day before? If Luna's show didn't start until Friday, then you must have been storing up the gifts?"

Finally, a question I could answer. "I was here rehearsing for three days prior. The cart showed up every day."

"I'll ask the mailroom staff, see if anyone recalls the package," Derek promised.

Ryder offered his card. "I'd appreciate that."

"Blackwood Security?"

"I normally work out of the Virginia office, but I've been contracted with Ms. Maara in the past. So now I'm here. Continuity."

The two men exchanged a look, and what the heck did that mean? Should I be insulted? I felt as if I should be insulted.

"Good luck," Derek said.

"Yeah."

Yeah? Jerk.

I pretended to be nice and dumb until we reached the elevator, and then I poked Ryder in the chest.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"In there, that monosyllabic bro-speak. Were you being rude about me?"

"Mildly. You're on camera, by the way, so keep looking pissed."

"Why?"

"Because the more people who think we aren't too fond of each other, the fewer rumours will fly. Just do me a favour and don't kick me in the balls."

"Because you need them to think with?"

He leaned against the mirrored wall and folded his well-muscled arms. The corner of his lips twitched.

"Because someday in the future, you might have another use for them."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. And then I didn't know how to feel. Sick? Horrified? Weirdly, neither of those things, although I would have expected it. Instead, my thighs clenched and my cheeks heated.

"Are you hitting on me?"

Another twitch. "Mildly."

Well, heck.

Straight men were trouble, and Ryder Metcalfe might just be my downfall.