The audience moaned, and Erin grinned defiantly. She tossed one of her low-class high-heeled shoes into the crowd.
“We had to talk Erin into making the announcement,” Quentin went on, “because she hasn’t told her grandma out in Irondale. Sorry, Lillie Mae. And because Erin and Owen haven’t gotten married yet.”
Martin played the first few notes of the wedding march that launched “Barefoot and Pregnant.” These were easy lyrics and it was an easy bass line, so Quentin could think ahead while he went through the motions. At the end of the song, which slowly devolved into a long fiddle solo, Mad “Red” Mud would jump up onstage, grab the mike from Quentin, and holler that Erin was pregnant with his baby. The other professional wrestlers would follow him onstage and start the fake fight extravaganza.
Erin, Owen, and Martin were concerned about the extravaganza. Really there wasn’t anything fake about it. They would have to punch each other hard because they hadn’t rehearsed it. But Quentin had insisted on this. It was bad enough that they had to warn security not to intervene. If they practiced with the wrestlers, too, the plan would definitely leak to the press. Besides, the fake fight couldn’t look fake. To avoid the fray, Erin would climb up on one of the enormous speakers and play her version of Jimi Hendrix’s version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” while the fireworks started.
And then, as soon as the cameras turned off and Quentin could extricate himself from the tussle, he would see about that flight to New York.
Or not. Just as he stepped back in feigned surprise to let Mad “Red” Mud take the mike, Sarah climbed the stairs to stand behind the speakers at the side of the stage. Thank God!
With Nine Lives. And two enormous goons.
Quentin lifted off his guitar strap and swung the guitar behind his head to use as a weapon. And then stopped short as Nine Lives motioned to the syringe stuck in Sarah’s shoulder, plunger out.
Oh God. What was that maniac doing to her?
Someone tackled Quentin from the back. Quentin landed heavily on his ribs. The guitar went flying. He struggled to stand and make it over to Sarah, but a wrestler jerked him into the fight center stage.
“Would you stop a minute?” he yelled to Red. “There’s a—”
Red socked Quentin in the jaw, and Quentin reeled back toward Sarah. The two goons were coming for him.
Then one of the goons skidded back into a speaker. Owen had fallen into him.
“Owen!” Quentin said, bending over him. “Help me! There’s a—”
The goon was up, and he had Quentin by the shirt. Then a wrestler punched Quentin in the gut, and punched the goon hard enough in the head that the goon went down, on top of Quentin.
Quentin winced at the pain in his hip as he hit the stage. That was his plastic asthma inhaler breaking in his pocket. He was flat on his back, looking up at Erin high on the speaker with her eyes closed, blissfully fiddling “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Several booms sounded. The fireworks were starting.
He pulled himself out from under the unconscious goon and scrambled up just in time to see Martin and the other goon fall off the back of the stage. Maybe Quentin could reach Sarah now that more people were comatose. He punched and got punched, punched and got punched, homing in on her as he went.
The syringe was out of her shoulder. She’d kneed Nine Lives in the groin and elbowed him in the eye. Nine Lives kept coming after her. He pinned her facedown on the stage. Then he put his arm around her throat, jerked her up, and backed her down the stairs, toward the open door of the limo.
Quentin rushed for her. He had to grab her before Nine Lives disappeared with her again. He’d almost reached her when Owen tackled him. No!
A shot rang out, high and sharp, separate from the fireworks.
“Dumbass!” Quentin yelled, tossing Owen off him. Sarah was gone.
He found her crumpled at the foot of the stairs.
Pulling her high-heeled shoe free of Nine Lives’ grip, Quentin picked her up off the ground and sat down on the stairs with her. “Where are you hit?” he coughed, looking desperately at her arms, pulling up her shirt.
“Everything is fine, I’m fine, everything is okay,” she recited. “It’s not me. It’s him.” She pointed to Nine Lives howling on the ground.
Martin, hunched over, walked toward them under the stage. He shoved his gun into his pocket and pulled at Nine Lives’ arm to flatten him on the asphalt. A hole in the thigh of Nine Lives’ black jeans oozed dark blood.
Martin pressed his hands over the wound. He said over his shoulder, “Q, you’re wheezing.”
“Where’s your inhaler?” Sarah breathed.
Quentin pulled it out of his pocket and showed her the broken plastic. He bulleted it at Nine Lives, who screamed, “Ow!”
Between fireworks blasts, running footsteps sounded behind Quentin on the stage. He started around, ready for another wrestler, but it was only Erin. “Q,” she cried desperately, “Owen’s stitches came out.”
“Put pressure on it,” Quentin called as best he could. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Erin bent down and handed a plastic-wrapped inhaler to Sarah. “Wedding present,” she said. “You owe me.” She ran away again.
While Quentin inhaled the meds, Sarah climbed off his lap and descended the stairs. She bent over Nine Lives, whispering in his ear. He spoke back to her, too low for Quentin to hear over the fireworks finale. Apparently Nine Lives said the wrong thing, because Sarah slapped his face hard and whispered to him again.
Pocketing the inhaler, Quentin stood behind Martin and snapped his fingers. Martin handed him the gun. Quentin shoved it in his waistband and headed behind the dressing room trailer. He motioned for Sarah to follow him.
He looked around to make sure they were alone. The huge crowd sounded distant, and the only witness to their conversation was Vulcan himself. “Do you think any TV cameras caught Martin shooting Nine Lives?” he asked Sarah hoarsely.
“There’s no way,” she said. “The cameras were all in front. Martin was on the ground behind. He shot Nine Lives through the skirt at the base of the stage.”
“How about people in the audience filming with phones?”
“No. Wrong angle.”
“Good. You didn’t see anything,” he instructed her. “I’ve got the gun. If you have to tell the cops something, tell them I shot Nine Lives.”
“I can’t do that to you,” she said, looking up at him with her big brown eyes. “Even for Martin.”
“You have to,” he insisted. “If they take Martin to jail and test him right now, they’ll find the junk. That will ruin a self-defense plea.”
“No, it—”
“It was my fight,” he insisted, taking in her mussed hair and a small scrape on her cheek.
“Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said. “I told Nine Lives to blame it on his bodyguard. They won’t be able to prosecute the bodyguard, because they won’t find the gun on him, but at least that will keep them off Martin’s trail. And I told Nine Lives that all of them have to go to rehab and make it stick. My job is safe after this hullaballoo, and I’ll have more clout with Manhattan Music to get him dropped from the label if he crosses me again.”
“You’re good at this.” He chuckled. “You’re better at this than I am.” He stepped close to her and took her hands. His fingers hit diamond. “You found the ring!” he exclaimed. “You’re wearing the ring.”
He traced his thumb down his fiancée’s cheek, across the scar below her chin, and back into her soft, crazy hair. He kissed her, then kissed her harder, amazed all over again at the force of the longing and the love that had overcome him in ten days. The way she responded had him wondering how soon he could possibly do her.
He broke the kiss reluctantly at the wail of sirens. “I forgot about Owen’s stitches.”
Sarah squeezed his hand. “I’d better go help Rachel and the art school girls. It’s going to be another long night.”
“Whatever time we get
through, meet me back at Owen’s big-ass truck,” Quentin told her. “We’re not sleeping. Not tonight.”
18
I accept your resignation. Archie is not going to like this after the Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Debacle. I hear online sales for the Cheatin’ Hearts AND Nine Lives are through the roof already, and Manhattan Music is going to be upset that Stargazer let you get away. But working for the Cheatin’ Hearts will be a good fit for you, if you know what I mean. Tell your green-eyed hick-hunk—Well, never mind. You don’t have to tell him anything. Now that things are settling down with the baby, I have some work at home to keep me busy. If you know what I mean. ;)
Wendy Mann
Senior Consultant
Stargazer Public Relations
Vulcan’s butt glowed majestically in the orange light of sunrise. Sarah would have thought any view was picturesque from a blanket in the back of Owen’s truck, with Quentin’s arms wrapped protectively around her. Even the trash littering the empty park looked quaint. The police had finally given up and gone home. She and Quentin had the park, the trash, the sunrise, and Vulcan’s butt all to themselves.
She told him what her evening had been like. After a few moments of peaceful silence, Quentin let her go and slid to the side of the truck bed.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To kill Nine Lives.” His eyes were black.
“Quentin.” She reached over and put a hand on his arm.
“I’ve worked at the hospital for years, and I’ve picked up a few tricks. I can kill him in such a way that no one would ever know he was murdered.”
“Someone would see you go into his hospital room,” she reasoned.
“The folks at the hospital would cover for me.”
She sighed. She understood what Erin meant about arguing with him. “We think we’ve thrown the police off Martin’s scent, but if Martin were to get in trouble, he’d be in a lot more trouble if Nine Lives died. I’ve had enough drama for one day. I only told you what happened because I want us to be honest with each other from now on. I didn’t expect you to go kill him. I’ve got him covered. It’s okay for you to delegate some of the responsibility of manipulating people. It’s okay to ask for help.”
He grimaced and rotated his neck. Sarah heard a pop. “I’m in caveman mode,” he told her.
“I know!”
“It’s just that Martin kept telling me Nine Lives would come after you, and I wasn’t there for you.”
“Yes you were,” she said. “That’s what you have friends for. You have Martin’s back. Martin has yours. And mine.”
“Right. You’re right.” Quentin relaxed a little.
She scooted across the blanket and pressed herself against him until he hugged her. He put his hand protectively over the bandage that covered the hole Nine Lives had gouged in her arm with the needle.
She kissed his hand. “There’s the Quentin I’ve just met. A respiratory therapist who’s been admitted to med school. A brilliant, eloquent, sensitive man, everything I want. And then there’s the Quentin I’ve dealt with for ten days, who breaks the law for fun and profit, chases skirts, manipulates his friends, uses double negatives, and threatens to murder people.”
He laughed.
“Not that I’m any better,” she said. “The real Sarah is a meek athlete with a closet full of sweatpants. Then there’s the persona I call Natsuko, modeled after this badass publicist I saw at the Grammys last year. She’s never afraid to do what she likes and take what she wants. If we’re going to have a relationship, there isn’t room in this truck bed for all four of us.”
He wrapped both arms around her waist and squeezed. “All right. I’ll suppress Mad Dog Quentin, for now. I’m not promising I won’t call him back up if I need him.”
“You won’t need him with me.”
“Which Sarah do I get?”
She smiled up at him. “Which one do you want?”
“I want them both. And I’m not sure Sarah and this other persona are clearly differentiated. I saw Sarah from the beginning. And I saw that she had a little bit of Nat-whatever running through her. I ain’t choosing.”
She raised one eyebrow at him.
“I’m not choosing,” he corrected himself, laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m so used to doing the burly hick act around you.” He fingered strands of her hair and flipped them this way and that, lovingly experimenting.
“But, Sarah,” he said. “And this is gainfully employed Quentin talking now. I know you may have some dealings with Stargazer and Manhattan Music and Nine Lives for a few more weeks while you’re wrapping things up with your old job. But you need to do that with Nine Lives’ manager, over the phone. If Nine Lives ever comes within a mile of you, I will do my best to kill him.”
She glanced up at Quentin again. His eyes looked like murder. She put her hands into his curls and tugged. “Would you come back from the Dark Side?”
He laughed his musical laugh again. They settled more comfortably on the blanket and gazed up at the glowing statue.
“So, Dr. Cox.” She sighed happily.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I see a future for me as the lead singer of a country band called the Cheatin’ Hearts. But I want to spend more time on philanthropy from now on, particularly for the foundation in New York. I’m moving in with you. I’d like to experience the Big Apple for a while. You can manage the band from there. And I’m bringing my big-ass truck with me. Of course, I’ll have to come out of the asthma and allergy closet, like you suggested.”
“Martin’s real addiction more than makes up for your fake addiction.”
He laughed shortly. “I’m not sure how much longer the Cheatin’ Hearts Death Watch will last. The newspaper may decide we’re going to live after all.”
“They may.” She rubbed her hand on his thigh.
He put his hand over her hand. “I can work with the foundation and stay with the band. The four of us talked about it yesterday. We’re taking a year off touring, to let Martin get clean and repair whatever’s left of his relationship with Rachel.”
“I think there’s a lot left of his relationship with Rachel,” Sarah said thoughtfully.
Quentin went on, “And to let Owen and Erin have their baby.” He cleared his throat. “When are we going to have our baby?” He moved his warm hand under her shirt, on her belly.
She relaxed into him. “I’m not in such a hurry anymore. Give me a few years to get over Wendy’s baby.”
“Deal.” He kissed her forehead. “Listen, we need to get the hell out of Dodge today, away from the reporters. Where do you want to spend a month?”
The gorgeous beaches of Thailand flashed across her mind, but she wasn’t sure she could ever make that joke to Quentin. “How do you feel about Greece?” she suggested.
“I liked Greece, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Ever since we faked Owen getting shot in Crete, we’ve had a rabid fan base in Greece.” He twisted her hair around his finger. “How about Hawaii?”
“Don’t you think it’s awfully hot in Hawaii at this time of year?”
“Can’t be any hotter than here.”
“True,” she said. “I could suffer through four weeks in Hawaii. With you.” She grinned up at him. “This is so cool! Especially after yesterday. I had a really bad day yesterday. I guess things have a way of working themselves out, as long as you’re not engineering a fist-fight.”
“And sometimes when you are,” he said, bending to kiss her mouth.
And then he broke Rule Three.
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY MARK OXLEY/STUDIO 16
JENNIFER ECHOLS has written thirteen novels for Simon & Schuster, including Star Crossed and Levitating Las Vegas. She currently lives in Birmingham, Alabama. Visit her website at www.jennifer-echols.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Pocket Books paperback edition November 2013
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ISBN 978-1-4516-7776-8
ISBN 978-1-4516-7778-2 (ebook)
Contents
Acknowledgments
Playing Dirty Page 32