Page 63 of Darcy
Groaning, because after seeing Gabrielle’s files I have a feeling I knowexactlywhat that porter was up to, I head for the door myself.
At least that solves the question of how the cartel has so much footage. No doubt, that guy was getting paid a pretty penny for installing whatever equipment was in that bag while no one was supposed to be in the room. As Gabrielle controls the band’s schedule and their agency provides security, they must know exactly when they can get away with installing the cameras.
This time, I’ve interrupted them. It might buy the band a night of freedom, or the asshole might just return when he sees me leave.
Not that it matters much. The first thing I did when I was sure I was alone was return to Gabrielle’s folders and run a program that would corrupt all of the video footage while leaving the files in place. I set it to start with the older videos, and soon, all of them will be messed with beyond comprehension.
I still don’t know her level of involvement with Miguel and his brothers, but perhaps that’s something I can get out of Emma.
Taking extra care to lock the door behind me, I head out into the lobby and immediately pick out Emma’s pink ombre hair waiting on a sofa by the revolving door. She’s wearing a form-fitting white dress with a pink leather jacket and kickass boots.
Next to her, I look like a slob. Perhaps it was inevitable, given that she’s the head of wardrobe, but I’m beginning to wonder if jeans were a bad idea.
“You ready?” she asks, standing as soon as she catches sight of me.
“As I’ll ever be,” I reply, trying for a smile that falls flat when she doesn’t return it. “Where are we headed?”
“There’s a mall just south of here,” Emma suggests, already leading the way out of the hotel and onto the crowded street beyond. “Want to let me know why I got a text from Slate this morning telling me not to let you buy anything black?”
I grimace. “I’mtryingto blend.” For all the good it’s doing me. “I don’t want to be the only person wearing colourful stuff all the time. Plus, black is more practical for backstage.”
Emma looks back at me and rolls her eyes. “Bullshit. You’re never in view. All the gerbs are on timers. You can wear what you like, and no one would say anything.”
“You don’t think it stands out a bit much?” I protest.
“No more than fucking your way through the band by pretending to be their long-distance nerd friend.”
Ouch. Blunt protectiveness slams into me with every word.
“I’m not pretending anything,” I retort. “I’ve been friends with them for a long time, and the sex was not my idea.”
Her blue eyes pierce me as she stops in the middle of the street. “Really? You expect me to believe that? What are you really after? A story to sell to the tabloids? Fame? Money?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I take it this whole shopping trip is just a ruse so you can interrogate me?”
“My brother deserves to know exactly what your game is,” Emma growls.
“Brother?” I blink at her. “Arlo. You’re Arlo’s sister.” I don’t know how I didn’t see it.
I struggle to remember everything I’ve picked up about her over the years. I’m pretty sure she’s ten years younger than him, an accidental baby. He took custody of her in her teens…
Emma’s arms fold over her chest, and she shoots a challenging look my way. “So what?”
“So, if you’re his sister, you should know who I am.”
“I know who yousayyou are,” she corrects, ignoring the people grumbling as they dodge around us. “Prove it.”
She wants me to prove it? “Fine. Your brother’s username is Froggo, after his childhood Frogger obsession. His favourite colour is green—because frogs. Seven years ago, on your sixteenth birthday, you moved in with him. I know because he spent your entire slumber party hiding in his room on Clans of Carnage with us, complaining there were too many girls in his house. The fire alarm went off, because you’d smuggled alcohol in, got drunk, decided to make smores on the stove, and burned them. He spent the rest of the night panicking about what he was supposed to do, since he legally became your guardian that morning and had no idea how to deal with underage drinking.”
Emma’s mouth has fallen open, and she’s staring openly at me.
“I don’t know how I never put Emma the kid together with Emma the costume designer,” I mutter.
In my defence, it’s a common enough name. But it’s the sort of shit that should’ve been in the file, but then again, I skipped over a lot of the file because it was paperwork. I arrogantly convinced myself that I knew everything about them.
That was a mistake.
“So what if youareDark Angel?” She finally sniffs. “Doesn’t make it any less fishy that you’ve chosen to show up in their lives after all this time. I won’t let anyone—old friend or not—use the band.”
