1
“It’s a sweet ride,” I said to my sister Presley as she steered her brand-new Mercedes Benz SLC Roadster through the open gates and into the circular drive.
“And you didn’t even let me put the top down,” she said. Her full lips formed a pout.
“My skin would be like crispy fried chicken, you know that,” I said.
“You could wear sunblock,” she said.
“I do wear sunblock,” I snapped back.
I wasn’t being a diva, and she knew it. My skin was so damn pale that even slathering on SPF 90 didn’t keep me entirely protected from the relentless Southern California sun.
“And you paid for this car… how?” I asked her testily.
Presley flashed one of her ten-thousand-watt smiles. “Grimm gave me a generous advance.”
Gary Grimm was the founder of the legendary record label Grimm Records. Presley just signed a solo deal with him.
“And you blew your advance on a car?” I asked.
Her eyes slid my way. “Jealous?”
“Of course not,” I said, ignoring the knot that was tightening in my stomach. “It’s just… a lot of money.”
“You could earn some for yourself, you know,” she said. “You want me to talk to Grimm? Maybe you can write a few songs for some of his artists.”
“He’s not interested in me.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Presley, please,” I said. “He snapped up you and Nikki. It was like the tour bus dumped me on the side of the road.”
“Let me plant a seed.”
“Forget it,” I said, dismissing her with a wave. “Besides, you know I only write for you and Nik. And my professors.”
Her perfect nose wrinkled. “And you’ve got nothing but a secondhand Prius to show for your work.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a Prius,” I muttered to my hands folded in my lap.
“I swear you go to school to hide from the world rather than live in it,” she continued her familiar lecture.
My sigh was quiet. I wasn’t in the mood to have this argument with her. Again. She and Nikki both had talent to burn, and their career trajectories in the erratic music industry spoke to that. I didn’t have the stomach for the game. I liked UCLA. I liked taking classes. It was forward-thinking. It was safe.
And there was an excellent reason to want safe. We learned from a young age that the business was volatile. Hell, it chewed up my dad and spit him right out, sending him packing back to Maine with a load of debt and a drug problem. Women especially had a brief shelf life. A hefty advance smartly invested could outlast the cutthroat executives and fickle public. Stocks, bonds, real estate. Not a car. Cars lost ten grand in value the minute you pulled out of the dealership.
“The point is, Pres, you could have bought a Honda or something.”
“You mean like that one taking up my spot in the driveway? I don’t think so.” She pulled in beside it. “Honda screams delivery guy. This Benz says rock goddess.” She killed the engine and opened her door.
I shook my head at her while she angled her long legs out of the tiny car. “It also says you blew about fifty K you don’t”—she slammed her door, leaving me to roast in the car’s leather interior—“technically have yet,” I finished under my breath before extracting myself from her ride.
I caught up with her at the bottom of the slate steps leading to my stepfather’s contemporary Mediterranean-style villa in the heart of Bel Air. A decade, give or take, of living in such opulence bought by the music industry had made Presley forget the dead-end road that our father met on the rock and roll journey. But there were way more sob stories of crash-and-burn careers like his. Vince was the exception. Our dad, the rule.
The oversized front door was wide open. There was a moving truck parked at the end of the walkway.
“Wonder what room Mom’s redecorating this time,” I said as we made our way up the stairs. Presley just shrugged. Mom’s favorite hobby was blowing through our stepfather’s money.
We had just about reached the open front door when a guy in an ill-fitting suit tumbled out. He gave us a harried glance and then careened down the steps, his briefcase clutched in his arms.
“Hey!” Presley called out to him. Ignoring her, he jumped into the dusty Honda, turned over the ignition, and kicked up gravel as he peeled away from the house. “Dammit.”
“What?”
“I was waiting on a contract from Grimm. I was hoping to sign it and send it right back with the courier.”
“Contract?” I asked. Presley just smiled. “Wait, you mean you don’t even have a contract yet? You bought the car before you actually signed?”
“The money’s as good as in my bank account,” she said. “Grimm wouldn’t dare go back on our handshake.”
I bugged out my eyes at her back as she strode into the house. Presley was a smart woman, but this was unbelievably stupid.
“Crap!” Presley shrieked, coming to a dead stop as I nearly slammed into her. I skittered to the side and made my way into the grand foyer. Sheets of legal-sized paper were strewn all over the marble floors.
Presley stooped down and started picking them up. “Dammit. I hope they numbered the pages.”
She was so absorbed in gathering the papers off the floor that she didn’t notice our mother leaning heavily on the banister of the sweeping staircase. Ice made delicate clinks against the crystal rocks glass in her hand as she staggered her way down.
“What are you two doing here?” she slurred.
I shook my head and averted my eyes. Her cotton robe was open, and her overinflated boobs spilled out of a skimpy sports bra. She’d covered her bottom half in a pair of Lululemon leggings. For a hard-partying fiftysomething woman, she was pretty well preserved and could get away with the athleisure look. I inherited her height, her fast metabolism, and her flat chest. She’d paid for her anatomical enhancements.
“Answer my question,” she demanded. “What are you two whores doing in my house?”
At the word “whores,” Presley angled up slowly, papers in hand. She glanced at me, her face tight. I pressed my hand to her shoulder.
“We live here, Mom,” I said, hanging back a little. I knew better than to approach Angry Drunk Mom.
“Not anymore,” she slurred.
“Go home, Mom, you’re drunk,” Presley muttered under her breath. I swallowed a snort.
“Three lil bitches, thass what I raised,” Mom continued. “All three of ya.”
She held up the glass and pointed it at each of us, like she was counting. One, ice clink. Two, ice clink… She got stuck on three, looking between me and Presley.
“Where the hell’s the other one?” she asked, meaning Nikki, who was the youngest.
“Nik lives in Venice Beach, Mom, with Dion. You know that,” I said. I let go of Presley’s shoulder and took a cautious step toward our mother. “Why don’t you go lay down for a bit?”
“Don’t you come near me,” she shrieked.
I froze in place. The way she was swaying, I was afraid she would tumble the rest of the way down the staircase.