by Jen Kirchner
That wasn’t true. They couldn’t turn me into goo with their spells. Bullets, on the other hand…
Ryan smiled. “You’re standing awfully close to Kari. If anyone on this carpet starts casting at her, I’m going to make sure they take you with her.”
Cody fell silent, apparently considering Ryan’s words. It sounded like we had the advantage, but I had a hard time feeling it.
I leaned my head over toward Nicolas and hissed in his ear. “Mindwipe him!”
Nicolas’s smile faltered. I glanced over to see if Cody had heard me, but he was too busy arguing with Ryan through his forced smile. Merel just hung out on the end, pulling us along, crab-stepping toward the exit while waving at the photographers.
“Mindwipe him,” I repeated.
“Are you crazy?” Nicolas hissed back. “You thought the access spell was hard—removing his memories is even harder. And it’s illegal.”
“It’s only illegal when you do it to Immortals,” I said.
“That’s because humans aren’t crazy enough to try it, so there’s no law. Even immortals have trouble casting it successfully. Hell, I could give Cody serious brain damage.”
“No one will notice,” I said.
Our conversation paused while our line scooted past a group of reality show contestants who stopped to laugh and take photos of us as we shuffled by. We laughed back, like this was some kind of eccentric practical joke, but I was pretty sure Johnnie would be furious later.
“A Mindwipe doesn’t remove a specific memory,” Nicolas whispered. “It’s stealing a block of his memory and taking it for myself. As long as it’s not reinforced in his long-term memory, I might be able to do it without hurting either of us. He’s way too uptight right now to even attempt it…”
“Just try,” I hissed.
Nicolas huffed out an impatient breath. I watched him close his eyes and attempt to focus. The blue spell string formed, struggled, stretched toward Cody… and broke. Nicolas stumbled, nearly taking me down with him. The string dissipated into nothingness.
Okay, we needed to calm Cody down. Way down.
We continued moving down the red carpet, trying to dodge movie stars, models, and rock stars. We shuffled and stumbled and bumped onward as fast as we could, which was exactly the pace of a blind sloth. The end of the red carpet looked like it was a million miles away. Photographers continued to call our names, begging us to stop and offer different poses, but we remained in our huddle and shuffled on.
Unfortunately, we were causing a lot of confusion and attention. Other celebrities stopped to join our lineup and take photos. At one point, comedian and late-night talk show host Dana DaCosta joined the group, sliding in next to Merel. She beamed at the photographers and waved like this had been planned and we were all such good friends.
Oh, hell no.
“Get rid of her!” I shouted up the line.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dana stumble forward. She let out a pained yelp like a cat in a bathtub, and we skittered past like a ten-legged crab.
Finally, we made it to the end of the red carpet. Still joined together, we barreled through the building’s metal double doors. Darkness and stale air conditioning swept over us, and the doors sealed us inside. The cocktail party was in full swing, with the famous and affluent mingling with drinks in their hands, shouting to be heard over the recorded music. The stage was empty. Waiters rushed about, swapping empty glasses with full ones, keeping the crowd jovial but subdued.
We were safe. For now.
Merel broke off from the group. I barely heard her German accent over the noise. “Should we split up and head backstage?”
“No way,” Nicolas said. “Keep moving.”
Ryan pulled us deeper into the building. Merel followed behind us. Members of the event staff were standing by, directing us, while giving us odd looks. Their laughter chased us.
“Let go of me,” Cody demanded.
“Don’t worry. We just want to talk,” Nicolas said.
“There’s no negotiating,” Cody said.
Nicolas reached over me and massaged Cody’s thick neck with his fingers. “Just relax, Cody. Take a deep, calming breath.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Merel said. “Sorry, I’m not sure what’s going on.”
A service door banged open just a few feet away. The stage manager and his assistant charged out, with Johnnie and Pasha in tow.
We weren’t hard to spot.
They ran to us while talking on their headsets. Johnnie glowered at us from over their shoulders. Pasha looked unusually flustered.
“Vis Viva?” the stage manager said. “You were supposed to be backstage twenty minutes ago. We’ve got a group of swimsuit models who might eat each other if we don’t serve appetizers soon, and the dining hall can’t be opened until you get onstage.”
Twenty minutes ago? How long were we on the red carpet?
“We need a minute,” I said, frowning at Nicolas.
Unfortunately, Cody looked even more energized than before, rocking back and forth, shifting his weight between his heels and the balls of his feet. I had very little hope that this was going to work.
Johnnie’s narrow-eyed gaze slid to the stage manager, then back to us. “You don’t have a minute. You don’t even have time to change. Your instruments are onstage, ready for you.”
The assistant gestured with one hand, sweeping it across the room. “We’ve got everyone cooped up in here until you get onstage.”
My stomach churned. We needed to get Cody into a private room somewhere.
“I have to use the bathroom,” I said, trying to stall for time.
“Me too,” Nicolas said.
“And me,” Ryan said.
“Then hold it,” Johnnie snapped at us. “You’re wanted onstage now.”
“But what about Cody?” I asked. “We can’t leave him alone.”
Johnnie and the stage manager looked at me like I’d grown a tail and hooves. Pasha just looked confused. I hadn’t meant for that to come out so forcefully, but I couldn’t help it.
We couldn’t go onstage and leave Cody and his big mouth unattended. If he told anyone, even Walkie-Talkie, my life would be over. I thought I was going to be sick.
Cody squeezed my shoulder, drawing my attention back. He smirked. “I’ve always wanted to be a rock star.”
I briefly considered yelling out my secret to avoid the thought of dancing on stage with Cody.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Hell no,” Ryan mumbled.
“Hell yeah!” Nicolas startled us with his enthusiasm and volume. His fingers continued to gently knead Cody’s neck. Was that even working? “Cody’s going to play with us tonight. The crowd’s going to love watching him rock out. Right, buddy? You’re going to rock the stage so hard.”
He sounded like he was talking to one of his toddlers, trying to run out their energy before they were sent to bed.
Not a bad tactic, actually.
Ryan picked up on the sentiment. “Yeah, you’re going to rock their faces off, Cody!”
Brad’s head was going to explode when he found out about this. Unfortunately, we had no other choice. I attempted to muster some enthusiasm and failed. “Yeah. Cody’s playing with us tonight.”
Johnnie looked like he’d died and gone to publicity heaven.
The stage manager threw his hands in the air. “I don’t care who gets onstage, as long as someone does it in the next five minutes.”
“I need a keytar,” Cody said, his smile widening. “I like to move around while I rock.”
“Of course you do,” Ryan said, as he looked at Johnnie expectantly. Johnnie looked at me. I looked up at the ceiling and inhaled a long, deep breath.
“Fine,” I said, “but you don’t get a microphone.”
Johnnie commanded the stage manager to get Cody whatever he wanted, minus the microphone.
“Do you even know how to play our songs?” Nicolas ask
ed.
“No. Do you guys know any other songs?”
We all exchanged a look. We were well-versed in Cody’s karaoke greatest hits. Merel would have to wing it.
“I am not singing ‘I Wanna Sex You Up,’” I declared.
Cody leaned in close. “Yeah, you will.”
I closed my eyes and stomped all over my self-esteem. “Fine. Merel, do you know that one? And ‘MMMBop’?”
After working out our new six-song set list, we followed the stage manager through the service halls to the backstage area. The heavy black curtain was down.
Out of habit, we moved to our usual spots and started plugging in. Ryan looked at Cody and pointed to a spot on the stage between him and me. Closer to him than me. He wore a look that spoke volumes: if Cody tried something stupid, Ryan was going to break his beloved bass over Cody’s beloved head. Stagehands passed out earpieces and battery packs. Cody needed help with his.
Finally, a stagehand returned, almost unnoticed, with a shiny white keytar. He plugged a cord into the keytar and offered it to Cody. “You’re all set,” he told us. “Everyone’s coming in to eat, so we’re going to raise the curtain in thirty seconds.”
Cody grabbed the keytar and threw the strap over his shoulder. The stagehand said something into his headset, and the curtain started to rise. I grabbed the keytar strap and tightened it so that it fit Cody’s stocky frame.
The curtain was only halfway up, but the stage lights came on and the spotlight radiated down on me like a hot sun. Blue light washed over the rest of the stage.
We had forty minutes during the live set to come up with another plan. If I was really lucky, we’d be able to tire out Cody with this performance and make sure he never remembered my kiss or my magic. This may be the most important performance of our lives.
Chapter Eighteen
Nicolas wasted no time calling the band to action. He started two measures of a complex and fast-moving beat that sounded more like a drum solo than a song introduction.
Ryan and Merel started their parts together. We let ourselves feel the rush of energy that came with a live performance, all of us moving to the rhythm, me clapping my hands over my head to rouse the crowd, the guys swaying, tapping, headbanging—
All except for Cody, who stood frozen, his eyes unblinking, gripping the keytar as if it were his only lifeline. Under the blue stage lights, he looked like a frightened Smurf.
It occurred to me that Cody had never had to perform in front of a live audience before. He was a movie star, and movies use closed sets and multiple takes in case someone’s hair flutters in the breeze the wrong way.
My band had never operated that way, not even in the studio. Studio time is expensive, and we practice long and hard so we don’t run up a huge bill or screw up schedules with production and mixing staff. The primary way our band makes money is through live shows.
And we’d learned that whatever happens during a live performance has to be dealt with in real time. There are no mulligans.
My mind raced to find a plan. I was a seasoned professional and had solved many a problem onstage. This was just my first time with a musician freezing up in front of an influential crowd at a prestigious event.
Before I knew it, we’d made it through the first verse with the band rocking out and Cody standing like a lump. A sizable group of celebrities and their entourages had collected at the front of the stage, and they were all focused on Cody. Phones were out. Photos were being taken. Videos were being recorded. If Cody’s image tanked any further, I’d likely find myself legally shackled to him for the rest of my life. I had to fix this.
Belting out the chorus in my commanding mezzo-soprano, I grabbed the mic and the mic stand and danced over to Cody. I set the mic stand in front of him, then slid in behind him, pressing myself flat against his back. In my stiletto boots, I was able to see and be seen from over his shoulder. I slid my arms around him and put one hand on his hip and the other on the keytar keys.
The keytar’s sound flowed out, but someone had set it to a synth brass that made us sound like we were in an ‘80s hair band. It was going to have to stay. I had too many other things to juggle, and my arms weren’t long enough to reach the controls anyway.
I pulled Cody against me and started moving from side to side in long, slow sways, pulling him into the rhythm.
Cody’s body relaxed. He settled against me, just enough to sway with my movement. He looked down at the keytar, and I removed my hands—
Cody pressed a key.
It wasn’t in the same key signature as the song we were playing, but it was something. I was so excited I almost burst into tears.
A roar of cheers and screams ripped through the room, almost overpowering the music. My head snapped up and peered over Cody’s shoulder. The crowd had doubled since I’d last looked, and they were all watching Cody and me.
I remained there through the second verse and another round of the chorus, just lending Cody my confidence. He even started trying some chords. None of the chords were correct, but it was progress.
By the time we finished the song’s bridge, he was concentrating deeply on the keytar and seemed okay to be left alone. I slid out from behind him, grabbed my mic and my mic stand, and danced back to my spot on the stage.
We finished the song pretty well. Cody finished a half-beat early, but everything else was good. The crowd in front of the stage had tripled in size since we’d started the song. Cameras were held high and people were screaming Cody’s name. Seeing Cody Springer playing with our band was some kind of celebrity porn that was lost on me.
“Thank you!” I called out, smiling and nodding at the wild applause and cat calls. “We’re Vis Viva, and we’re so happy to be here. And we’ve brought a friend. Hope you don’t mind Cody Springer rocking out with us tonight.”
I would have continued engaging the crowd, but Nicolas wasted no time starting the next song. “MMMBop.” As the crowd realized what the song was, they started to laugh. And then clap. Then sing along.
Cody’s keytar came through faintly on my earpiece, but it seemed he was tinkering more than committing to the song. He played a couple of notes that vaguely resembled the lead melody, throwing off our rhythm just enough to be annoying.
I’m sure the audience didn’t notice, but it was distracting. Cody’s frown deepened, and I could see sweat on his forehead, though I wasn’t sure if that was from the stress or the stage lights.
I crossed my fingers and threw myself wholeheartedly into the song, hoping that my enthusiastic rocking and hair flinging would distract the crowd from how bad we sounded. I turned away from Cody and watched Ryan headbang, letting him dictate the rhythm.
We made it through an awkward, clunky first verse and hit the chorus. Somehow, Cody’s confidence came alive. I wasn’t sure what had clicked for him, and I honestly didn’t care; I just hoped that whatever was making him play to the beat and in the same key would continue for the next half hour.
By the end of the song, we were all having fun. Cody had loosened up a little and moved around while he played. The song ended on a strong note. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cody walking toward me, but his eyes were on my microphone.
No. Freaking. Way. Buddy.
Luckily, Nicolas didn’t give him the opportunity to get there. He counted out a measure, and we all launched as one—minus Cody—into “November Rain,” and I took the microphone out of the stand and to the opposite end of the stage.
Cody had been more focused on getting the microphone than starting the song and came in almost two measures late.
I glanced back at Cody. He was positioned in a deep lunge, his head bobbing lightly over his instrument, a drunken smile plastered over his face. And was it just me, or had he unbuttoned his shirt almost down to his navel?
I tried looking away, but Cody started to gyrate his hips, grinding away at the air. Just when I thought he’d finally stop making a fool of himself, he whirled around and shook his b
utt at the crowd.
In a lame attempt to bring the song back under control, I returned to center stage, stuck my microphone back into the stand, stood my feet shoulder-width apart, and started clapping my hands over my head, bringing the crowd and the band back to measured enthusiasm. The crowd started clapping with me. The next five seconds of the song felt good.
And then I felt something weird on my leg.
I looked down. Cody had sidled up next to me, planted his feet outside one of mine, and was humping my leg, thrusting his hips with the beat and bumping me so hard I thought I might fall. My first reaction was to keep singing—I am, after all, a professional. My second reaction was to wonder if Pasha had enough hand sanitizer to wash Cody’s crotch sweat off of my leg.
I let Cody do inappropriate things to my leg for another six measures before I couldn’t take it anymore. I ripped the microphone from its stand and trotted away, hoping to redirect Cody’s attention to the crowd.
When I made it into the corner, I looked over and realized Cody had followed me. I was trapped. He got down into a deep lunge again, leaned forward, and licked my microphone.
The crowd went crazy. Cameras flashed from all over the dining room.
Cody seemed to be doing everything he could to dominate the show and use me as his prop. He gave my microphone one more long lick, coating my fingers with his slimy saliva, then turned around and started grinding his butt against my clean leg.
I pretended to like it, but only because I didn’t want anyone to give me crap about my performance.
When Cody got down on one knee and played to me while trying to look up my dress, Merel and Ryan came to my rescue, joining us in the corner like we were signifying some kind of powerful band unity.
Cody’s fingers were going crazy over the keys, and I honestly had no idea what he was doing. He seemed delirious. I wondered if he’d headbanged himself into brain damage.