by Ward, Susan
There had been award ceremonies, interviews, and the ultimate humiliating sham: the journalist slipping from reporter to newsmaker. He had hated it. As the interest in him had slowly died down, he had expected the familiar flow to return. It did not.
Krystal Stafford. She was on everyone’s lips, in everyone’s mind. The public’s fascination with her continued to grow. He couldn’t make it through a single day without some reminder of her staring back at him.
Leaning back in his chair, he stared down at the quarter page advertisement of Krystal and Morgan’s sold out concert tonight. He couldn’t even escape her in his own newspaper.
Morgan. They had gone back to the studio together. They would go on tour. The gossip columns swelled with news about them. Just last night they had attended a gala fundraiser together, sponsored by a music TV station, to save the music programs in public schools. Whatever Krystal did, wherever she went, there was Morgan. Always Morgan.
Running a hand through his tousled blond head, he tried to stem the tide of emotion that always came when he thought of her. How long would it be before the wanting, the loving would go away?
He had tried work. No success. He had tried not working. No success. Hell, he had even tried dating. Those disasters made him groan. She was a hovering ghost, a shadow in his world. He couldn’t shake her, any more than he could turn her from a memory to flesh.
He was a fool. He had always known how this story was meant to end. Why hadn’t he listened to that inner voice that had warned him not to fall in love with Krystal Stafford?
He sighed heavily. He knew why. He had had no choice. Not a one. Not since that very first moment in front of Fritz’s store.
A loud buzz of voices, above the familiar den of newsroom sounds, caused Devon to look up. A crowd had gathered by the elevator doors.
Devon looked over the top of his cubical wall. Morgan. Shit, that was all he needed tonight.
Dressed casually in faded Levi’s, a long leather coat, his shoulder-length black hair windblown and rakishly unkempt, Morgan looked more like a criminal than a superstar. He struck a sharp contrast against the conservatively dressed newsroom staff.
Those heavy-lidded, dark eyes locked on Devon, never leaving his face as he crossed the room. What the hell was Morgan doing here?
Devon leaned back in his chair. “Aren’t you a little out of your neighborhood?” he asked harshly. “Or are you here to give me another exclusive? Our gossip columnist is the redhead over there, breaking her neck to stare at you. Why don’t you make Angela’s day and give her the scoop this time?”
Morgan arched a brow. “I hope there is somewhere more private than this where we can talk,” he suggested.
Devon pushed up from his chair and went into an office. He settled on the edge of the desk, while Morgan lazily collapsed onto a chair across from him, instantly lighting a cigarette.
Devon looked through the glass walls and wished there were blinds to be drawn. They were all watching, without pretense of doing otherwise.
Morgan’s affection for long, drawn out pauses before speaking nipped at Devon’s already taut nerves.
“Was there a reason you dropped by or am I supposed to probe it out of you with my great investigative techniques?”
“No one just drops by a newspaper, Howard, especially not someone like me.” He said it blandly, no ego, no need. It was truth. Another pause. “You’re a bastard, do you know that?”
“Ah,” was all Devon said to that. It was suddenly very clear why Morgan was here. Still, he couldn’t believe Krys had told Morgan about their brief affair. “She told you.”
“She tells me everything. She always has. She needed someone to talk to. Why shouldn’t she tell me? You sure as hell weren’t around!”
Tension tightened Devon’s entire frame. “Tell me off, then, and get the hell out of here,” Devon replied with icy civility.
Morgan looked amused. “I didn’t come here to tell you off. What I’d like to do is kick the shit out of you. I would, if it wouldn’t land my ass in jail and piss off Kryssie.”
Morgan crushed out his cigarette and rose from the chair. “We leave next week on tour.” He took something from his pocket and tossed it on the desk beside Devon. “If you’ve got a reason to want to see her, tonight might be your last chance until she returns. That will work a hell of a lot better to get you close to her than your press card will. I know she’ll want to see you if you’re there. You do what you want.”
Devon waited until Morgan was gone to pick up the item lying beside of him. A backstage pass to tonight’s concert. Why had Morgan come into enemy territory to personally deliver this? Why did he want Devon there? What good would it do any of them?
Morgan had Krystal back. Devon had been only a brief, unimportant interruption in their life together. Devon turned it over and over in his hands. A hole in the security wall around Krystal. Why had Morgan broken it for him?
Krystal looked down at her watch, and with a reluctant sigh admitted she couldn’t wait any longer. It was after seven. She had cut it too close.
It was Kara who walked her to the front door after Krystal said her goodbyes.
“I really don’t know what happened to Devon. It’s not like him not to show up without calling.”
Krystal shrugged. “Maybe somebody up there is trying to tell me something. I should never have come.”
Kara searched her face. “Why did you come here?”
“To see Devon. Why else?”
“Do you want to leave him a message?”
Their future reduced to that again. She laughed grimly. It was his family. This time she would be certain he got it. Maybe then, with time, she could let it go and let it heal.
“I’ll be leaving on tour next week. Tell Devon I’ll leave his name on the visitor list at my house. If he has reason to want to see me, that’s where I’ll be.”
Krystal was almost down the walk before she turned back to Kara in tears.
In disbelief, she asked, “Do you think Jordan would mind giving me a ride to the Staples Center? My car has been stolen.”
It took an hour to fight the traffic into the concert, and Devon wasn’t even sure he wanted to fight it, even after he had finally succeed in reaching a parking place. What the hell was he doing here anyway?
He’d have no pride left if he walked in there to see her on Morgan’s bizarre whim. Devon shook his head. Did pride matter? What was pride compared to his feelings for Krys?
For his own sake, he needed to tell her he was sorry, tell her he loved her, and tell her goodbye if that’s all she wanted. Maybe that was this was supposed to be. Closure. A clean end to something which seemed to dangle, hurting him, maybe hurting Krys as well.
He couldn’t begin to fathom Morgan’s motive in all this. It was very clear how things stood; what could Devon being here possibly accomplish other than to complicate it further?
Backstage was a humming cave of dirty concrete walls clogged with excited people and electric energy.
Devon made slow progress through the crowded passageways, until he reached the room where clearly those privileged numbers allowed into the inner circle were expected to gather.
There was nothing glamorous about the room. Folding tables, folding chairs, barren white walls and a concrete floor. An unspectacular backdrop for the very spectacular crush of faces surrounding him. Famous faces speckled the mob: recording stars, actors, sports icons, and those strange, exotic people—not famous, but mostly the powerful, who were all part of this strange society where music existed at its highest level.
The food laid out was both expensive and trendy, and the bar excellently stocked. The heavy pulse of the opening band onstage charged the air. Devon felt terminally out of place.
He quickly realized that there weren’t any press in the room. An occasional hard stare locked on him and seemed to challenge his right to be here. It was clear they knew who he was. The events surrounding his involvement with Krystal Sta
fford made it impossible for him to be truly anonymous again.
The only unpleasantness Devon seemed to be spared was Morgan. He wasn’t here, though the members of his band were strewed among the fawning, chattering bodies, balancing food and drink. Krys wasn’t here either.
“Don’t let them scare you off. They don’t trust anyone,” came a soft voice, and Devon turned to see that Jonathan Palmer had come from his seat to stand next to him. “I’m Jonathan Palmer. I just realized we haven’t introduced ourselves. We did not get a chance to speak in court. Your reports on Kryssie were brilliant. I knew they wouldn’t put her into prison after that. I never expected you to be thrown into jail. A terrible reward for brilliance. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Devon extended his hand. Jonathan nodded toward the packed room.
“They, however, are terrified of you. They recognize you. They’re probably fearing you moonlight for a tabloid. Can you hear their knees knocking?”
Devon laughed. He could see where Krystal had inherited her sense of humor.
“I thought someone might have spray painted a scarlet ‘P’ on my shirt on the way in, without my knowing it,” Devon teased. “Do you think we ought to tell them I’m a civilian tonight? Or maybe we should just tell them that I gave up my night job with the tabloids weeks ago.”
Jonathan Palmer smiled. “No, let ‘em squirm. It will give me something amusing to watch until Krystal seems fit to make an appearance. If she does make an appearance at all. She hasn’t showed up yet tonight. You missed Colin Craig and Morgan taking turns having fits about that, since it seems no one knows where she’s gone off to, or how she breached her security to get out.”
Concern and worry surged upward quickly inside of Devon. “What do you mean? Are you saying that something has happened to Krys? I thought Nick wasn’t a problem.”
The smile slipped from Jonathan’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. She’s fine. I’m certain she is, or I wouldn’t be here. She just broke out of that cage Colin has had her in, slipped out through the security wall tonight, which is not wise given the type of mail she’s receiving.”
Type of mail. Devon didn’t need that explained to him. His face grew even grimmer.
Noting it, Jonathan added more forcefully, “That man who lives with her showed up here a half hour ago and sent Colin into a tirade that will make his ears ring for at least a year. She left on her own. Nothing has happened to her. He assured us it was nothing more than that.”
Man? Who was this man? Krystal had one man living in her home with Katie and was having an affair with Morgan?
Jeez, had he ever truly known her? Her warning in Coos Bay came to his mind, unwanted. Krystal Stafford is a different woman, a woman he didn’t know, a woman he might not even like. Was Christine Dillon really just an invention? Nothing more?
“You’re first time backstage at a concert?” Jonathan asked.
Devon nodded. “Is it obvious?”
“No, not really. You just seem a little distressed.”
Distressed? Nope, Devon felt as though his eyelids had been jerked back over his skull none too gently. Was this why Morgan had brought him here? To see this? This circus that he knew damn well Devon would never be comfortable in? And to find out that Krystal Stafford wasn’t the woman Devon thought her to be at all?
That she had been an illusion. An invention. That she was gone. He made his excuses and went for the door. He wouldn’t stay and see her. The woman he had come to see would never show. She was still in Coos Bay, all memory, without flesh.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Devon entered the hallway and found that the road crew and security had cleared the winding, concrete corridor. Passing by a series of unmarked doors, he was almost to the exit when an angry voice somehow managed to pierce through the thundering music from the stage.
“Listen, baby, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove with this Sandra Dee kick, but it just ain’t going to sell! It was a great angle for awhile, and we got some good stuff out of it, but now it’s just going to hold you back, baby! We’re talking box-office poison, here. Suicide.” There was a furious snapping of what sounded like paper against a hand. “Do you remember this girl, Kryssie? This is who those people out there came to see! You used to know that without me telling you this!”
Krystal stared at the picture of herself Colin pushed against the mirror in front of her. “I’m not twenty-five, Colin. I’ve got new material. A new look.”
“And what I’m telling you, baby, is it ain’t going to sell!” Colin shot back irritably. “Don’t you think I know what the hell this is about? You’ve got your head in the clouds if you think you’ve got me fooled for even a minute. I know what you’re trying to do. Don’t you think I’ve seen this before? You found yourself in some mud hole where you got to play at being something that you’re not. Something you never were. And you think you’ve found something real, something worth holding onto, but you didn’t. It wasn’t real, baby, because we both know it wasn’t ever you. Hey, have I ever complained before about you keeping you happy? When you took up with Morgan did I squawk? Did I squawk when you brought those delinquents down here and gave them your studio time on my dime, Kryssie?”
“Those kids are going to make you a pile of money, Colin. You wouldn’t have signed them otherwise!”
“Did I say they weren’t? But you’re playing at something that’s going to hurt you, sweetie, and cost us both a lot of cash. Do you think those boys didn’t tell me what this is all about? There ain’t no point to it. Do you think Mr. Pulitzer would come back and stick around in the firestorm? Guys like that want hamburger three nights a week, and you, sweetie, are fiery crêpes! You just ain’t thinking clearly. He ain’t Morgan. He doesn’t have the armor! I’m made of asbestos, and sometimes all this burns my edges. Do you really want to watch him get beat up in all this? It just plain ain’t going to work, not here, and he sees it even if you don’t. He just ain’t one of us!”
There was more silence.
“He’s not for you and he ain’t ever going to be. Nothing you try to turn yourself into is going to make him belong, because he flat out doesn’t belong here. He’s got the sense to see it, even if you don’t!”
Devon felt a moment of embarrassment when one of Morgan’s road crew came up behind him. The embarrassment was short lived. If the roadie thought anything about finding Devon outside Krystal’s Stafford’s locked door, it wasn’t revealed on his face. They were probably used to this sort of thing.
“You ready to do it?” the roadie shouted through the closed door.
“Sure. Sure.” It was Colin who answered.
The door opened and people flooded the corridor in eager anticipation of Krystal’s imminent appearance. A wall of security began to push apart the clutter of bodies, forcing Devon back behind the protective line.
Crap, getting out of here was impossible now...
He had wanted to get away without seeing Krystal or her seeing him. But the crew’s job was to protect the performer at all cost, and they now stood between Devon and the exit.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Colin coaxed. “You ain’t going to keep the caterpillar from turning into a butterfly no matter how hard you fight it.”
He laced his fingers through hers and started to lead her toward the door.
“What do we do if the caterpillar just stays a caterpillar?” Krystal joked. “Call in an expert on the metamorphosis process to finish the conversion?”
Colin Craig’s ruddy face became visible in the doorway. “Five minutes beneath those lights is all you need. It will all come back to you, baby. Like you never left. You’re not hungry for it because you just haven’t gotten a taste of it yet. Hear that screaming, Kryssie? It’s for you. You just do it, the way you know how to do it, and let Colin take care of the rest.”
Colin dragged her into the hall. The narrow walkway swelled with people, press, flashing came
ras, onlookers, and the road crew in t-shirts that said MORGAN in bold letters across the chest, all pushing up against them.
Krystal recognized the thundering from stage as the song that precedes her entrance to do a quick, four-song set in the middle of Morgan’s performance. It had been carefully strategized, to launch her back into her career on the best of terms.
It was a sudden shock to her senses, this unfamiliar pulse of people and red-hot energy. Her heart thudded frantically in her breast, as she tried to find something friendly and familiar to latch onto for comfort.
“You do it, baby,” Colin said again. “Don’t go cold on me now. You just do it the way we planned, no stunts, Kryssie, and you can have it all. They’re hot for you. Hear that crowd? That’s for you, baby.”
The arena was a hot, electrified mega-cavern, hissing with expectancy. The chant: Krystal! Krystal! Krystal! It pulsed through Morgan’s song with an edge of unearthly hysteria.
There were people all around her. Colin was still trying to stoke her tension into the needed adrenalin rush, which was all part of pulling the performer outward.
“There ain’t nothing you could find in that dirt water town that’s going to get you hot the way this does,” Colin continued, still pushing, pushing at that place that wasn’t readily opening inside of her. “I know you, Kryssie. That’s my girl. You know what you got to do!”
She was almost to the stairs leading upward to center stage, when she saw him. Those gemmed eyes—ten feet back down the hallway behind the crush of people. Devon!
“Let it go, baby. It’s over. You’re home. Let it go...”
Let it go? She didn’t give it thought. Instinct worked in irrational overdrive. Breaking free of Colin and the crowd, she surged back, reached Devon and, taking his hand, pulled him into a tiny supply room. She locked the door.
Gasping with laughter, all but collapsing against the mountain of supplies, she said, “This might very well have cost me the best manager in the business, but it was worth it.”