And why wouldn’t they believe Daphne? Daphne was famous and beautiful and rich. Kylie was fat and broke and did makeup for a living.
She signed the clipboard in the waiting area, and then went through the doors into the conference room. She’d just get her check, talk to Cade, and get out of town and put this whole thing behind her. Maybe once everything had blown over, they could pick up where they were again, see how they felt after a few months had passed. Right now, though, it was starting to feel like a mistake. Like she was reaching too high. And she knew that was her self-confidence speaking, but it was hard not to be down on yourself when a pop star was in the hospital because of you and all the employees were calling you whore under their breath.
Things got worse when she walked through the door.
Mr. Powers was at the table, along with the tour manager and a woman Kylie didn’t recognize. Stacks of papers were on the table, and the woman had a box of checks in front of her.
Mr. Powers gestured at the chair across from the three of them. “Please be seated, Miss Daniels.”
Kylie sat, feeling like she’d been sent to the principal’s office.
“This is Ms. Draper,” Mr. Powers said, indicating the woman on his right. “She cuts all of the payments for Daphne’s payroll. Now, before we give you your final payment, our lawyers are asking that we get all employees to sign a non-disclosure as a favor to Daphne. We’d prefer that this not hit the media any harder than it has.” His smile was tight.
“Of course,” Kylie murmured, taking the pen offered to her. They pushed a piece of paper in her direction, full of teeny tiny writing in a minuscule font. There was a signature line at the bottom, and she scanned the document. Blah blah will not speak to media blah blah disclose any incidents on tour blah blah. She signed and dated the document and handed it back. “I wouldn’t talk to anyone.”
They simply gave her a baleful look, and Ms. Draper began to flip through the envelopes in her box, looking for Kylie’s name. She pulled it out a moment later and offered it to Kylie. “This is your net pay. The label is giving you a stipend for a ticket back home, plus the remainder of money you’re owed for the tour, minus any contractual fees.”
Contractual . . . fees? She took the envelope and because they were all still watching her, opened it and looked at her check.
Twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents.
Her hands began to shake. She was owed several thousand. Tens of thousands. “Um . . . why . . .”
“Daphne’s had two canceled shows, and this is your portion of the costs. In addition, you’ll be receiving a bill for the additional fees that we are owed.”
She felt faint. “You can’t charge me for her shows. I had nothing to do with her overdose. I didn’t force the pills into her mouth.”
“Your behavior pushed her, however. Please consult your contract if you have any questions.” Mr. Powers gave her a tight smile. “Good day.”
Kylie stared at the three of them. She could sit there and argue with them about things, but that wouldn’t solve anything, would it? She could fight this—hire lawyers to go over the contract and pore over every phrase. Interpret things differently. Take it to court and try to win some of that money back.
But all of that cost time and money. And while she now had nothing but time . . . she had no money.
Cade has money, her brain told her. He can help you.
And . . . then what? Be beholden to him? Allow someone else to control her life because she couldn’t hack it financially? Be a burden like her Nana Sloane was?
In the end, she quietly left the room and went upstairs to pack her bags. Using the hotel phone, she called her friend, Star. Star was the only person saving Kylie from being homeless in L.A. by letting her sleep on her couch when Kylie was between tours. Occasionally, she let Kylie borrow money. Or rather, she sold off things of Kylie’s on eBay and forwarded Kylie the funds. But it was easier to sell old family jewelry and heirlooms than to borrow money from someone that would hold money over her head.
So she called Star.
“Burger King,” Star said as she picked up the phone. “We make it your way.”
“It’s me, Star,” Kylie said. Star never answered unknown calls with her own name. She was a bit of a nut, but a well-meaning one.
“Sweetie! How are you? How’s the tour? You will not believe what I saw in the news! Did you know—”
“Yep, I know,” Kylie said tiredly. “And I’m under a gag order not to talk about it. I need a favor. You know the boxes I have in your storage closet?”
“Yup. What’s up?”
“My nana’s vintage mink coat is in one of them. Can you eBay that for me and forward me the money?”
“Sec,” Star said, and put down the phone.
Kylie waited impatiently, twisting her finger in the curling phone cord. Star had an incredible eye for valuables, and could spot a dollar to be made at an estate sale. She could look at the coat and judge how much it was worth for her to sell. Hopefully it’d be enough.
Star returned a few minutes later. “All right, I took a look at it. Definitely vintage—at least eighty years old. Which is good because people like fur, but they don’t like recently dead fur, if you know what I mean. Apparently it’s okay if it died a hundred years ago, but not ten. Go figure. And the sizing is good, which means I can sell it. You know some of that vintage stuff is teeny tiny. I can probably get one or one point five grand for it on auction. You want me to advance you?”
They’d done this dance before, and at this point, Star didn’t even ask why. Kylie could have kissed Star’s crystal-rubbing horoscope-loving self. “Yes, please. One thousand should get me home.”