Accidental Billionaire (8 page)

Logan gave the valet a tip and got behind the wheel. He looked good in sunglasses. The weather was going to be perfect, hot and perfect. Baylee swiveled as much as the tight seatbelt and small leather passenger chair would let her. “I’ve never even heard of a Zenvo.”

“Denmark only made three last year.” Logan patted the wheel. “It was a graduation gift.”

“Ah.” She’d been thrilled over her new low-end laptop. “I didn’t know Denmark made cars. Like their furniture though.” She knew she was babbling but didn’t care; she was in that kind of mood. “There’s no Danish-themed casino. Have you been to the New York, New York?”

Logan shifted into a higher gear to take the on ramp. “No.”

She’d heard the freeway was faster than the strip with all its traffic lights, but it would have been more scenic. “Do you ride roller coasters?”

“Sure.”

“Is there a casino in particular you want to see?”

He checked the mirrors and shook his head. Maybe he was one of those drivers who couldn’t handle distraction. Baylee left him to his driving and flipped through the tourist tips she’d downloaded to her phone. The drive shouldn’t take long.

They pulled up to the front of a glass skyscraper. No evident theme. “Where are we? Is this a surprise?” She was talking to his back as he was handing the car keys to a valet. That was another thing about Vegas. They had to have more valets than any other city. Good for Vegas. Go valets.

A second guy was holding her door open so she got out and followed Logan to the entrance. “Wait up.” Two guys opened the doors and she bounced into a central lobby: shiny marble floors, reception desk, two security guards. Framed pictures hung six inches apart in a line that went all the way around the white walls. Baylee paused at the nearest one. It was a framed platinum disc with the name
Sax Grayson
on it.

We are at the record label.

The record label. Baylee pivoted on her heel to look at Logan. He met her gaze, his eyes a mix of determination and support. “You can do this, Baylee. Tyler said, ‘just get her here to record.’ But whatever you need. I’m here. And I can show you around after my meeting.”

It was the support that stiffened her posture. They weren’t going to the New York, New York to ride the roller coaster like he’d said. They were here so she could record her lame rock song flute solo.

Her bubbly mood disappeared.

Ella the intern came out as if she’d been waiting for them. She wore a floaty lemon yellow dress and her perfume smelled like a meadow. She was the opposite of rock star edgy. First she greeted Logan with a hug and then turned to her with a warm smile. Baylee struggled to return it.

One of the security guards stepped forward, holding a clipboard and a pen.

Ella waved him off. “No need for signatures. Baylee’s with Mr. St. John.”

The guard backed off, and Ella handed them name badges on lanyards. The straps were cute, small music discs running their length. She didn’t raise her gaze any higher than the strap around Logan’s neck.

“So glad you’re here. We have everything set up and waiting for you.”

Her palms grew sweaty and her stomach clenched. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She followed Ella and when Logan went, too, she held up her hand. “I’ve got this. You stay.” He’d pay later. Excuses flitted through her mind, ways to get out of this, but recording sessions cost a ton of money. If they’d booked time for her, there was no backing out. Then again, she hadn’t scheduled this. She followed Ella down the gray hallway, deeper into the building, checking out the framed records on the way. “Where’s Logan’s meeting?” She kept her voice steady.

Ella frowned. “Probably the conference room.” She pointed back the way they’d come toward two sets of double wooden doors. She checked the time on her phone and unwrapped a piece of cinnamon candy. She offered one to Baylee.

Baylee took the candy. It’d be her lunch, because she doubted Logan would be coming through with the Bellagio Buffet like they’d planned. It was supposed to be good, too. She could go in and record, not make trouble. Or she could refuse. She could go back to the lobby and wait. She’d be waiting there until he was done with business, waiting, like a dog on a leash outside the convenience store. Nope. That didn’t appeal either. “I think I’m going to pass on recording today.”

Ella widened her eyes, but whatever she saw in Baylee’s face made her nod and not argue.

A new lady, dressed all in black, came around the corner. “Ella. I’m glad I caught you. Drummer out of control on four. We need you to handle it.”

“It’s always the drummers.” Ella winced. She said something to the other lady and held out her hand for Baylee to shake. “If I can rebook you, let me know. Just leave your badge with the receptionist.”

“Sure.” Baylee waved as Ella walked off with her co-worker. Other secure places she’d been to with Tyler had been like this. Tight security up to a point and then,
Here, have a badge. Go
. She went. She strode straight up to the double wooden doors. The trick was to act like she was supposed to be there.

The conference room was dimly lit. A man stood in front, flipping text-laden slides on a screen. Everyone seated at the long table stared at them, as did the random business people sitting in the chairs that ran along the walls. Baylee took an empty seat by the door. There was a tall, narrow table holding picked over pastries and a carafe of coffee. Eyes glanced her way as if to check out the newcomer, but they bypassed her dismissively.

The people at the center table looked like businesspeople with three exceptions: Logan, a blonde lady in tight dress with heavy makeup, and a younger guy. He had the clichéd young rock star look down. Slumped
I don’t give a damn
posture, overlong
I don’t have time for a haircut
blond hair, and pale,
I only come out at night
skin.

The presenter said, “Minors cannot work more than five consecutive days. A minor cannot work more than eight hours a day.”

Baylee held in her snort. This kid had it easy. She’d worked plenty of doubles. Try working a double in a factory in Texas in the summer with sketchy air-conditioning.

“There must be exceptions,” the lady said as the lights lifted.

“Seasonal agricultural exceptions. Yes.”

And managers who ignored labor laws, while paying cash off the books.

The lady huffed. The teen slumped further.

“And you think he should work longer hours?” The man who asked the question was dressed in a suit, like the other businesspeople at the table, but the tension in his voice placed him as someone invested in this conversation.

The lady rolled her eyes. “He can handle it.”

“Oh yeah? He’s all about the good decisions.” The man yanked on the sleeve of the kid’s T-shirt, showing a tribal tattoo around his bicep.

The lady rolled her eyes again. “Grow up. It’s a tat.”

“He’s fourteen. Not eighteen. It’s four years illegal.”

The kid pressed both palms to his temples. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

The man said, “We shouldn’t even be discussing this. He signed a contract with this label. Approved in court. He can’t get out of it. I say when he works. I say when he doesn’t work. Not you.”

For the first time ever, Baylee was quite glad she had no special talent. Dad would have had her singing doubles so fast her vocal chords would be stripped by now.

The lady pointed a finger tipped with a long red nail at the man. “You want that divorce? You want visitation? I want a say in Tate’s hours. I want ten percent of the label.”

Their identities became clear. The man was Logan’s dad and the lady his stepmom, Cleo St. John. Baylee’s gaze flew between Logan and the teen who had to be his brother Tate. She’d missed the resemblance initially because their coloring was so different with Tate the fairer, but they had similar jaws, lanky frames, both handsome.

“The fact is, I
do
own the label and Tate’s not performing,” Logan’s father said. “Did you listen to the presentation at all?”

Cleo replied with a mocking sound. “Actually, Logan
owns
the label. You’re just minding it. So you should take my offer while the label’s still in your hands.” She smiled at Logan. He didn’t smile back. Cleo’s smile grew. “Obviously, he wants what you want. For you to get your divorce.”

Oh. Wow.

Cleo drew on top of the conference table with her fingers as if adding up her money. “You give me that small percentage I’m asking for, and that divorce is yours. Win-win.”

Mr. St. John half rose and then sat back down. The wheels on his leather chair squeaked against the hardwood floors. “Straight payoff. How much?”

Cleo tilted her head. “One billion.”

Tate slunk further down.

Mr. St. John said, “One million.”

Cleo grinned like she was enjoying the fight. “Now that’s simply insulting. We both know you’ve placed an order to have a car made for Tate for his sixteenth birthday. That order alone was 1.3 million.”

Tate perked up at this news.

“Great, I hoped he’d find out what he was getting a year and a half early.” Mr. St. John sounded sarcastic and annoyed. He wasn’t relishing the exchange the way Cleo did.

“Okay, everyone.” The presenter motioned to the door with a rush. “That concludes our overview on child labor laws, and the Tate St. John contract in particular. We’ll reconvene after the end of the month and go over any new developments.”

People got up slowly, staring at the center table, wanting more high-cost drama.

Baylee could have left with them, but in all this drama the focus had been on Logan’s dad, his stepmom, and even his brother. Whatever Logan was losing was being ignored. Baylee rose and weaved upstream through the exiting staff members. She went to Logan’s side.

Logan was facing his brother. “This is for the best, Tate.”

What was for the best?

Tate dropped his hands and looked lost amid all the pressure.

Baylee hooked her arm through Logan’s and his bicep tensed. “I’m done. Are you ready to get out of here? You promised me lunch, right?”

Cleo checked her up and down. “Who are you?”

“Hi.” Baylee introduced herself to the group and stepped closer to Logan. His bicep tightened again, but he didn’t move away. “I’m a friend of Logan’s. Nice to meet you, Mrs. St. John.”

“Call me Cleo. Because I won’t be Mrs. St. John much longer.” Cleo widened her made up eyelids. “Right, Logan? I’ll be Cleo on the board.”

Logan didn’t answer. Crap.

“When did you get a girlfriend?” Cleo asked him.

Baylee didn’t correct Cleo; Logan could if he wanted. He said nothing. Things must be even tenser than the public meeting implied.

“We should take off, Logan. If we time it right, we can check out the fountain show at the Bellagio,” Baylee said.

Logan’s shoulders eased. He smiled and backed toward the door, taking her with him, accepting her excuse.

“The Bellagio’s terrific.” Cleo clapped and cooed. “Why don’t we all go
as a family
?”

Logan stopped, and Baylee didn’t know what to do then. Offering to cook for Cleo, like she had for her dad, wouldn’t work here. Cleo had a different motive. Families and money. The stakes were bigger here than a twenty-dollar tip, but still.

“I could eat,” Tate said.

His dad, who’d stayed out of this until now, smiled at him. “Okay. Bellagio it is.”

The dispute could probably be worked out if they sat down and talked. Limit Tate’s hours, make sure his earnings all went into a trust fund that the mom couldn’t touch. But Baylee didn’t see lunch going that way.

With minimal arguing, his family left the conference room. From there, they went out the main lobby. Someone had already alerted the valet because three luxury sports cars sat out front, all shiny sleek lines, none sat more than two people.

Cleo took the keys with two fingers and tossed them to Tate. “Lets get an outside table. By the fountains.”

Tate caught the keys with one hand and moved to the driver’s side.

“Outside.” Mr. St. John nodded with pinched lips, but didn’t say anything about the illegality of a fourteen-year-old driving.

Cleo leaned into the open passenger door. They wouldn’t be able to move their car until she got in, so it was a power move. “Friday is this week, Logan.” She said it like Friday didn’t occur every week.

“Lay off,” Mr. St. John said from the lead car. “He’ll make his decision when he makes his decision. Let’s just go to lunch.”

Logan’s mouth tightened. He got in the driver’s seat, leaving the valet to get her door. His hand was rigid on the stick shift. “Were you able to finish up in there? Recording all done?”

Baylee clicked on her seatbelt. “I’m starting to get the impression you want me out of Vegas.”

He tightened his fingers on the stick shift. “I meant to be there while you recorded, to help, but you finished before our meeting got out.” He wanted to help her, but his interfering with her decisions wasn’t helping.

“My part is thirty seconds long.” She stared at him, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Thirty seconds.” Implying she’d finished wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth.

“That’s short.”

“Ten original seconds with two reprisals.”

He put the car in gear. “You’re not leaving town, are you?”

“I’m staying a bit longer. My cousin lives in LA. I plan to spend a few weeks with her when I’m done sightseeing here.” LA was drivable from Vegas.

“She’s the cook?”

“Yeah.” Cooking was Marissa’s thing. She’d always been into it. The way Tyler had always been into music. How they knew what they wanted so easily she didn’t know. “Cooking is her career. What do you want to do?”

Logan didn’t answer.

Oh. It hit her then. He wanted to work at the label. And his father wanted him to sign the label away. Baylee squeezed his arm. Her phone beeped, and she used it as an excuse to drop the subject.

Dad’s text read,
I see Tyler’s got a gig in Vegas next week. He and the band must be back then. We’ll get together for dinner.
She huffed out a breath. Logan looked at her, but she didn’t explain.