“Don't see how that's any of your business,” Lola says, blowing smoke in Paulette's face. The woman doesn't even so much as blink. Her brown eyes remain calm and focused and her hands lay folded in her lap.
“Just think about this, boys,” she says, ignoring Milo and turning her attention to Treyjan, still stuck in his wheelchair, face pale, and chest heaving. He should be resting and not dealing with this shit. “A reality TV show that's actually reality, your reality. I mean, you tell me, Treyjan, what it's like, going from an abused young boy in a trailer park to a man whose band may very well be the first in recent history to outsell Michael Jackson's Thriller?” As usual, Trey looks to Turner for what to say and the two of them exchange a look.
“I, uh, I didn't know we'd sold that many copies,” he blurts and Paulette throws her head back in laugher, giving Milo an appraising look and a strange smile. She points her finger at him, her nude nail polish shimmering in the sprinkle of afternoon sunshine leaking in from the backyard.
“Oh, you're good. Too good, maybe.” Paulette rises to her feet, surprising me as she grabs her purse and swings it over her shoulder. Her gaze pans around the room, oblivious to the intricate details all around us, the ones that have got Jesse mesmerized. This place really is a fucking palace. “Well, you've heard what I had to say. Now wait until you see what the studio is willing to pay you for the deal. I'll send you an email, Mr. Terrabotti, with some of the details and maybe we can have lunch?” Without waiting for an answer, Paulette turns away, dragging her bodyguards with her. She pauses near the front door and glances over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you all. I hope you enjoy the house. My husband had it custom built, spared no expense.” She tosses us a wink and disappears, just like that. I think we're all too stunned to think of anything to say. After all, we might be 'rock stars' now, maybe you'd even call us 'celebrities', but we're still just a bunch of assholes from Los Angeles who got lucky. Or unlucky. Depends on how you see it. People had to die for this fame; my friend and my lover had to get shot. I don't know. If I could go back in time, I'm not sure I'd do it all over again.
“Well, shit,” Turner says, rising to his feet and looking around the room. It might be furnished, but it's sparse, just barely staged to entice buyers to cash in on this monstrosity of a house. Home. This is going to be my fucking home from now on. Jesus Christ. “I thought I missed our buses, but this shit is the fucking bomb.” Turner tucks his hands into his jeans pockets and leans back. His posture is all cocky confidence, but his eyes tell a different story. He wishes Naomi were here. I hope for both their sakes that she wakes up sooner rather than later. The look on her face when she finds out that Turner's not only spilled their supposed engagement to a big time TV producer but also that he's purchased a mansion worth more than a small country, that's going to be priceless.
“Speaking of buses,” Milo begins and we all groan. He has that no nonsense voice on, the one that brooks no argument. He always uses it to start off business discussions. “The repairs are nearly done, and I'd like to know what you boys would like to do with it. I also need to know what you want to do with the staff vehicles as well – the trailers and motor homes. My recommendation would be to sell them, but of course, it's up to you as well.”
“Keep the bus, sell the rest,” Turner says, waving his hand at Milo. “You deal with the details. Right now, I don't want to talk shop. I want to wander around my new fucking house.” A grin tears across his lips and his black lip rings reflect the light back at my face. “This is so much better than a single wide piece of shit with a toilet that doesn't flush and a couch that smells like piss. What do you think, Trey?”
“We've sold more albums than Michael Jackson?” Trey asks, his brown brows drawing together as he stares at his knees and lets his mouth hang open in abject shock. “How the fuck did that happen? Are we billionaires?”
“Not yet, Mr. Charell,” Milo says with a tired sigh. He fixes his tie again and tries to force a smile. “But I will let you know when and if you get there.” He claps his hands together and glances over at our bodyguards. “Boys, you do understand that everything is different now.” Turner shrugs like he's not listening, but I nod at Milo to keep going. Sure, I'd like to check the house out, but I also know that he's right. Everything is different. I look down at the floor and close my eyes, listening to the sudden silence that ensues. “We need to hire more staff. I'm going to need an assistant. You're going to need lawyers, publicists, accountants. It's not just me and you anymore. Do you understand that?”