Replay: An Off Track Records Novel

by Shea, Kacey

“I’m fine,” I lie because she doesn’t need to be weighed down by any more stress than she already is.

  “Sure?”

  “Don’t worry about me, little lady. You just take care of that babe.”

  “I do worry about you. You know I love you, right?” It’s a platonic kind of love. The affection a sister shares for her big brother. A gift I never expected. The power of her sentiment hits me unexpectedly and this time I do give in to the heaviness of it all.

  “I could have lost you today,” I croak out.

  “Shh.” She shakes her head and then hugs me tighter. “Don’t go there. I’m fine. We’re all here. Safe.”

  We’re the lucky ones. For whatever reason, fate spared us the untimely destiny, and instead we’re left to soldier on another day. With my arms around one of my best friends, I let the tears prick my eyes and vow to make good with all the days I’m granted from here on out.

  “Get some rest,” she mutters into my chest before pulling away to study my face.

  I nod. “Promise.”

  * * *

  I don’t quite know when I pass out, but the morning comes like the blink of an eye. There’s no rumble of the bus engine, or sway that comes with wheels rolling down the open highway. Sean wakes me with a shake to the shoulder, and it takes me a minute to remember where I am and what happened last night. “Come on, man. Get dressed. Execs are on their way up now.”

  “Fuck.” I rub my hand over my face and glance around my darkened hotel room. “What time is it?”

  “Almost nine, lazy ass.” He chuckles on his way out the door.

  “Fuck.” I didn’t expect to get any rest last night, or even fall asleep, but once my head hit the pillow, the day’s events crashed down hard and I couldn’t fight the pull of sleep. Apparently, I slept the entire night through. Making my way to the bathroom, I shower and pull on a clean set of clothes before joining the others. I can’t get the image of smoke churning above the arena out of my head, or the clip of victims being rushed by gurney to the back of the ambulances. My stomach rumbles with hunger and I almost feel a sense of guilt for giving such a basic need priority given the current state of things. How can I think of breakfast when people are fighting for their lives?

  “Austin, how nice of you to finally join us,” Vincent, one of the top executives for WMI, and a total douche in my opinion, says from his perch at the end of the long dining table.

  There’s a spread to his left— muffins, bagels, fruit, and coffee—so I take my sweet time strutting over to fix a plate before pulling up a chair. I don’t know why, but it gives me a simple sort of satisfaction to make him wait.

  “Shall we get started?” He clears his throat while I shove a bagel spread with cream cheese into my mouth.

  “Please.” Trent blows out a long breath and Vincent makes introductions for everyone gathered in our hotel suite. Some super sleuth team this is. Mostly lawyers. Old. White. Male. All uptight motherfuckers, if you ask me. No one does.

  “Where’s Rachel?” I interrupt before Vincent can continue.

  He levels me with a glare. “Miss Kinsley is in Los Angeles. We brought in our top dogs for this.”

  I appraise the old dudes in suits. Let’s hope they come with energy drinks. Or maybe pacemakers. Either way, I have no clue how they’ll be much help right now. “When can we visit the hospital?”

  “We’re not sure that’s the best course of action. We don’t want this incident to bring on bad press, or connect the band any further than it already is. We want you all back on a plane to LA as soon as possible.” He levels me with what I assume is a disappointed stare, only I don’t give two shits what this guy thinks of me.

  “Really, Vince? You don’t think heading to the hospital to hit on all the hot nurses would look good in tomorrow’s headlines?” I shrug off his assessment with my go-to humor.

  His stare hardens, not at all amused. “I’d like for you to not end up in jail. But we can’t all get what we want in life.”

  I hold up my hands. “Only making a joke.”

  “This isn’t a laughing matter.”

  “And I couldn’t agree more.” Now it’s my turn to look pissed off. “Which is why I want to go to the hospital. Those people could have been us.”

  “We all want to go,” Trent says.

  Vincent glances at Lipshitz, his lips pinched with a sour expression.

  “It’s going to be a tight schedule, but I think we can work it in.” Casey remains neutral in his tone. Suck up.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  One of the old dudes clears his throat. “We don’t know if the package you received at Christmas is connected to the explosion yesterday, but it’s an assumption we’re going off of until the cops prove otherwise.”

  “Given the timing of the explosion and the proximity to the stage, law enforcement believes your band was the target,” another one interjects.

  “My God,” Trent mutters. The news isn’t a surprise, but to have it confirmed makes it all the more real.

  “What’s the long term plan here?” Sean glances from him to Vince.

  “The security for the tour will need to be beefed up. Darren is out.”

  “Wait. Why Darren?” I can’t believe they’re firing him. He’s been with us for years.

  Vince’s jaw locks and for the first time since he started talking, appears uncomfortable. “Darren was on site when this happened. He sustained burns to more than thirty percent of his body.”

  My stomach drops. The severity of this situation hits me with a new force. I don’t know why, but my brain didn’t automatically connect that these victims would be people we’ve known and trusted for months. “Who else?” I barely manage.

  “Robbie and Leo suffered burns too. Not as badly.” Both are roadies who’ve been with us for years. “Adam, no burns but a broken rib and arm.” One of our sound techs. “The rest are all employees of the venue. One didn’t make it through the night. She was a concession worker.”

  The room goes silent but for a few shallow breaths.

  “What was she doing backstage?” Opal asks but I can already guess.

  “Hoping to catch a glimpse of the sound check,” Vince confirms.

  Hoping to see us. The realization guts me. Silence settles over the room and I slide my plate to the center of the table, my appetite no longer present. I can’t even muster the courage to glance up at my bandmates.

  “So, what’s our next move?” Trent’s voice is void of his usual bravado.

  “We’re looking into hiring someone, but that could take several weeks.”

  “Weeks?” Sean’s brows shoot up and his gaze sweeps the table before settling back on Vince. “What happens between now and then? We won’t risk our safety or our fans.”

  “Canceling at this point wouldn’t be cost effective,” one of the suits says matter-of-factly.

  “Cost effective?” Sean ask incredulously. He narrows his stare on the suit. “How many people need to get hurt to make it worth your time?”

  The suit glances from Sean to Vince, an unsure grimace wedged on his lips. “I can’t tell if he’s asking a serious question.”

  “We won’t play without new measures in place,” Trent states. Normally, he doesn’t speak for us, but there’s no doubt we all feel the same.

  Vince tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Then you’d be in breach of contract.”

  “This is bullshit!” Sean slams a fist on the table’s edge and it rattles the tableware.

  “I think I have an idea.” I clear my throat and raise my gaze. The room goes quiet. By their unimpressed expressions they aren’t expecting much. It only makes me want to prove everyone wrong. “I know who our new head of security will be.”

  “This should be rich,” Lipshitz mutters under his breath.

  “Care to share it with the rest of us?” Trent’s lips twitch with the trace of the first smile I’ve seen since yesterday.

  “She’s the perfect woma
n for the job.” I meet Vince’s unamused stare. “And diversity is something I value. Don’t you?”

  Sean groans and shakes his head. “We aren’t hiring someone you fucked.”

  “Good thing I didn’t, then.”

  “Austin.” Trent squints up at the ceiling and pinches the bridge of his nose. I don’t blame him, because most of the time my ideas are shit. Only, the more I think about it, this one’s perfect.

  “Trust me on this one.” I stare him down until he meets me gaze.

  He blows out a breath. “Trust you?”

  “Yeah, this is about our band. The safety of our fans. I wouldn’t fuck around with either of those.”

  “That’s fair.” Trent nods to Vince. “Let’s hear him out. At least feel out this option. Beats the alternative.”

  “Okay, Aust.” Vince taps his pen against the notepad in front of him. “Who is she?”

  “A retired cop. Head of security for a private company.” I’m stretching the truth now and making shit up. I have no clue whether she retired or quit, or what her title is, but it sounds more enticing this way. “Jayla Miller.” A fucking gorgeous woman. A woman I would surely love to fuck. Throwing her name in the ring holds less than noble motives—motives that include charming my way into her heart and her bed—but beyond that I have a strong feeling she’s someone we could trust to keep us all safe. I might be wrong about a lot of things in life, but I’m going with my gut on this one.

  “I have her number, but maybe we should go straight to her supervisor?” I pull the business card from my pocket, because yeah, I’ve been carrying it around in my wallet since the other night. I aim for an innocent smile, but by the sets of eyes staring me down, I don’t think I’ve fooled anyone. Flipping the card toward Vince, I hope I haven’t made the biggest mistake of my career.

  9

  Jayla

  The croon of Sam Cooke blares through my Bluetooth speaker, transforming my humble apartment to a 1950’s club. I sway my hips to the rhythm and sing along as I pull the bed sheets up and smooth them out before tucking in the sides.

  “Yeah.” I can’t help but sing along and let my body go as I arrange the pillows. “Yeah.” There’s something about the songs from this decade that speak to my soul. I can’t be in a bad mood, not possible, with these classics streaming through my speakers.

  I slide open the closet door and choose a crisp white blouse and dark dress slacks for work tonight. My phone interrupts with my reminder alarm as I’m still getting dressed. Crap. Time to leave. I had a harder time than usual pulling myself from the bed this afternoon. Too many night shifts in a row, overtime because of the holidays, and the concert on my only night off in weeks finally catch up to my body.

  I slide my feet into shoes, button up my shirt, and grab my phone off the dresser on the way into the kitchen. Pulling the fridge open, I snag the snacks I packed earlier and toss them into a lunch bag with a few ice packs. My phone pings with an incoming message and I glance at it.

  Aaliyah: You okay?

  Why wouldn’t I be? Grumbling to myself, I continue getting ready. I’ll respond to her once I’m on my way to work, or maybe tomorrow. I don’t have time to chat feelings. I don’t even have time to think about them on my own. Tonight’s a big job for an even bigger client, and I can’t afford to be late. With over two hundred guests and managing a team of ten, I won’t have much downtime.

  I head into the bathroom, check my makeup in the mirror’s reflection one last time, and sling my bag over my shoulder. As I reach for the doorknob, a knock from the other side startles me and my heart practically jumps inside my chest. I check the peephole to find Kalise standing outside. I pull the door open. “Hey.”

  “Are you seeing this?” She pushes inside and straight to my living room.

  “I have to leave for work. I didn’t know you were stopping by,” I say, annoyed and confused at both her intrusion and lack of explanation.

  “Where’s your remote? How do you turn this thing on?” She points at the TV, and when her gaze catches mine I see the panic in her eyes.

  “Kalise?”

  “Just turn on the damn news!” She throws her hands up. “I swear, for someone up-to-date on current events, sometimes you live in your own cave.”

  My irritation morphs to concern. I shut the door and grab the remote, knowing she won’t leave or explain until I do. I flip to my favorited channels and glance at her for direction.

  “Any one. It’s everywhere,” she says.

  I click on a national station, prepared to view one more headline and incident of blatant racism caught on film. Another random and violent act of hate is what I assume. I can’t count the number of times Kalise and I have sat huddled together as we watch such events unfold.

  But the images that play out on my television tonight aren’t what I expect.

  “My God.” My hand flies to my mouth as I take in the scene outside the arena in Salt Lake City. It takes a second for my eyes to wander to the scrolling headlines, and then my vision blurs. “Is he—?” I choke on the question. I can’t lose Austin, not now. Not after I finally saw him again.

  “They weren’t there.” Kalise grips my hand in hers, her voice strong. “I’m sorry, I should have led with that.”

  “Yeah.” I release an exhale and try to recover from the pit of dread that twists in my gut. “What happened?” I don’t know why I ask. The headlines say it all. An explosion. Pre-show, thank God. I can’t imagine the carnage if that venue had been full.

  “Someone died.”

  “I can see that.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. Senseless. These things are always fueled by hate, and bringing terror to what should have been a safe place. Accidents happen every day, and for that I’ve become hardened to most things. But this? This should never have happened. “They better catch whoever did this.”

  “Reporters say it might have been targeted at the band.”

  “This was last night?” I’m usually one to flip the news on before bed, but when I got back early this morning I was exhausted, both from dinner at Mama’s, and then eight hours following a client as she flitted all over Los Angeles.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know until it was all over Facebook today. I’m sorry.”

  The screen cuts to images from outside the stadium. The band, visiting the hospital and sitting with patients, the ones injured from the blast. I turn up the volume at the sight of Austin and the band.

  “Off Track Records, a division of WMI, declined an official press conference at this time, but that didn’t stop all four members of Three Ugly Guys, and front man Trent Donavan’s girlfriend Lexi Marx, from stopping by the hospital to visit survivors of the explosion.”

  They’re all there, but my eyes only see him. He looks exhausted. Worry lines etch his forehead and don’t disappear with his smile. The impulse to go to him, to reach out, hits me with an unsettling power. Which is ridiculous on so many levels.

  I regret my decision to not get his number when I had the chance, because I want nothing more than to check whether he’s okay. Of course he’s not, but still. I’d let him know he’s not alone.

  “The band didn’t spend much time with reporters, but what they did say reiterates the messages posted on social media accounts.”

  “We are devastated that something like this has happened and are working with law enforcement, our label, and contracted security to ensure the safety of our fans.” Trent speaks and appears so much older than I remember him a few days ago.

  A reporter shoves a mic at Sean Willis, which he graciously speaks into. “Our hearts are with everyone here and their families, especially Jessica Meeks, the concession worker who passed away from injuries she sustained.”

  Leighton, the latest drummer for their band, holds a young woman to his side. “We’ve personally committed to covering the medical care for what happened last night. We don’t want that burden to be a thought in anyone’s mind. Many of these people we consider family. They shou
ld be focused on fighting for a full recovery.” It’s the right thing to do, and I like hearing the commitment.

  The feed cuts to Austin, and I can’t help the way my pulse speeds at the sight of him. “We apologize to our fans. You guys have been amazing. We don’t want to cancel shows, but we refuse to put anyone else in danger. Know that we will make it up to you, and reschedule as many shows as it takes.”

  “Are you saying this isn’t an isolated incident? That you expect other venues to be targeted on this tour?” a reporter calls out.

  Austin’s lips pinch together and he appears seconds from going off.

  Trent shakes his head. “We aren’t speculating on anything. We are letting law enforcement do their job.” He puts an arm around Austin.

  The camera cuts out and pans back to images at the arena, but it’s Austin’s voice they use for the sound bite. “This won’t happen again. I can personally attest that we’re hiring the best security personnel possible.”

  Kalise clears her throat. “I should have called, but I was already so close and thought I could catch you before work.”

  “Shit. Work.” I dig my cell out of my bag and dial the number to my boss, Larry, the owner of the private security firm I work for. Crap. He’s gonna be pissed if I’m late.

  Kalise reads my mind. “I’ll drive you.”

  The line connects. “Just the woman I’m expecting to see.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m on my way now.”

  “No. It’s fine, actually. If you haven’t left your house yet, don’t.”

  Shit. He wouldn’t fire me for being late this one time, would he?

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.” I turn the television off and signal for Kalise to follow me out the door. “I promise this won’t impact tonight’s client or the security detail.”

  “Jayla.” His tone is forceful. “Don’t come in. I’m calling you off.”

  “What? Why?” Key in the deadbolt, I freeze as my mind struggles to play catch-up. Is this about me being late? Or something more?