At the other end of the table, Lem clears his throat. Apparently he’s ready to answer. “Our biggest rumor is that we don’t get along. It’s not true.”
I look down the table and can tell he’s lying. The other two band members haven’t said a thing during any of the questions, only Dex, who I’m assuming is their lead singer. He looks emo, and is probably a pill popping tweaker.
“Number eight.”
My favorite number.
“My question is for Liam and Layla. Have you read Calista Jones’ biography?”
My blood turns cold as I lean in. “That would be an unauthorized biography, and the answer is no.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t finished with my question,” Number eight says.
“That’s not my problem.” Number eight sighs, but doesn’t sit back down.
“Layla, will you and your daughter be visiting or moving to Beaumont now that it’s been revealed that Liam Page is her father?”
“Are you f –”
“Liam Page is not the father of my daughter. My daughter and her dad have a very good relationship. He’s very active in her life and always has been. This is the last time I’ll discuss this with anyone so I suggest each and every one of you print it clearly.”
I want to applaud Layla for standing up for me and to the reporters, but I’m so fucking pissed off I can’t see straight. My recovery time is nil as the next number is called.
“Number eleven.”
“What’s the best part about performing and recording music?”
Yet again, Lem starts speaking before Layla can and all four of us turn to stare at him. He clearly doesn’t care because he’s rattling off a diatribe about his life. By the time he’s finished, we’ve all forgotten the question.
“Number twenty-two.”
“Liam, how does your wife feel about you being here rekindling old friendships while she’s at home preparing for your new arrival?”
That question gets the reporters riled up and they start firing off questions right and left. It’s not a secret we’re adopting, but it isn’t exactly public knowledge either.
“My wife is fine. Our son is playing in some very important baseball games right now, so she stayed home with him,” I say, dodging the question about the new arrival.
“And the baby?”
“At the moment, my wife isn’t pregnant.” I leave it at that, hoping they get the hint.
I refill my water glass, wishing it was something stronger. I’m starting to get agitated and wonder if Moreno set this shit up on purpose to prove that we need someone like him. Yet again, I find myself suddenly missing Sam because if she were here, then it would be guaranteed a few of these questions wouldn’t be asked.
“Number six.”
“Liam, I’ve read the biography by Calista Jones and am wondering how it feels to have your lover’s personal diaries made public?”
“Fuck this shit,” I mumble under my breath. “Do you really want to know?”
All the reporters nod. Assholes.
“Anything you read from Sam Moreno should be taken with a grain of salt. She was mentally unstable and in need of psychiatric care. We took her and Moreno Entertainment to court for a restraining order, which Mr. Moreno is hell bent on breaking... repeatedly. This Calista Jones wrote a book without my authorization and if I could sue the shit out of her I would. Are you out there, Calista?”
To my surprise a woman stands up. “I am.”
“Perfect, do you have any other intrusive questions for me or are we done here?”
“I actually have one.” It’s Mr. Moreno who steps forward. “You just made a comment about my daughter, one that I find very offensive, to say the least. Are you honestly going to say that you weren’t in love with her?”
I slam my hands down on the table and stand up. “Never have I said I was in love with Sam. I don’t give a shit what she put in her diary. Even this long after her death, I’m still finding out about all of the dishonest things she’s done or said. She lied about being pregnant and she kept my son away from me, or was that you? Your daughter was sick, and when she didn’t get her way, she wreaked havoc on anyone in her path. If I was so in love with your daughter, I wouldn’t have tattooed another woman’s name across my chest for her to see every day.”
I pause and rest on my hands, catching my breath before looking back at the reporters. “I don’t think you understand the damage you can do to someone’s life. You take your fucking pictures and make up your shitty headlines just to cause problems. You use computer programs to manipulate images into something they’re not, and laugh your asses to the banks while lives and marriages are destroyed. You want to write that I’m a pig because I hugged a fucking friend who I hadn’t seen in ten years, and that I’m cheating on my wife… look in the fucking mirrors and ask yourself if you’re a decent human being. I’m here to tell you, you’re not.