slow down there, Grandpa. You might bust a hip.” She raised one of her eyebrows and asked with a laugh, “You do know you’re only twenty-nine and not fifty-nine, correct?” Gwen shook her head at me. “You really need to expand your musical horizons.”
She jumped off of the edge of my desk and walked over to her own, sinking down in the seat, crossing her legs, and folding her hands in her lap.
Gwen started to ramble facts off from memory. “Layla went to the best private schools up until she started singing professionally and enjoyed your typical high society life while growing up. She lost her father at fifteen when he went to run some errands and wrapped his car around a tree. From what I heard, though, he was packing up and moving out. Wanted a divorce and wanted to get the hell out of doge. Anyway, Layla’s mother immediately took over Hummingbird Records, and within a few short weeks, Layla was signed to the record label and producing music.”
I clicked on the print button while Gwen took a breath. Who needed the internet when I had a sister who was addicted to tabloid magazines. While the printer whirred to life and spit out the pages of information, Gwen continued.
“Layla was an instant success at fifteen. She had that whole sweet girl-next-door demeanor going on, and she really does have a solid singing voice, although in my personal opinion, she doesn’t stretch it like she should. Anyway, within two months of its release, her first album went platinum and a month after that she was singing to sold out venues across the globe. Her first couple of songs, I Love That Boy, Girls Night Out, and Wishing for the Weekend, went straight to number one within hours of their release. Totally crazy how much her fans adore her and will seriously buy absolutely anything she puts her name on. Wishing for the Weekend was at the top of the charts for a record breaking seventeen straight weeks, beating the competition that held that record previously since nineteen-ninety-five.”
I got up from my desk and walked over to the printer to grab the pages that pretty much contained all of the information Gwen rattled off. I folded them up and stuck them in my coat so I could go over them later when Gwen wasn’t looking at me like I’d been living under a rock just because I couldn't have cared less about some Britney wannabe that had probably never even heard of Led Zeppelin.
I skim the pages one last time and the information on the last page jumps out at me, just like it had every time I read through this shit.
Layla was an overnight star and through the years her fans have remained loyal and enthusiastic, embracing each new record with mounting fervor. Given her overnight success and increased net worth, Layla has remained humble and close to her roots.
I snort to myself at that last line, knowing full well either Layla herself or someone in her camp came up with those carefully constructed words. No one born with a silver spoon in her mouth and worth more money than I will ever see in my lifetime could still be humble.
YOU were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.
I ignore the words my conscience screams. Sure, my parents have money, and Gwen and I had grown up well-off, but we didn’t take advantage of that shit, and we didn’t stick around long enough for it to change us. We are normal, everyday people who have to work hard for the money we earn, and we don’t take handouts from anyone. We are grateful for what we’ve been given, and Gwen and I have been through more hard times than this Layla Carlysle could even imagine. I may not have been in the private detective business for long, but what I see doing this job and my time as a cop in Nashville has given me enough real life experience about just how the world’s rich and famous behave: always a good show for the public—all sweet and innocent—and then as soon as the cameras are off and no one is looking, they turn into man-eating sharks ready to chew up and spit out anyone who got in their way.
I quickly refold the papers and shove them back into my coat pocket as the door to the conference room opens. I keep up my I’m-bored-to-death-and-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass attitude as an entourage