Finally, finally, she pulled the convertible into the parking deck at the Galleria. Besides an enormous shopping mall, the complex featured Sarah’s hotel and the building that housed the band’s publicity office. She checked her look. Leather bag, ominously organized. High-heeled sandals, strapped on securely. Tight pants, clean and smooth. Cleavage, showing. Makeup . . . She examined her chin in the mirror on the visor. The scar Nine Lives had given her was going to show, but she’d minimized it as much as possible. Hair—
She sighed ruefully as she fingered her hair into place. Hot pink and platinum blond streaks shocked her natural brown. Even now, months after her impulsive makeover that had transformed her from sporty tomboy to vixen, her new look still caught her off guard when she got a glimpse of herself. She had a feeling that, even though her old hometown was a four-hour drive from Birmingham and her mother was rarely in residence, there would be a family reunion during her stay. And her mother would have something dry to say about her hair.
Leaning back against the seat, Sarah tried to relax into the part and channel Natsuko. Natsuko had been the publicist for a Japanese rock band performing with one of Sarah’s clients at the Grammys last year. Everyone referred to her in awed tones by that single name, like Madonna, because nobody could pronounce her last name, or—more probably—because Natsuko was a force of nature. She wore low-cut tops, tight pants, killer heels, and blue streaks through her black hair, never afraid to outglitz the genuine stars. When she barked an order, the ultra-cool hipster rock stars who’d hired her snapped to attention and murmured placations to appease her. She was also something of a ho, having hooked up with two of the band members and a top reporter for Rolling Stone in the few days Sarah had kept tabs on her.
At first Sarah had been jealous of Natsuko. Then she’d fallen in love. Finally she’d had an epiphany. After years of clients pushing her around and Wendy telling her that dressing for work in something other than athletic wear might help, she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. A few months later, when her husband told her he wanted a divorce, she’d grown up.
She’d channeled Natsuko for nine months in Rio. The new act had worked better than her old one for threatening rock star assholes, but it still seemed unnatural. This persona was very different from Sarah’s normal one. Natsuko didn’t have a mother, but had leaped fully armed out of the head of Zeus. She was taller than Sarah and infinitely more sophisticated. Her face revealed nothing, no vulnerability. She only arched one eyebrow when calling a bluff. She used her cleavage and, if necessary, sex appeal as a weapon. Consequently, unlike Sarah, she’d had sex with more than one person in her lifetime.
A car crashed across a seam in the pavement somewhere in the echoing parking deck, and Sarah started around. Then she berated herself, because Natsuko was never startled. Sarah was deathly afraid that Nine Lives would finagle his way out of prison and report to Manhattan Music about what she’d done to him. Worse, he would bypass going after her job and come after her. But projecting strength she didn’t possess would salvage her job and—maybe—keep her safe. She dragged her bag out of the car, kicked the door closed, and walked to the office building entrance with the gait of a no-nonsense bitch used to high heels, humming “Come to Find Out.”
The guitar dropped out of “Naked Mama.” Quentin glanced up from the strings of his bass to see what was going on. Martin had stopped playing and was reaching to a nearby music stand for his cell phone. Now that the rest of the band had stopped playing their instruments, too, Quentin could hear Martin’s phone beeping “Stars Fell on Alabama.”
With a groan, Owen hurled his drumsticks at Martin and the phone. Quentin jumped backward in reflex, nearly dropping his bass guitar. The sticks narrowly missed Martin and Quentin, flew over Erin’s head, and clattered against the glass wall of the sound booth. The album technicians in the control room ducked instinctively.
Quentin was fed up, too. The track had sounded great until they were interrupted. “What the hell,” he protested. Then, realizing he’d cussed in front of the elderly couple watching from the control room, he said, “Pardon me, Mr. and Mrs. Timberlane.”
The Timberlanes were Quentin’s next-door neighbors. Occasionally, when Quentin let them know he’d be home from tour for a few weeks, recording with the Cheatin’ Hearts in his basement, the Timberlanes sent their butler to complain about the noise. It was impossible they’d actually been disturbed. The sound booth was so well insulated that the music could hardly be heard in the kitchen upstairs. So Quentin always invited the Timberlanes over to sit in the control room.
Seems he guessed right that they just wanted in on the action. Instead of looking offended at his language, Mrs. Timberlane smiled serenely and Mr. Timberlane winked at Quentin: Thanks for letting me take my chick on this hot date.
“It was Rachel,” Martin said. As Quentin turned, Martin was straightening his glasses, which immediately fell crooked again, as always. He returned the phone to his music stand. “Our esteemed record company hired one of those crisis management types to keep the band from breaking up. She’s at the PR office right now.”
“To keep the band from breaking up,” Quentin repeated, hoping he sounded incredulous. He lifted off his bass guitar, set it in its stand, and circled his stiff neck to pop it. For the past month, he’d worried constantly about the band breaking up. But that would happen only if the other band members knew what he knew—and that was exactly why he didn’t want some specialized public relations consultant poking around.
Erin told Quentin, “This is your fault.”
Quentin reached to the wall and turned off the sound into the control room before he challenged her. “Why is it my fault? The record company checks on us once in a while.”
“This is not a regular record company check-in,” Martin said ominously. “She honestly thinks the band is breaking up because you two are doing it”—he gestured between Erin and Owen—“and you’re jealous.” He pointed at Quentin. “You took it too far this time, Q.”
“I did not,” Quentin protested. After two years, he knew exactly how far to take the band’s antics, gaining them the new fans he loved and frightening the record company he hated, without the record company sounding the alarm and sending an agent to spy on them.
At least, he’d thought he did. Now that the band actually had something to hide from Manhattan Music, maybe they should have behaved themselves for once. But he’d figured that would seem even more suspicious than their usual debauchery. So he’d set up all sorts of mischief for them in the past week.
He’d gambled and lost.
And he’d lost more than this wager. He was losing his edge. His near-death experience in Thailand must have affected him more than he’d thought.
“You fired our manager,” Owen yelled at him from behind the drums. “You made us delay production on the album. You engineered this thing between Erin and me. It’s too much at one time. Now we’ve got the Evil Empire up our ass.” He stood.
Quentin made a fist, ready for anything.
But Owen passed Quentin without taking a swing at him. He stomped out of the sound booth, slammed the glass door behind him with a sickening crack, and jogged up the stairs toward the kitchen.
“That broke something,” Quentin said.
“If that didn’t,” Erin squealed, “this will.” Too late, Quentin saw her moving toward him with her hand out. He was used to the sting of her slap, but this time it jammed his glasses painfully into the side of his nose.
Martin came around the drums to catch Erin from behind and pull her crashing into the cymbals.
The Cheatin’ Hearts suddenly looked more like professional wrestlers than country music superstars. Which was appropriate, since they’d practiced these moves a thousand times.
Quentin pressed his fingers to his skin to stop the bleeding, wishing the fake fight was a little more fake. Later Erin would claim she’d put on the show for the album technicians in the control room. It was always so
meone like a technician, supposedly on their side, who was the unnamed source in the tabloid story about the band’s behavior. Feeding stories to the tabloids was almost as important to their careers as putting out new music, in Quentin’s opinion.
But he suspected that this time, Erin had just wanted to hit him. It had been a hard month.
“You could let me take my glasses off first,” he growled at her. Of course, he shouldn’t complain. Whenever he fake-fought Owen, he really let Owen have it. Good to get some aggression out. Lord knew they had plenty.
Pulling away from Martin, Erin mouthed behind her hand at Quentin, “I’m sorry,” and stuck out her bottom lip.
Quentin laughed and mouthed, “S’okay.”
“Let me go fetch Owen and make up for our lovers’ quarrel or whatever that was supposed to be.” Erin passed Quentin and pulled the door. It didn’t budge. She turned to Quentin and said, “The dumbass actually broke it.”
With a sigh, Quentin stepped forward to try the door for Erin. It was stuck. He gave it a good jerk and heard glass breaking. One of the technicians got up and was able to open it from the outside. Several shards of glass and a loose screw fell onto the floor.
Erin jogged up the stairs after Owen. Despite the stories they’d leaked to the media, Owen and Erin’s brand-new romantic relationship was fake. Even Quentin and Erin’s long-term affair was fake. In reality, Erin and Quentin had broken up for good two years ago, before the group had signed with the record company. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the sight of her running up the stairs in very short shorts.
After she disappeared, Quentin remembered the Timberlanes and hoped they weren’t horrified at the band’s fake violence and real damage to his house. He punched the intercom button. “Mr. and Mrs. Timberlane, would you like some more iced tea?”
They shook their heads. Mrs. Timberlane was smiling and patting Mr. Timberlane’s knee like she was thoroughly enjoying this date. Mr. Timberlane kissed her forehead.
Erin led Owen downstairs by the hand. Owen closed the door to the sound booth behind them and unsuccessfully tried the handle, like he didn’t believe he’d broken it (typical). The Cheatin’ Hearts resumed recording, but the session was ruined because their concentration was lost. They all anticipated Martin’s phone playing “Stars Fell on Alabama,” signaling more bad news. Finally the call came, and Quentin reached over to turn off the sound to the control room again.
Martin’s eyes were wide behind his crooked glasses. He unclapped the hand over his mouth to announce, “The PR chick is enormous and scary, with pink hair.”
Owen said, “She sounds like a girl Wookiee.”
“She’s headed this way,” Martin said ominously.
Quentin took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, touched the wound on the side of his nose, and slid the frames back on. “I guess I’d better go put my contacts in.” Part of his job as the band’s front man was to look as studly as possible. He hoped his glasses didn’t make him look as nutty-professor as Martin, but he knew they made him look nerdy enough, which was why he never wore them when meeting with record company representatives or starting bar fights that would be photographed for the tabloids.
“It’s more serious than that, Q,” Martin said angrily.
Quentin quickly looked around on the floor for something non-electronic that wouldn’t cause a fire when he ripped it up and threw it at Martin. Martin had no right to lecture Quentin about the band’s serious troubles.
Luckily, before Quentin could bust up more of his house, Martin was saying, “Okay. Love you, too. Bye.” He clicked the phone off and informed the others, “The Wookiee used the word imbroglio in conversation.”
“What does that mean?” Erin asked.
“She’s onto us,” Quentin said.
“It’ll be fine,” Erin said soothingly. “We’ll do the burly hick act.”
She was right, of course. They couldn’t turn on each other with this PR she-monster approaching. They had to face her head-on. Quentin turned the intercom to the control room back on just long enough to dismiss the technicians for the day. Then he stepped around the piano and over a mass of cables to huddle with the others. “Okay, we’ll show her that we’re tight-knit, so she’ll be satisfied that we’re not breaking up, and repulsive, so she’ll run screaming from the state and leave us alone.”
“Sounds like she doesn’t scare easily,” Owen said.
“Whose turn is it to get drunk?” Martin asked.
“It’s my turn,” Quentin said, “but you know me. I’ll blow our cover. Let me get drunk at something that doesn’t matter so much, like the Fourth of July concert. That means it’s Erin’s turn.”
Erin shook her head. “We were going to record ‘Barefoot and Pregnant’ tomorrow, Q. I don’t want to be hungover when I’m recording something with that much fiddle in it.”
“It’s for the greater good,” Quentin told her.
“It’s your turn,” she responded with more heat than he thought this issue deserved. “You can get a saline IV in the morning and be okay. I’ll be sick for two days.”
“Fine.” He shrugged.
“But don’t start laughing and crack us all up,” Owen warned him.
“I’m telling y’all,” Quentin said, “if I’m getting drunk, you have to be prepared for certain things.”
“And remember Rule Three,” Martin added.
“You think I’m going to sleep with the PR rep sent by the record company?” Quentin exclaimed. “She’s a Wookiee.”
“Let’s get to it,” Erin said impatiently. “I don’t think I have any alcohol in the house. Do y’all?”
“We have a six-pack,” Quentin said. “Not enough.”
“Do we have time to go to the store?” Owen asked.
Martin said, “She’d already left the Galleria when Rachel called.” He glanced at his watch. “Traffic’s died down. She’ll be here any minute.”
Quentin said, “Owen, take the Timberlanes home, and ask them if they have some liquor we can borrow. Martin, find cards and poker chips.”
Owen pulled the glass door of the sound booth, which didn’t budge. Mr. Timberlane rose from his seat in the control room in slow motion to open it. Then Owen followed Mr. and Mrs. Timberlane up the stairs at a glacial pace. Martin, in a show of forethought that had been rare for him lately, waited with his foot propping the broken door open until Quentin put his own foot in the space.
Quentin watched Martin climb the stairs, then turned to Erin, who was packing her fiddle away. “I’ll go put in my contacts.” He paused. “You should take your bra off.”
“You wish.” She sashayed toward him with her fiddle case. “If I take something off, everyone else does, too.” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it! Strip poker. That’ll scare this lady away.”
“Excellent,” he said, and kissed her forehead. Then, because they were alone now, he added, “Let me see them.”
Unperturbed, she batted her eyelashes at him.
“I can’t catch any kind of break today,” he said dejectedly, holding open the sound booth door until she walked under his arm, then mounting the steps to the kitchen after her. It really was disturbing. No one in the group was allowed to have sex with Erin—that was Rule Two. But she’d pretended to be his girlfriend on and off for the last two years. That had made for a lot of very pleasant PDA. Even in private, if he teased her and asked to see her breasts like he used to when they were dating, she would at least flirt back. After Thailand, he’d told her to pretend to break up with him and choose Owen instead, but he hadn’t foreseen that she’d take her fake flirting with her.
They all met a few minutes later on the back patio in the evening heat. Quentin and Martin had taken off their shorts and thrown them in the pool, and Erin had stepped inside the house to take off her bra, by the time Owen arrived with a wooden crate he set on the outdoor table.
He pulled out a small box and tossed it to Quentin. Over-the-counter sinus medication, exp
ired ten years ago. “Mrs. Timberlane is worried about your allergies,” Owen explained. Next came a dozen tomatoes from the Timberlanes’ garden. Finally, in the bottom of the crate, Owen reached several dusty bottles of tequila. “The Timberlanes took a trip to Mexico in the seventies.” He handed one of the bottles to Quentin. “Get started, Q.”
Quentin broke the seal on a bottle, unscrewed the top, took a swig, and grimaced. It was for the greater good, he reminded himself, but he hadn’t wanted to get drunk tonight. He’d wanted to have one beer, bake some bread, and retreat to his Fortress of Solitude to read the latest issue of Clinical Immunology and Allergy Today.
He was in for a long night.
2
Quentin’s a coke fiend, eh? That’s too bad. Well, thanks anyway for e-mailing his pic. First impression:
GOOD LORD.
Let me study it. Perhaps I was too hasty.
Okay, GOOD LORD.
Is that a stalk of straw in his mouth? O that I were this straw. Caution be damned, I might just let him sniff coke off my naked belly. Though it would be a long line, because my belly is the size of Brooklyn.
Wendy Mann
Senior Consultant
Stargazer Public Relations
Sarah clicked her phone off and tucked it into her bag, shaking her head. Now in her ninth month of pregnancy, Wendy clearly felt the heat. There but for the grace of God go I, thought Sarah, telling herself she wasn’t jealous of Wendy.
Sarah had parked in the brick driveway of Quentin’s gorgeous old Spanish Colonial mansion. The rest of the group lived elsewhere in town. According to Manhattan Music, they were all staying with Quentin to record the album. In the past, Quentin’s girlfriend Erin would have moved in with him while the other two men stayed in the guesthouse out back. But now that Erin had switched boyfriends, she’d also switched residences, staying with the drummer in Quentin’s backyard. Judging from the look of Erin in her push-up bra on the album covers, the wonder was that the group hadn’t had more problems over the years, and that all three men hadn’t been tossing her around like a baseball.
Playing Dirty Page 2