Seeing Red(47)

“Guess that makes me a fucking mummy,” Seth said with a groan.

“You know what I mean. I’m right up there with you, remember? I certainly can’t forget with Mom’s nagging. Anyhow, he’s playing games. Trying to get some attention at Meg’s expense. Toby’s just an unfortunate unintended victim of the fallout. I think it’s revenge on his part.”

“How so?”

“Meg wouldn’t sign off on a documentary due to film shortly before they separated. Didn’t want her life and Toby’s being scrutinized, and the production company wouldn’t do it unless all the band’s immediate family members signed off. Everyone but Meg agreed. They had to reframe what the documentary was about. Instead of rocker home lives, which is ironic because Spike didn’t really have one, they changed it to a tour diary. Bombed spectacularly at the festivals because nobody cared. People could read about the same backstage tripe on Twitter.”

Seth whistled low. “So they all hate Meg now.”

“Yeah. And because Meg is Meg, and she’s got that blue-blood class, she’d never speak out about it. She’d rather people think what they want, because she thinks people believe what they want to believe.”

“I happen to agree.”

“Good. And this is neither here nor there, but…our parents like you. I was surprised.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Not what I mean. When Meg brought that fucker home after they got married, Mom cried on and off for days. At first I thought it was because he wasn’t cut from the same cloth, you know?”

Seth cocked up a warning eyebrow. When did he become so territorial, anyway?

“Calm down, big boy. I know you like her, and that’s why I’m helping, remember?”

“Go on.”

“Right. Turned out it wasn’t his breeding, or lack thereof, that set Mom off. She never said anything until the divorce finally went through. I guess she thought Meg wouldn’t go through with it, but that’s the thing about Meg. Once she sets her mind to doing something, there’s no stopping her. Anyway, Mom told me she’d overhead Spike on the phone during the visit and he told whoever it was he was talking to that there was no way he’d be able squeeze any blood out of the stone.”

“What?”

“Meg didn’t have a viable trust fund. He must have thought she did, but my parents were always really careful about that. She’s cute, you know?”

“She is.”

“Dad was adamant no one would ever take advantage of her that way. Princess Meg. She actually has a trust fund, but it doesn’t mature until she’s thirty-five. Dad figured she would have shaken off most of the snakes by then. Part of the reason he sent her to the South for college.”

“That backfired.”

“No shit. Anyhow, she probably doesn’t even know about the fund. She may have known once, and thinks it was used to finance her education or whatever. If Toby lets her live to see thirty-five, she’ll be a wealthy woman.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I know you don’t. You live for life, not for money.” Stephen gave Seth a hearty thump on the back and tipped his head toward the door. “The fucker’s here. Let me do the talking unless the conversation escalates to shouting, which it does fifty percent of the time when we’re in the same room. In that case, have at it.”

The men slid off the bar stools and met the greasy-haired rock star and his manager at the aisle between the bar and adjoining restaurant.

Staring at Spike gave Seth pause. Not only was he shorter than Seth had imagined, but he was damn near spitting image of Toby, minus the red hair and freckles. Same stubborn chin. Same high foreheads. Same green eyes. The resemblance was unmistakable, and anyone who denied it had to be smoking something much stronger than those little green weeds Spike happened to reek of at the moment.

Stephen pressed his fist against his mouth and coughed. He smelled it, too. “Let’s have a seat, shall we, gentleman? Mr. Rozhkov has a real job and has to be at it early in the morning, and I have a nonrefundable flight to catch in three hours, so I hope you won’t consider me rude if we move this along.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” the pipsqueak said and pushed his dark shades up his nose.

Who the hell did he think he was? Bono?

The four converged at a table in the center of the room, and when the waitress came by, Spike drew her in by the waist and said, “Do you know who I am?”

Her smile was a strained one. “Yes. I know all about you.”

“Good.” He let her go with a slap to the rear that made her jump back.