by Louise Clark
Quinn grinned. He looked pleased, and also a bit relieved. "Trevor gave them to me."
Christy slipped the tickets into the envelope, careful to make sure they were safely stowed. She looked back at Quinn. "Why would Trevor have SledgeHammer tickets?" She stopped and waved a hand, thinking about Trevor McCullagh, friend of Quinn's free-spirit father, the well-known author, Roy Armstrong. "Why did I say that? Why wouldn't Trevor have tickets?" Just because Trevor was part of the older generation, didn't mean he wouldn't enjoy SledgeHammer's brand of modern rock.
"The tickets are for the SledgeHammer suite," Quinn said. His lips twitched as Christy stared at him, wide-eyed again.
"The SledgeHammer suite? You mean, the band's personal suite?" Her voice rose in a squeak she couldn't quite control.
Quinn nodded, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Sledge told Trevor to bring whoever he wanted. Trevor invited us—my dad, you and me, Ellen, and Noelle if you think it's okay—to be his guests. Hammer is inviting his family, and there will be some music people as well."
"But why would Sledge, the lead singer in a rock band, give Trevor McCullagh tickets to his box? Did Trevor defend him at some point?" Though that seemed unlikely. The band had a squeaky-clean reputation and had been known to compare their tours to a salesman's business trip. There had never been any hint of the kind of charges Trevor tended to defend.
This time Quinn laughed aloud at the confusion on Christy's face and in her voice. "Why? Because Trevor is Sledge's dad."
Chapter 2
"I think this is it." Roy Armstrong peered at the tickets, then up at the number posted above the suite.
It was the night of the SledgeHammer concert. The McCullagh party, consisting of Trevor, Ellen, Roy, Quinn and Christy, had entered through the VIP gates on one side of the arena. While this meant they didn't have to fight the huge crowd flooding through the main doors, they did have to walk almost all the way around the second level of the arena to reach their destination.
Roy studied the doorway critically. He was dressed as he almost always was in jeans and a comfortable front button shirt. "The name plate says it's the general manager's suite." Then he shrugged. "May as well try it. We can't go any further."
Christy looked around her curiously. Just beyond the passageway that led to the box, the main hallway had been blocked off with bollards. These were linked together with yellow and black ribbon that proclaimed there was no entry beyond that point. The passage probably gave access to the seats behind the stage, she thought. Roy was right. This must be their suite, because it was located almost directly above the stage.
Trevor put his hand on the doorknob and turned. "The arena isn't going to say it's the SledgeHammer suite. They'd get fans and paparazzi crashing the place." He threw open the door and guided Ellen, who'd been standing beside him, into the room.
The others followed in their wake. Inside they were greeted by a man of average height who smiled toothily and ushered them into the compact luxury of the arena box with an encouraging wave. "Trevor! Wonderful to see you again!" he said. To the rest he added, "Welcome! I'm Vince Nunez. I manage SledgeHammer."
Christy judged Vince to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty. His black hair was combed back from his forehead and held in place with gel. His jeans were designer and the plum-colored shirt he wore under a bespoke jacket was silk.
He and Trevor shared a manly hug, then Trevor said, "We're all looking forward to the concert, Vince. Let me introduce you. Christy and Ellen Jamieson. Roy Armstrong and his son, Quinn."
They all nodded. Vince's eyes brightened and he focused on Roy. "Roy Armstrong, the author?"
Roy nodded, his expression blank. Christy knew that he was here to enjoy the concert, not to promote one of his best-selling books. He hated having his celebrity horning in on his private moments.
Vince shot Trevor a raised eyebrow look and said "You never told me you knew Roy Armstrong, Trevor. This is great." He grinned at Roy. "I love your books, Roy. We'll have to talk."
Roy summoned up a smile. "Sure."
While the men were chatting, Christy took stock of her surroundings. The concert was being held in the building that was used for professional hockey during the winter season. Eighteen thousand seats were arranged in an oval, rising from the rectangular floor space up three tiers. The box they were in was on the two hundred level and close to the stage. She thought with some satisfaction that they would have one of the best views in the house for the concert.
The suite itself was a simple rectangle decorated in blue and green, with natural dark wood tones. At the back of the space was a cupboard for coats and a bathroom, while the entire front wall was open to the arena and the enclosed seats that belonged to the box. Along one wall was a well-stocked wet bar with beer and wine. A big screen TV hung on the opposite wall above a sofa. At one end of this was an armchair with a low table facing it and the sofa. Platters of crudités and chips had been placed on the table. Christy noted that one of the guests was already stationed on the sofa. He was munching on celery sticks and watching the arriving guests with critical interest.
Christy had seen the expression before. This was a man on the make, planning to milk the evening for all the networking benefits he could muster. She wondered what his relationship to SledgeHammer was, then decided she didn't care. Whoever this man was, he wouldn't be interested in Christy Jamieson. Two years ago the situation would have been different. Then she was the wife of the heir to the Jamieson fortune. She would have worn designer clothes, like Ellen's peacock blue jump suit with the wide flowing legs and plunging v-neck bodice. Now she was a single mom raising her daughter on a limited income, wearing jeans and a pretty cowl neck sweater in a dark gold that did good things for her short brown hair, and she was here tonight as a fan planning on enjoying her evening out.
Vince said something polite to Ellen, then he focused on Quinn and Christy. "You're Sledge's friend from high school," he said. "The journalist."
"I am," Quinn said. "Nice to meet you, Vince."
Christy chimed in with a smile, "We're both looking forward to the concert."
Vince waved a hand. "It's going to be a good one. It was Vancouver fans who made SledgeHammer. The band intends to go all out tonight as a thank you, you know?"
Having done his personal greeting, he was ready to turn them over to the rest of the guests in the suite. He drew Trevor into the center of the room, which was open to allow guests to mingle and move around. The Jamiesons and Armstrongs followed. "Now, folks, let me make you known to everyone else who's already here. Over by the table with the hot foods on it are Kyle Gowdy—he's Hammer's brother—and his wife, Kristine." The table was in the back of the room. The couple there turned and smiled, then said hello after Vince finished his introductions. Casually dressed, they both looked comfortable, though not well off. Working class people who unexpectedly had an international star in their family.
Vince shifted position and waved his arm extravagantly. "Curtis and Rose Gowdy, Hammer's parents, have already settled into the seats. The lady sitting beside them is Jahlina Vuong. She's a friend of Hammer's," he added with the kind of smile that had Christy imagining that Jahlina and Hammer were more than friends.
His features smoothed into expressionless mask. "And that's Syd Haynes sitting on the couch." There was a chill to his tone that Christy didn't understand.
Syd Haynes was an attractive man, well groomed, and stylishly dressed in a silk and cashmere sweater and jeans. Judging from the lines around his eyes and mouth, he was around Vince's age. There were no streaks of silver in his dark blond hair, though, or in the scruff of beard covering his cheeks and chin. At Vince's lukewarm introduction Syd raised a brow and his mouth quirked into a rueful smile that appeared to be a self-depreciating acknowledgement of the introduction.
Christy heard Quinn draw in his breath in a quick, shocked way. Then he stepped forward and pushed out his hand. "Quinn Armstrong, Syd. You may not remember me. I'm a fri
end of Sledge's."
"I know who you are," Syd said. He wiped his hands on a napkin in an ostentatious way before he took Quinn's offered one.
Trevor wandered over. "How have you been, Syd?" He studied the other man. "Your father mentions you often."
"Does he?" Syd shrugged. His expression said he'd believe that when pigs learned to fly. "With the help of the late Reverend Wigle, I've been clean for the three years, so I'd say I'm doing pretty well."
Trevor nodded. "Good to hear."
Clearly there was a history here. Christy wondered what it was, but she figured Quinn would fill her in when he had a chance. In the meantime, she listened and drew her own conclusions. Syd Haynes, she thought, must be younger than the lines on his face said he was. She guessed he was a man much like her late husband, Frank. Indulged, well-off, perhaps more insecure than he would ever be willing to admit. Always looking for something more, the restlessness making him an easy victim to the promised highs of drugs. Like Frank, Syd had been seduced by the party lifestyle. Unlike Frank, Syd had survived and now appeared to have made himself as successful as the other men in the box.
"What are you doing these days?" Quinn asked with that easy curiosity he used to draw people out.
"I run an organization called Homeless Help," Syd said.
"Homeless Help. I think I've heard of that," Trevor said, his face twisting into a thoughtful frown. "You work with the down-and-out on the East Side, don't you?"
Syd nodded. "We provide a way for the homeless to generate an income beyond their Social Security payments. It gives them a sense of worth that they can't get any other way. And it can help them have a few luxuries, make their lives a little easier. We also place alcoholics and drug addicts into rehab programs when they're ready to change. Anyone who needs assistance and has nowhere else to turn can come to us."
Trevor nodded. "The organization was started by Reverend Wigle, wasn't it?"
Once again, Syd nodded. His lips flattened into a thin line. "We set it up together. When he died I took it over."
"Shame about that," Trevor said, referring, Christy thought, to the Reverend's death, not Syd's decision to carry on the man's good works.
Syd nodded again. There was sadness in his eyes now, and his expression said that he still felt the loss of his mentor.
The door to the suite opened and two more people entered. The man was wearing a SledgeHammer T-shirt with jeans and his muscular arms were tattooed down to his wrists. His hair was spiked with gel and streaked with neon blue. As they came through the doorway, the man laughed loudly and bumped against the girl. She bumped back. They both giggled.
Vince did his enthusiastic greeting again. The man was one of the musicians Vince managed, an up and comer Vince talked up enthusiastically. The girl was his current bedmate and they were both flying high under the influence of some substance. Syd's mouth hardened into a straight, disapproving line and he deliberately turned away without speaking to the new arrivals.
A young woman wearing a blue and green uniform that indicated she was arena staff slipped into the box behind the two new arrivals. She circulated through the growing crowd taking drink orders and reminding those she hadn't met before that there was food in the chafing dishes on the table where Kyle and Kristine Gowdy stood and urged them to serve themselves.
Quinn nudged Christy to the food display where they talked to the Gowdys as they loaded their plates. They took them to the far end of the box, where an eating bar set with four stools had been strategically placed between the interior of the suite and the arena seating. Quinn settled in with his back against the wall, and Christy perched on the stool beside him.
"I sense there are old, unresolved issues between Syd and Vince," she said, tucking into an eggroll that was stuffed with crabmeat and shrimp.
Quinn, who was eating dried spareribs, stared over her shoulder at the interior of the box. "Syd's a couple of years older than I am. His father is a partner at Trevor's old law firm," he said in a low voice. "Syd got pretty much anything he wanted as a kid."
Like Frank, Christy thought. She wondered if Syd felt as unconnected with the adults in his young life as Frank had.
"He played the guitar and he had a pretty good voice. Before Rob and Graham became SledgeHammer, they played gigs with Syd."
Christy frowned. "What happened?"
Quinn shrugged, his gaze still on the interior of the suite. "He couldn't handle the lifestyle. While Rob and Graham focused on the music and their career, Syd got into drugs. Hard stuff. He spent more time stoned than he did sober. When Vince discovered them, he gave Syd an ultimatum: get clean or get lost. Syd didn't get clean."
"So Rob McCullagh and Graham Gowdy became Sledge and Hammer of SledgeHammer and went on without him," Christy said softly. "Sad story."
Quinn refocused on her face and nodded. "The split was nasty. Syd was pretty bitter." He looked across the box at the sofa where Syd sat alone. "I wonder what he's doing here?"
Christy smiled. "Making amends?"
"Maybe." Quinn didn't sound convinced, though.
The suite attendant appeared holding a tray. A tag attached to her uniform said her name was Chelsea. She smiled as she lifted a wine glass and handed it to Christy. She was a pretty girl, with honey blond hair pulled away from her face and bound in a French braid. Her smile held genuine warmth that had Christy smiling back as she said, "One chilled chardonnay for you, Mrs. Jamieson. And a beer for Mr. Armstrong. Is there anything else I can get for you right now?" They shook their heads. "I'll be back later then. Enjoy your meal." She flashed that bright smile again, then flitted away to serve someone else.
A rustle of movement had Christy turning so she could see into the suite. A dark-haired man dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and a blue and silver striped silk tie paused in the doorway, surveying the occupants with raised brows, waiting for an introduction by Vince. Christy's discerning eye identified the suit as being handmade, tailored specifically for the new arrival. She'd bet that his shoes were Italian leather and his socks the finest wool. He looked wealthy and his manner exuded power. Whoever this man was, he expected to be noticed and catered to.
Beside him was a woman about twenty years younger than he was. Her hair was long and artificially blonde. It fell over her shoulders and halfway down her back in cascade of loose curls, framing a face that that was very close to perfection. She was wearing ankle-breaker heels, body hugging pants, and a sheer top over a dark cami. As the man paused at the doorway, she put her hand on her hip and struck an attitude.
"Trophy wife or mistress?" Quinn murmured wickedly.
"She's very decorative," Christy said. She shot Quinn a disapproving look, though she added a chuckle with it.
"He's got to be a businessman of some kind," Quinn said. "Maybe a record company exec. She could be a singer he's grooming, I suppose."
Vince had been down in the stands, talking to Curtis and Rose Gowdy, who were seated in the front row. When he noticed the new arrivals, he bustled to the doorway to greet them. Introductions were then made to the rest of the group. It turned out Quinn was right. The man was Mitchell Crosier, a senior executive with SledgeHammer's label and the woman was his wife, Kim.
The introductions were hardly finished when two more people rushed into the box. The contrast between the two couples couldn't have been more pronounced. Where everything Crosier and his wife did was calculated to create an impression, the two newcomers were refreshingly open and down-to-earth.
"Sorry we're late. Got caught in traffic," the man said breathlessly to the box at large. He was not quite six feet and heavyset. "We live out in the Valley and there was an accident on the Port Mann. I'm Bernie Oshall and this is my wife, Emily. Rob—Sledge!—and I went through school together." He looked around the box and his gaze lit on Quinn. "Quinn Armstrong! What's up, man? Mr. McCullagh, I heard you were ill, but you're better now. I'm so glad." He beamed around the group, good cheer radiating from his round face. "What a great
evening this is going to be."
Smiling, Chelsea the suite attendant came over to ask for the couple's drink orders. Vince shook Bernie's hand, and Trevor sauntered over to say hello. Christy raised a brow at Quinn. "A friend of yours?"
Quinn looked amused. "I think I told you I lived with Trevor and Rob for a couple of semesters when my dad was doing time for his part in a tree hugging demonstration and my mom was in jail for contempt of court. I went to school with Rob. He and Bernie were tight, so I became part of their gang."
At that point, Bernie and his wife came over to join them. He and Quinn greeted each other with the easy informality of old friends, even though they hadn't seen each for years, and Quinn kissed Emily's cheek before he introduced them both to Christy.
"I'm happy to meet you," Christy said with a smile. "I'm finding all sorts of things out about Quinn because of this concert."
Bernie grinned. "When you meet Rob, all the dirt will come out. Quinn and Rob used to feed off each other's energy. Quinn came up with the ideas, and no matter how loony they were, Rob took them on."
Beside him, Quinn snorted. "Don't try to whitewash your part."
Bernie contrived to look innocent. "I did the planning. If I hadn't, you'd both have spent more time behind bars than out."
Quinn managed to look innocent and offended at the same time and Bernie laughed.
Christy sipped her wine as she examined the two men. "Sounds ominous. What exactly did you guys do?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Quinn said. "Just teenaged boys horsing around."
"Ha!" said Bernie. "What about the time you convinced Rob it would be a great idea to streak the drama class?"
Quinn grinned. "I'd forgotten about that."
"Streak the drama class?" Christy said. "What exactly did Rob do?"
Bernie chuckled. "He burst into the class wearing nothing but a mask and a red cape as if he was some kind of naked superhero and started to recite poetry he'd written for a song." He paused and grinned. "If you're a SledgeHammer fan you probably know the poetry. It was part of 'Going Down', his first big hit. Anyway, there he is, reciting his song lyrics with the whole senior year drama class gaping at him. Then the principal walks in."