Chapter Five
C hristine opened her eyes. She was alone in the back of the bus.
Her head pounded and her throat was parched.
What the heck? She’d only had two shots of Fireball and a wheat cookie.
She paused and questioned why Brandy had a wheat cookie.
Oh God. Had she misunderstood and Brandy had said weed cookie?
That made much more sense. How stupid to think she’d said “wheat.” Christine had gotten drunk and stoned.
She groaned, wondering what else she had done.
She concentrated hard, trying to remember.
She recalled dancing in the vibe room with Brandy.
Had she done a striptease? She had a vision of Matt taking her to the bus.
She felt her entire body blush. Matt. Did she really climb on his lap and kiss him?
Had she dreamt that she’d begged him to be with her, or had she actually been that bold?
God, she hoped it had been a dream. Otherwise, she’d be mortified.
They’d already arrived in the next city, and she needed a shower.
She left the lounge, made her way through the darkened bunkroom, opened the door to the front lounge, grabbed her suitcase, and left the bus.
The touring ladies’ dressing room was easy to find, and a hot shower helped her feel human again.
She had no energy to go through the process of straightening her hair.
Today it would be natural curls. She put some gel in it, then dried and styled it as quickly as she could.
As she walked out of the room, she bumped into Matt.
“Christine. Good morning. How ya feeling?” He reached out for her.
Christine launched into the speech she had prepared.
“I have no idea what got into me last night. I am so sorry. Can we just never mention it again?” She was so caught up in her embarrassment that she didn’t notice Matt’s smile fading away.
“I thought she said ‘wheat cookie,’ but now that I’m sober, I think it was a weed cookie.
I’ve never been stoned in my life. I just wasn’t in my right mind. ”
Matt dropped his arms. “It’s cool, Christine. Nobody knows anything, and I’ll make sure nobody finds out.”
“We can just pretend it didn’t happen?” she asked.
“Of course we can. Not a big deal.” Christine noticed a different tone in his voice. He sounded disappointed. She felt horrible that her antics had disappointed him.
“And please don’t tell Austin.” Christine was worried he’d fire her for being unprofessional.
Matt nodded and closed his eyes. “Yep. I won’t tell him. I got it. It was no big deal.”
“Thank you.”
Just then, Austin came walking down the hall. Wearing a smile, she turned toward him.
“What’s up, girl? Have fun last night?” He grabbed her up in a hug.
She squealed. “Remind me to never come out here again,” she said.
“Oh, hell yeah you are. Dancing queen.” He put his arm around her and they walked away, leaving Matt behind.
WHEN SHE RETURNED HOME FROM the tour, Christine met Julianna and Phoebe for a songwriter’s night at Exit/In. With its concrete floor and metal pillars, it always reminded Christine of a frat house. It smelled slightly of beer at all times, like the alcohol had sunk into its pores.
Social media was lighting up, again, about her and Austin. As much as Christine tried to ignore it, she couldn’t. Especially one post that looked ominous: I’m seriously tired of seeing that ugly bitch’s face everywhere AG is. I’m ready to hunt her down and take her out.
Christine put her phone down, air escaping through her lips. “This is scary. Why are people threatening me?” she asked.
“They want what you have,” Phoebe said.
“That’s never happened to me before.”
“Well, it’s happening now,” Julianna said.
“I can’t imagine anyone will follow through on it. It’s just crazed fans mouthing off,” Phoebe said.
“Let’s not forget that fan is short for fanatic,” Christine said.
“Good point.” Julianna nodded.
“And nobody has any idea who’s doing it?” Phoebe asked.
“Not overall, but we did catch two of them,” Christine said.
“What?” Julianna asked.
“Austin’s tour manager, Matt, was in catering and happened to walk past two of the servers.
He said they were early twenties, a guy and a girl.
They were giggling and looking at photos.
He saw they were of me and assumed it was on Twitter or Instagram.
Then he realized it was on their phones. They had taken the photos.”
“They should be fired,” Phoebe said.
“They were.”
A new singer-songwriter took the stage for her thirty-minute set.
She wasn’t a seasoned performer and some of her onstage moves were awkward.
She kicked her leg out and slapped her butt, causing the ladies to look at each other with raised eyebrows.
However, her voice was strong, she sang on key, and there was something about her that kept their interest.
“She has potential if she gets the right team behind her,” Julianna said when the show was over. “I think I’ll give her my card.”
Phoebe paid the bill. The friends hugged and went their separate ways.
When Christine got to her apartment complex, she walked up the stairs and found a note taped to her door: Yo, bitch. Back off from Austin Garrett or answer to me.
She spun around, her heart racing. Shivers ran up her back.
Was someone watching her? She unlocked the door and entered her apartment, bolting the door behind her.
She took a picture of the handwritten note and texted it to Austin.
Hey. This is getting scary. Do you have some weird ex-girlfriend? Have you pissed off some chick?
He replied, I’ve pissed off a lot of them.
Christine texted back. That doesn’t help. Maybe I should keep a low profile where you’re concerned for a while.
His response: Fuck that. Ignore them.
This was taped to my door!
That got Austin’s attention. Oh shit. How do they know where you live?
How should I know? But I’m scared.
Come here, he texted.
Where?
My house.
Why? she texted.
I have security. Nobody will get past the gate.
I don’t know where you live.
He texted her the address and said, Pack a bag and get over here. At least I’ll know you’re safe.
Okay, be there soon.
Christine thought about calling the police but knew they couldn’t really do anything. No crime had been committed. The ultimate catch-22.
Austin’s house was in a ritzy neighborhood, but when she arrived at the black wrought iron gate, she realized it was the smallest dwelling on the block.
Assessing it before she passed through the gate, Christine guessed it was over five thousand square feet.
It looked to be two stories, but there could also be a basement level.
It was all brick. The garage had three bays and a bonus room on top.
Christine knew it took time in the music industry to start making money.
If you’d written a hit song—and Austin had written his first two—it could take a year to get the payoff.
She also knew banks in Nashville would loan money based on the fact that you had written two hit songs and your mailbox would soon be filled with royalty checks.
Three hit songs and you could demand a pretty high price for your concerts.
Austin Garrett was not wealthy, but he was on his way. And a house like this proved it.
She texted him to say she was out front and the gate opened. She drove in, and within thirty seconds, the gate closed behind her.
Austin was waiting out front wearing jeans and slippers. He didn’t have a shirt on. He directed her around the house to the garage.
She parked inside. Nobody would know she was there.
“Let me see the note,” he said the minute she stepped out.
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Of course I do. I thought I might recognize the handwriting if I looked at it up close.” She showed him the note, but he shook his head.
“All I want is a shower and a bed. I’m emotionally drained right now,” she said.
“Let’s go in. There’s a bit of a chill in the air.”
“You’re half-naked. Put some clothes on.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Mom,” he said, leading her into the house.
“You don’t have any tattoos, do you?” she asked.
“None that you can see,” he said with a smirk.
“I’m being serious. It’s rare for a guy your age not to.”
“I wanted them when I was younger. I was determined to get one as soon as I was old enough. But I saved every dollar I made so I could play gigs. I had to pay for equipment, instruments, gas, the band, and sometimes hotel rooms. There were out-of-town gigs we played where we didn’t even make enough to cover our travel expenses, but I wanted to reach a new audience.
I kept finding clubs farther and farther away that would let me play.
It got expensive. Spending money on a tattoo didn’t make sense.
Then, when I had the money, I realized I was one of a few guys who didn’t have one.
I decided to hold off. It’s almost rebellious to not have ink. I guess we have that in common, huh?”
Christine didn’t answer.
“Hold on, now. Are you telling me you have a tattoo?”
“I’m not telling you anything,” Christine said. “Where’s a guest bedroom?”
“Lower back? Tramp stamp? I bet it’s on your butt. I can see you taking a dare but refusing to let it be seen. Bottom of your foot?”
“You can quit guessing and tell me where I can take a bath and go to bed.”
“You know I won’t give up, but I’ll let it go for now. The upstairs bedroom on the left has a full bath. There’s all kinds of girly bath oils and stuff if you want to use it.” He pointed in the general direction of the bedroom.
“Should I ask why you have girly stuff?” Christine raised an eyebrow.
“Probably not. It’ll make me look like a male whore.”
“But aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
Christine rolled her eyes, making him chuckle.