So who was he to second-guess her decisions? They’d led her to hiring an undeserving mother. Big deal. He’d once made a decision that had left him standing accused of murdering his father.
During which time P.J. had stood by him even though she, like everyone else, had believed he’d committed the crime.
He’d reserve judgment until he had some actual facts. And he’d go to her frigging after-show party, as well.
If only to find out what the story was with those two bickering band members of hers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Rumor Has It” column,
Country Connection magazine:
What Up-and-Coming Star Refuses to Talk About
Her Current Problems?
SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT P.J. and Nell barreled through the stage door into the brisk early-morning air.
“What a great night,” P.J. declared, pulling her sweater on as they clattered down the steps into the alley. Still juiced from the rousing success of her tour’s first concert and its rowdy after-party in her crammed-to-capacity dressing room, she bopped down the narrow passageway. “We sold out! For tonight and tomorrow night both, the production manager told me. I know this is the smallest venue we’re playing this tour, but still. How cool is that?”
“Very cool.” Nell smiled at her.
“And it’s such a great theater. Man, the acoustics!” She made a face. “Although I gotta admit I’d rather not think about the sort of sounds it projected to the furthermost seats back in its dirty-movie days.”
“Say what?”
“That’s something else the manager passed along. Apparently the theater was a porn house throughout the seventies and eighties.” She grinned at her friend. “Have I hit the big time, or what?”
Reaching the sidewalk, she spun to skip backward down the block in front of Nell, still talking ninety miles an hour right up until the moment her back smacked up against a cool metal surface.
Nell made a grand sweeping gesture. “Your tour bus, madam.”
Spreading her arms wide, fingers pressed against the smooth metal at her back, she laughed. “You might have warned me.”
“What, and miss seeing how far you’d travel without once checking to see where you were going?” Nell hitched a smooth-skinned shoulder. “I don’t think so. Girl’s gotta grab her jollies where she can.”
“And here I thought I could count on you to be my guide.” She pushed away, then whirled to check out her new home away from home. “Whoa. Is this thing monstrous big or what? And so shiny. I love shiny.” Admiring the tonal design that seemed to stretch forever along the bus’s silver exterior, she was so focused on checking out the immense vehicle that the sudden pneumatic wheeze of its door opening startled a squeak out of her.
She guffawed. “Okay, that’s embarrassing. I thought only cartoon girls seeing mice said ‘eek.’” Flapping her hand dismissively as she climbed aboard, she shot a smile at Hank, who had a hip perched against the driver’s seat, before continuing over her shoulder, “Still, life is good. Ain’t nothin’ gonna ruin my mood tonight.”
“Uh, I’m sorry as can be, Peej,” Hank said, “but I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” When she turned back to look at him in surprise, he jerked his chin toward the small lounge that began behind the partitioned driver’s seat.
Turning her head to follow the direction he indicated, her gaze ran smack up against Jared, slouched down on one of the burgundy leather couch-benches. Shock ripped through her and she discovered Hank was right. Her good mood blew away like smoke in a stiff breeze. She fixed her best evil eye on the trespasser.
Not that he was looking. Long legs stretched across the aisle, his new charcoal Resistol tipped low over his eyes, he might have been sleeping for all the attention he paid. She marched over and used her toe to tap his ankle a little more forcefully than was probably necessary. “What are you doing here?”
Thumbing up the brim of his hat, Jared raised his head to look at her. Something jittered along his nerve endings when their gazes clashed and, jerking his away, he surveyed her from the rolled brim of her straw cowboy hat to the short halter-neck black dress she’d worn for her concert, paired now with a little black cashmere sweater. He studied her long, primary-colored graduated-bead necklace with its large oval pendant and the chunky red, blue and yellow bangles on her wrists, before skimming downward. He’d noticed before that she wore a lot of skirts these days and, eyes lingering for a second on her bare legs and narrow feet in their barely there red sandals, he could see why.
Slowly, he returned his gaze to her face. “Trying to figure out which bunk is mine,” he said.
“Which bunk—?” It was clear that for a moment she’d either forgotten the question she’d asked or—more likely—found his reply incomprehensible. “Why would you think any bunk on this bus would be assigned to you?”
“Because Wild Wind Records told me I’d be staying with the band on the bus during the tour.”
“Chickenshits didn’t even bother to pass the news on to us,” Eddie said as he entered the lounge from the bunk aisle on the other side of the galley.
Jared knew the comment probably wasn’t aimed at him. He had already gone a couple rounds with Hank before the women arrived and was feeling a little defensive, but he got the impression Eddie had a tough time dredging up any kind of lasting interest in anything that didn’t sport tits. Still, he climbed to his feet, stuffed his hands in his pockets and said, “I agree they could stand to improve their communication skills.”
That was nothing short of the truth. But it was late, everybody was tired and this wasn’t the time to get into it. “That’s nothing to do with me, though. It’s something you really should take up with them.”
“Which you can be sure we’ll do,” Nell said, slinging a protective arm around P.J.’s shoulders and moving her back a step, making him realize for the first time how close they’d been standing. The other woman met his gaze squarely. “Seeing’s how we only have your word for it that you’re even supposed to be here.”
Nothing like being Mr. Popular. He hitched a shoulder. “Hey, do what you have to do,” he said as if he didn’t give a damn. “But it would be pretty stupid of me to invent something so easily verified, don’t you think?”
With a final glower, Hank turned his attention to P.J. “You want me to toss his ass off the bus until we find out what’s what?”
Jared reined in the temper threatening to slip its leash, but he couldn’t prevent his eyes from narrowing at the musician or taking an aggressive step closer. “You’re welcome to try, champ.”
Hank promptly went chest-to-chest with him and something inside Jared howled to know just what the hell P.J.’s relationship was with this clown. He’d watched through the crush of musicians and roadies at the post-concert party in that broom closet they’d called a dressing room, but he could have sworn the fiddle player had spent more time watching Nell than Peej. So why did the guy keep acting like a jealous lover?
“Knock it off, both of you,” P.J. ordered, muscling between them. The heat of her shoulder and hip burned through his clothing for a second before she got a hand on his and Hank’s chests and shoved them back a step. Then she stepped back herself, dividing a glare between them.
“It’s bad enough that my label’s treating me like an irresponsible eighteen-year-old,” she snapped. “I don’t need you two acting like a couple of junkyard dogs on top of it.” Then she blew out a weary-sounding breath and looked at her band member. “But he’s right, Hank. I suppose we should make sure WildWind authorized him to share the bus with us, but it would be beyond dumb to lie about something so easy to check—and the Jared I knew was never stupid. Besides, face it, it’s their bus.”
For just a second her voice held a forlorn note. Then faster than the speed of light she gave an oh well, who-the-hell-gives-a-rip shrug and turned her attention to him. “Pick whatever bunk’s available after Hank and Eddie choose theirs.” Turning away, she added
, “Which reminds me—I’d better go grab one for myself.”
“Uh-uh, girlfriend,” Nell said from the front of the bus. “You get the stateroom.”
P.J. jerked around to stare at her friend, then walked forward to join the other woman. “The what?”
“Stateroom, honey. As in an honest-to-gawd bedroom at the end of the bus. It’s got two double beds and an actual door. With a lock.” Nell grinned. “Can you say privacy? No tumbling out of a claustrophobic little enclosed bunk for you, Morgan.”
“Or you, either, Husner. Two doubles sounds like a bed apiece to me.” She whooped, hooked Nell around the neck and planted a smooch on her cheek. “We’re outnumbered at the best of times in this biz. I say us girls gotta stick together. Oh, man, a room. I am so off to bed.” She started boogying her way down the aisle with the same exuberance she’d shown when she’d first entered the bus but came to a dead stop when she reached the spot where Jared stood blocking the aisle.
He couldn’t have said why he didn’t get out of her way, but he stood his ground.
“Excuse me,” she said politely enough, but the look in her eyes as they met his suggested she’d be pleased as punch to apply her fist to his nose. Not that she gave voice to the desire by so much as a word or inflection. “It’s been a long day,” she said neutrally, “and I’ve got a radio satellite tour scheduled to start at five a.m. So if it’s all the same to you, I’d really like to catch at least a few hours’ sleep.”
Feeling like a bully who’d burst her balloon not once but twice tonight, he stepped aside and watched her continue down the aisle toward the rear of the bus. “What’s a satellite tour?” he inquired of her back.
The stateroom door closing between them was his only reply and he turned to look at the remaining occupants.
Eddie merely said, “I’m off,” and left the bus.
Hank rummaged through the compact fridge beneath the galley’s counter.
“Hand me that bottle of Jack Daniels, will you, Hank?” Nell said. “I could stand a shot.”
And Jared got it—he was lower than a cockroach and they couldn’t be bothered to step on him, never mind talk to him. He reclaimed his spot on the bench seat.
After pouring a shot of whiskey into a stubby glass and tossing it back, however, Nell apparently decided to take pity on him, for she abruptly turned, leaned her hip against the galley counter and gave him a level look—a vast improvement over her earlier you’re-the-shit-on-the-bottom-of-P.J.’s-shoe glare.
“A satellite tour is a series of radio interviews conducted over the phone via satellite,” she said. “They’re usually set up for the morning commute programs, which means getting up before dawn if you’re on the west coast. At least Peej doesn’t have any east coast ones scheduled.”
“Yeah,” Hank agreed. “It’d be a shame to add anything else to her burden. Between Wild Wind’s insulting behavior and you playing watchdog, she’s got pretty much all she can bear.”
“Then maybe I should just go to bed and get out of everyone’s hair.”
“Well, you could do that,” Hank agreed. “It’d be a damn shame, though, if you got all settled and we had to roust you out when we’re ready to go to bed. Since you might pick one of the bunks we want.”
Like there was any might about it. Slumping down on his tailbone, he tipped the brim of his hat back down over his eyes, stretched out his legs and crossed his arms over his chest, willing himself to outwait P.J.’s band members without complaint—even if God alone knew when Eddie would return. But, shit.
Just…shit.
THE MAN WAS DRIVING to his job as a security guard in Iowa City when he heard Priscilla Jayne’s name mentioned on the radio. Keeping one eye on the truck tailgating him down Highway 38 as he slowed for the approach to I-80, he reached over and turned up the volume.
“—so stay tuned,” the DJ said. “This is Dan the Man McVann and the morning crew. We’ll be right back to talk a little smack with Priscilla Jayne after these brief messages from our sponsor.”
The man didn’t find them all that brief and he fidgeted in his seat as he waited for the interminable commercials to cease. He’d written three letters to Priscilla Jayne this spring but hadn’t received so much as a single reply in return. They’d been wonderfully flattering notes, too—well, at least the first two. The one he’d written last Saturday had rightly taken her to task over her lack of respect for her mother.
“And we’re back!” The DJ’s voice broke into the man’s growing agitation. “This morning’s guest is Priscilla Jayne, whose new CD Watch Me Fly we’ve been watching fly off the shelves at an amazing rate since hitting the stores last week. Welcome!”
“Thank you, Dan,” said the raspy voice the man remembered from the show he’d seen her on. “I’m happy to be here.”
“As I just mentioned to our listeners, your new CD is burning up the charts.”
“Yes, isn’t it great?” Her laughter rolled out of the speakers. “It seems to be doing very well, and I’m so grateful to my fans for their support.”
The man, who had found himself smiling at the rich sound of her laugh, scowled. “Then you might try responding when they go to the trouble of writing you.”
“Your critically acclaimed debut album Outside Looking In spent a record ten weeks atop the Country Albums Chart and has been certified double platinum for sales in excess of two million,” Dan the Man said. “Do you find it daunting knowing how much your sophomore album has to live up to?”
“It scares the bejeebers out of me if I let myself think about it too long or too hard,” she agreed. “But I try to just take everything day by day. I’m very proud of Watch Me Fly and hope my audience will find the album as singable as I do. I love the entire project, but if listeners take away nothing else I have faith that they’ll at least enjoy a song or two. I believe we’ve got some really great singles on this CD.”
“I guess so!” the DJ heartily concurred. “‘Let the Party Begin’ debuted at number three on Billboard’s Country Album Chart and ‘Crying Myself to Sleep’ at number seven.”
“It’s been an excellent week,” she said in that easy, friendly voice. “Unfortunately, I spent most of it driving cross-country to get to Portland, where I played my first concert on the new tour last night. So I haven’t had much time to savor it.”
“Speaking of your cross-country drive, I wonder if you could put to rest a rumor that’s going around,” the DJ said.
The man went on alert but instead of asking about Priscilla Jayne’s mother the way he should have, McVann said, “Some of the journals are claiming you were spotted playing all kinds of bars across the West last week. True or false?”
The DJ’s “morning crew” chimed in with their guesses, but the man ignored them as he awaited Priscilla Jayne’s response.
“That’s actually true,” she said. “I got my start playing honky-tonks and clubs. Plus, growing up I lived in—man, I can’t even tell you how many wide-spot-in-the-road towns. I had a week to kill on my way to Portland, so I stopped along the way at some taverns in a few small towns and jammed with the local bands.”
“That must have thrilled them.”
“It thrilled me to play with so many gifted musicians. The truth is a good part of this business comes down to blind luck. There’s so much talent out there, even if much of it never goes any further than playing gigs at local taverns.”
Dan the Man didn’t appear to have much interest in non–platinum-selling performers. “So are you driving yourself from concert to concert?”
“No, I’m traveling on the bus Wild Wind hired for us. Concerts are scheduled almost daily, so for the most part we’ll finish one performance, get on the bus and sleep while Marvin, our driver, delivers us to the next destination.”
“What did you do with your car, then—leave it in Portland?”
“No. It’s being driven back to Aspen.”
“That’s where you live these days?”
“Yes
. I’m a brand-new home owner—or at least it still feels brand-new. I bought a house last year.”
“You mentioned earlier that you moved around a lot.”
“I did and I hated it.” Then she laughed. “And I know choosing a career that puts me on the road for a good part of the year when I’ve spent most of my life craving a home I didn’t have to up and leave at the drop of a hat must sound like a—whatchamacallit—a paradox. But having a place I can call my own makes all the difference.”
“Because it’ll always be there for you to go back to when the touring is over?”
“Exactly!” Her raspy voice was full of warm approbation that he understood her feelings so well.
There was an infinitesimal pause, then the DJ said, “So if a stable home life is so important to you, why did you fire your mother?”
The man in the car let up on the gas pedal as he sat straighter in his seat. “Excellent question.”
Dead air filled the airwaves for several long seconds. Then Priscilla Jayne said in a voice not exactly cold but definitely no longer warm, “Excuse me while I pull the knife out of my heart.” She gave a theatrical grunt. “There—and only the minimum of blood, too, as long as I keep my finger in the hole.”
Laughter came from the morning crew, but the man didn’t understand what they found so amusing. He didn’t find the singer’s flippancy one bit appropriate.
“I gotta hand it to you, Dan the Man,” she said. “You slid that blade in slicker than the devil.”
“Yet still you didn’t answer my question.”
“Noticed that, did you? Well, let me see if I can put this in a way you’ll understand. My personal life is exactly that. Personal. I don’t mind putting it all out there in my songs. I do mind flopping my private business onto the table for wholesale consumption by a bunch of people who don’t know the first thing about it.” Her voice warmed. “Marina, you still there?”
“You bet,” replied one of the sidekicks.
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