Scottie holds up a hand. “What happened with Jax isn’t pertinent to yesterday’s events.”
“I beg to differ,” Smith One says. “It is yet another pileup in the car wreck that is Kill John lately.”
A red haze swarms over my vision. “Metal Death left a bathtub full of actual shit in a hotel room, but you’ve got a problem with me defending a woman?”
“Property damage can be quietly taken care of,” Smith One retorts. “You, on the other hand, attacked a man in a room full of reporters.”
“Details.”
“You damaged our newest talent, breaking his nose and busting open his lip, because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”
“No,” I say with exaggerated care, “I beat the little turd because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” I give Smith One a smile with teeth. “You see the difference? Because it’s an important one. You go after an unwilling woman—my woman in particular—and you’re going to get hurt.”
He doesn’t miss the warning. His eyes narrow. “We’ve had to hold off our promotional plans until Marlow’s face heals. Thousands of dollars wasted in cancelled appearances.”
“You should probably talk to him about his behavior. Assign him community service so he can think about his sins.”
“You think this is funny, Mr. James?” Smith Two taps his gold pen on the table as if to get my attention. “Because I assure you the label isn’t laughing.”
“No,” I agree. “They’re sweeping an attempted sexual assault under the table. Bravo for that.”
“Not to mention,” Smith One puts in, “that you damaged your hand.”
I refuse to move my wrapped fingers from their gaze. “It’s fine.”
“It’s insured for a million dollars, Mr. James.” Smith One shoves a stack of papers toward me as if I’m going to read them. “Premiums just went up.”
I laugh, a short bark of annoyance, and then catch Scottie’s eye. Up until now, he’s been sitting back, almost lounging in his chair. Although the Smiths are wearing Armani, Scottie’s sharp tailoring makes them look like slobs, because his charcoal-grey bespoke three-piece suit is straight up Gieves & Hawkes out of Savile Row. My father shops there, and his standards are only slightly less particular than Scottie’s.
Scottie’s appearance is its own form of intimidation. The fact that nothing scares him is another.
“Marlow is a flash in the pan,” Scottie says, bored. “And yet here you are insulting your highest-earning client. I suggest you make amends for wasting his time with this meeting and direct your efforts to putting a better spin on the story.”
Smith and Smith blink in unison, and Smith One sneers. “Mr. James is under contract—”
“Mr. James has fifty-million followers on Twitter alone.”
News to me. But I join Scottie in leveling them a long How you like me now, bitches? stare. Whatever it takes to get them off my back and away from Libby.
Scottie rises. “None of whom would appreciate him being mistreated. Never underestimate the power of social media or fanatical fans. Now if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. My client has a concert to perform.”
Smith Two’s cold eyes follow our movements. “Make all the veiled threats you want, Mr. Scott. But we will have order. No more running off the rails, or there will be repercussions.”
“Those two are a pain in my ass,” I grumble as we walk back to my suite.
“They’re right, you know.” Scottie’s laser gaze slashes my way. “What you did was stupid. On all counts.”
“What the hell?” I glare at him. “You’re actually taking their side?”
He stops short, turning to face me. We’re of a similar height and stand eye to eye. “You are under contract. They can make your life difficult, and they most certainly can blackball Liberty from gaining a foothold in this industry, if they so choose. They were interested in signing her. But now they have concerns over PR issues created by your blowup.”
My heart skips a beat, cold flooding my veins. I’m as untouchable as I’m going to get. But I cringe with regret at the thought of putting Liberty’s future in jeopardy.
“Setting that aside,” he continues, “you’ve managed to bring Kill John back into the limelight, though not as a band united, but as the butt of a sad joke where Killian James flies into a jealous rage because Marlow, the new hot—younger—rising star, got handsy with some tart.”
“Hey.” I step closer. “Don’t call Libby that.”
“I’m not calling her that. They are.”
“You think I should have just let that shithead off?”
“No. If it were me, I’d have done the same. I’d like to rip the tosser’s tiny balls off and cram them down his throat. But it doesn’t change the fact that we have to fix this. And quickly.”
“Shit.” Hands on hips, I duck my head and try to calm my breathing. “How?”
Scottie doesn’t miss a beat. “Take her off the tour.”
“No.” My loud reply echoes in the hall. “She’ll think we’re punishing her.”