Two enormous pickup trucks filled the mansion’s garage. A pink Native American dream catcher hung on the rearview mirror of a red Corvette, obviously Erin’s, pulled to one side of the driveway. Sarah wondered where the fourth vehicle was. Considering their behavior, one band member or another might have lost his license. But if that were the case, she would have known, because the event would have made the Cheatin’ Hearts Death Watch in the Birmingham newspaper.
Sarah had found out about the Death Watch through Rachel, who headed the Cheatin’ Hearts’ PR office. A tall African American woman with imposingly long dreads, Rachel looked the part of no-nonsense caretaker of the band’s reputation, such as it was. Something had been fishy about her protectiveness of her employers, though. She didn’t have much of a poker face. When Sarah had raised one eyebrow at her, she’d confessed that she and Martin had dated in the past.
And when Sarah asked Rachel to fill her in on recent events, Rachel very practically handed Sarah a scrapbook of the Cheatin’ Hearts Death Watch, which was more complete and informative than the dossier Stargazer could have compiled with any amount of digging. This feature of the newspaper’s entertainment section had started two years before, just as the band made the move from local favorite to national debut act. It had run weekly in the past, but more often lately because there was more material to work with.
Fistfights between the band members broke out on-stage with such regularity that some fans reportedly came to witness the violence rather than the billed attraction, as if it were a hockey game. Besides these events, the rundown for the year so far was this:
In January, Erin and Quentin broke up because he had an affair with the band’s manager. Quentin overdosed on cocaine—or went into shock after eating an almond, depending on whether you believed the press release—and stayed a day in an Oklahoma City ICU. The band had to reschedule a week’s worth of concert dates. Quentin and Erin got back together.
In February, the band embarked on months of overseas tour dates, with plenty of partying in between. Quentin and Erin broke up. Owen was shot in the shoulder in a bar fight in Crete, with more delayed concert dates. Quentin and Erin got back together. Quentin and Erin broke up. Martin was arrested for public indecency in Osaka. Quentin and Erin got back together.
In May, thankfully, the world tour ended before anyone was killed, and the band was scheduled to return to Birmingham to record their third album. Instead, they took a detour to the beach in Thailand. Quentin overdosed on coke again. Or had a life-threatening allergic reaction, whichever. This time he was kept alive on a ventilator for several days. His first act on emerging from the ICU was to fire the band’s manager.
Quentin had recovered sufficiently in time for the band to attend the Academy of Country Music Awards. Erin wore a tiara, a bikini, trashy high-heeled wedges, and a beauty contest sash printed with the band’s name in glitter. Arguably this was an improvement over her outfit the previous year, a dress from Target.
Last week, Erin had played a Mozart concerto with the Alabama Symphony Orchestra to benefit the Cheatin’ Hearts’ pediatric asthma and allergy foundation. Even the very worst spoiled stars had a children’s foundation, Sarah had grumbled to herself as she read this installment. And every computer-enhanced musician thought she could play with the orchestra. But apparently there really was some substance to Erin’s talent. Her concerto drew a sold-out crowd, earned her multiple standing ovations, and garnered local critical acclaim and amazement. Martin attended the performance—without Rachel, so they’d been apart at least since then. Quentin didn’t show. Later that night, Erin and Owen were spotted out together at a trendy restaurant, clearly together.
Then, two nights ago, as Martin and Quentin were escorted out of a local bar by police, Martin told reporters that the band probably wouldn’t make the July 1 deadline for recording their album, due to “malaise.”
But of course, after all the negative PR, even this hadn’t been the straw that had broken Manhattan Music’s back. It had been the phone call tipping them off that Quentin would quit the band, tearing apart this cash cow of a country supergroup, before they delivered their third album. Sarah was beginning to wonder whether the whistle-blower was Quentin himself, heartbroken by his friends’ betrayal, lost in a fog of drugs, desperate for help. She was determined to find out.
Steeling herself for her confrontation with the band, she gave herself one last experimental glare in the rearview mirror and stepped out of the convertible with her bag. Shouts and laughter drifted from behind the mansion. They knew she was here because she’d identified herself to an intercom at the gate. She stepped across the driveway, onto slate flagstones between lush plantings that bespoke money, around the side of the mansion, and into a back courtyard with a large pool.
“Welcome to the house of cards,” a man called to her from a table where the four band members sat. Then, “Ow! Who kicked me?”
Erin jumped up and hurried toward Sarah with a loud schlop of flip-flops. She wore the Daisy Dukes—that wasn’t just a costume for the album cover, apparently, but everyday wear—and a minuscule T-shirt with no bra for her ample bosom. And a necklace with a small diamond cross, which Sarah thought understated and strange for a redneck woman.
“Thanks so much for coming!” Erin exclaimed in a chipmunk voice, the high harmony for the group. Sarah could see why the men loved this blond, tiny-voiced, big-breasted girl. And she felt that familiar envy from high school, fresh as yesterday, of beauty queens who were easy with boys.
Erin tilted her head to one side, long blond ponytail curling around one breast. “We’re sorry you came all this way for nothing. Everything’s great with us. And as you saw when you met Rachel, we don’t need any help with publicity.”
“Erin,” Sarah said pointedly, “the only publicity the Cheatin’ Hearts have had this year is bad publicity.”
The three men, whom Sarah could see dimly through the dusk, guffawed and clapped appreciatively. One of them yelled, “Better than nothing!”
“I disagree,” Sarah called back.
Erin gave Sarah a cute pout. But Sarah thought she detected a calculating look in Erin’s blue eyes as she chirped, “Well, have a drink while you’re here! Quentin makes a mean margarita.” She drew Sarah by the hand to the table. “This is Quentin, and Owen, and Martin,” she said.
“I’m Sarah Seville.”
The men stared dumbfounded at Sarah. Her heart raced. She was used to meeting celebrities, but it was strange to study them all day, then finally meet them, larger-than-life. Especially stars as handsome as these. And after spending years as a mousy jock and only nine months as a sexy PR diva, she still got a small thrill from being gawked at.
Quentin’s eyes met Sarah’s, then slid rudely down to her breasts and back up. He meant to intimidate her. But he wasn’t doing a very good job. His wide green eyes gave him the look of a small boy at the circus for the first time. She felt her envy of Erin melting away, replaced by power.
All at once, the three men were scraping back their chairs and standing.
“Take mine,” a voice said in her ear—the strong melody from the albums, Quentin. A chill coursed from her ear down to her toes. “I’ll get you a drink,” the melody added.
By the time she’d turned to him, he was walking toward the house, ethereal in the strange light of sunset. All she could see were the ancient deck shoes that looked like he might have bought them the last time they were in style—middle school—and a pair of cargo shorts, and a loose green T-shirt. But she knew from the album cover that an incredible body was hidden underneath the ratty clothes.
“Play with us?” the big blond, Owen, asked in his baritone voice. His shirt was off, baring his muscled chest and the gunshot scar on his shoulder—his souvenir from Crete. He nodded to the table. In addition to margarita glasses in various stages of emptiness, poker chips were piled at each place. The center of the table was crowded with a stack of hundred-dollar bills and Erin’s jewelry�
��everything but the diamond cross.
“How much?” Sarah asked.
“Thousand,” Owen said.
Quickly Sarah considered her options. She needed to ensure Quentin’s stability and extract an album from the band, pronto. She couldn’t afford to waste time drinking with these reprobates. But partying with the stars was often the best way to get to know them and earn their trust. As long as she didn’t let things get out of control. And she wouldn’t.
Not this time.
Careful not to bat an eye, she sat in Quentin’s chair and pulled her checkbook from her bag. She had plenty of money in her account, but it would be nice if she could expense this. Making a mental note to ask Wendy about company policy on expensing bets, she poked her check into the pile of money.
“And when you’ve lost all your money, stripping,” Martin added. His thick-framed glasses were iconically crooked. Oddly, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt in the sticky humidity, and had opted to take off his shoes instead. Sarah glanced in the other direction and noticed the clothes floating in the pool.
Great. The Cheatin’ Hearts were trying to distract her, shock her, do anything with her but discuss their infighting and their missing album. That was okay. She would beat them at their game tonight, which would put her in a better position to threaten them tomorrow.
“All right, but my shoes aren’t going in the water,” Sarah said. “You don’t know what I go through to find comfortable heels.”
“Amen.” Erin half stood to high-five Sarah across the table.
A sharp crack sounded on the flagstones. Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. But she managed not to look around wildly for Nine Lives. He was in prison in Rio. He wasn’t following her around Birmingham, making loud noises.
Calmly, she turned with the rest of them to see Quentin closing the door to the house with one hand, carrying an empty margarita glass and a full pitcher in the other. He stooped to pick up the folding chair he’d tossed out the door.
“Where are you staying, Sarah?” Martin asked conversationally.
“The hotel at the Galleria,” she said. “Closest place to your public relations office.”
“I wish I could live at the Galleria,” Erin said dreamily.
“One more album,” Owen said, “and I’ll buy you the Galleria.”
Quentin scowled, but he didn’t say a word. He placed the glass on the table in front of Sarah, poured her a margarita from the pitcher, and unfolded his chair beside hers.
After looking uneasily from Owen to Quentin, Erin told Sarah, “I didn’t mean before that we don’t want you here. It’s just that we solve our own problems, as a band. We like Rachel handling our publicity because she knows us. You’re an outsider. We’re afraid you’ll learn some personal stuff about us that we wouldn’t want to get out.”
“Like what?” Sarah asked.
“If we told you,” Quentin said, shuffling the cards and beginning to deal, “it would be got out.”
Cards slid one by one into the wet ring on the table in front of Sarah as she sipped her margarita. God, it was good, sweet and sour and cold. After negotiating two airports, driving through traffic, and extracting information from Rachel about this troubled band, the margarita hit the spot. She could already feel the alcohol relaxing her tense muscles. She said casually, “Your employer’s contract with my employer stipulates that if I reveal private information about you during or after our time together, you can sue my ass off. I do hope you had your employees in the PR office sign the same sort of waiver.”
The Cheatin’ Hearts blinked at her.
She leaned forward. “Who’s the brains of this outfit?” she pressed them. “Did you have your employees sign a waiver—”
“Yes, we did,” Owen said.
With one carefully manicured fingernail, Sarah thunked a firefly off her bare shoulder. “Of course, Rachel cares too much about you to cross you, with or without a waiver. I’m surprised the two of you aren’t tighter, Martin. I know you’re not dating anymore, but she wouldn’t tell me why, almost like it’s a big secret.”
“There’s no secret,” Erin said, patting Martin’s hand protectively. “They just don’t want to talk about it with a stranger.”
Maybe Erin didn’t know the secret, either. But Sarah saw the panicked look Martin shot Quentin. Quentin didn’t return the look. He was either too smart to react and give away whatever the secret was, or too stupid to know there was a problem.
Sarah suspected the latter. As Quentin picked up his cards, he asked her, “How d’you like the big ol’ salty ’Ham?” He spoke in a thick Southern drawl similar to her mother’s, but without the class.
“You mean your lovely little town?” Sarah sipped her delicious margarita. Mmmmm. “I can stand the heat.” She looked at her cards. Nothing. She threw away three and asked Quentin to deal her three more. Still nothing. Erin, Owen, and Martin folded. Sarah raised.
Now Quentin stared her down, trying to decide whether she was bluffing. She met his gaze and got the chance to study him in person for the first time. His T-shirt was printed with a fire-breathing dragon, the mascot for the local university. Some people were fans of a college’s athletic teams without ever attending school, she supposed. The shirt was so well loved that a layer of faded white fuzz showed on top of the green material. His eyes had looked intense on the album cover, but against this shirt, in only the weak floodlights from the mansion now that the sun had set, she could have sworn his eyes were dark green, like a Southern pine forest. With the alcohol massaging her skin and this handsome hick speeding up her heartbeat, she liked her job a lot more than she had for the past nine months.
“Call,” he said, throwing in his chips. “Let me see them.” This must have been an inside joke because, inexplicably, Erin slapped his shoulder.
Sarah turned up her cards, and he turned up his. Drat, he’d won. She wished she’d won the first hand, setting the tone for her relationship with the band. No matter, though. She’d be winning before they were through.
Quentin raked the chips toward himself and winked at her. “Good start. I wonder how many clothes I’ll get off you by the end of the night.”
She smiled. She knew he was a cocaine addict from the country. The stars who’d never had money were the ones who got into the most trouble when they suddenly made it big. And he was flirting with her to get even with Erin. Erin took him back again and again, and would again, as soon as she tired of Owen. If the band didn’t break up first.
But Quentin had an infectious pleasantness about him. Even now, as he half propositioned Sarah, he didn’t gaze at her in narrow-eyed lechery. His face was open and friendly and focused, and he looked absolutely delighted to be sitting next to her. She almost wouldn’t mind losing this game to him.
Almost. Soon it was her turn to deal, and she enjoyed the Cheatin’ Hearts’ stares again as she flipped the cards expertly. She’d played quite a bit of poker in her career as babysitter to the stars, and she was the daughter of bridge players. Before long, Martin’s socks, Owen’s shoes, and Erin’s ponytail holder were bobbing in the pool, and Sarah hadn’t lost so much as an earring. Quentin hadn’t lost any clothes, either, but now Sarah had most of the chips.
They were an easy take. Erin kept asking Owen what to do. She was either a novice or a coquette. She also pretended to be more drunk than she was. In fact, Sarah wasn’t sure Erin was drinking at all. She put her margarita to her lips occasionally, but the level in the glass never changed. Owen was constantly distracted by Erin. His eyes slid to her after every play.
Martin did seem to make an effort at winning hands, and his face fell every time he lost. Sarah wondered again about the long-sleeved shirt he still wore in the oppressively hot night. He was awfully thin, too. She’d seen every bit of his well-formed posterior on the cover of Ass Backwards, and he’d probably lost twenty pounds since that photo shoot.
And then there was Quentin, who seemed considerably more drunk than the other three. As the n
ight went on, he paused longer and longer before making decisions, as if his already slow brain was slowing more.
Finally, Erin called for a bathroom break. Owen followed her inside the mansion. After the door closed, Quentin said smoothly, “So, Susan,” grabbing both Sarah’s wrists in his big hands.
“Sarah,” she corrected him, trying to conceal her disappointment that he’d forgotten her name. Of course he was just another drugged-up singing star, but she was crushing hard on him by now. She twisted her wrists in his grasp gently to extricate herself without causing a fuss.
He let her go and settled for holding her hand loosely on her knee, his fingers always moving, rubbing up and down her fingers and circling on her palm. Electricity shot up her arm. “What’s your favorite Cheatin’ Hearts song?” he asked her.
“You want me to name one you wrote,” she said coyly.
He kept drilling his dark green eyes into her and electrifying the palm of her hand.
She was enjoying him a bit too much. She could hold her liquor, but that margarita was clouding her judgment, if flirting with this out-of-control celebrity seemed like a good idea. The time had arrived to back him off. She said, “ ‘Come to Find Out’ is pretty amusing. It’s unusual to hear a country song about backdoor action.” When he gave her a confused look, she prompted him, “ ‘Come to find out I got screwed in the end’?”
He let her go in surprise. “I never thought about it that way,” he said slowly.
Now Sarah missed the constant tease of his hand on her hand. She knew she was feeling the margarita, but she couldn’t stop herself. She hadn’t had this much fun in a long while. She baited him, “Do you come up with your album titles and covers? Are you an ass man? Because that seems to be a recurring theme.”
Playing Dirty (Stargazer) Page 3