Chapter 1 #2
I burst through the door, shielding my tear-streaked face with my hand. Tony follows close behind. “Not now, Tony. Can’t you just—” I wave my phone in the air, trying to wish him away, but he’s striding alongside me.
“You’re not safe without an escort,” he barks.
“I’m backstage!” I’m over his ridiculous rules. He’s been my head of security for the past year, and he’s always snapping orders and telling me what to do. “This whole area is protected!”
I keep begging management to get rid of this guy, but with the stalker situation escalating, they won’t budge. They say Tony’s the best security money can buy with all of his connections to law enforcement.
I’m skeptical.
I head straight for the ladies’ restroom—the only place he won’t follow me—but he signals for one of the female guards.
“Let me go on my own.” My voice is sharp, and I show her my palm to beg her to stop.
Her chin jerks back in surprise, but she stations herself in the hallway.
I step into the bathroom, cruising right through the door on the other side and slipping past a security guy who’s engaged in a conversation.
But what am I going to do? Run away?
Could I?
Security won’t let me out of the building alone.
I can’t be out in public without protection.
It’s not safe. Fans can get out of control, and even with Tony breathing down my neck, last week there was another little box with a threatening note tucked inside.
The stalker left it right outside my dressing room.
All the backup dancers are standing together in the hall receiving their feedback. One of them looks at me with empathetic eyes and gives me a little wave. Clearly she already knows about Johnny.
Everyone knows.
I give her a nod back, then cross into their empty dressing room for cover. One of the glittery gold bags the dancers use to carry their belongings is sitting on the counter, and a Marilyn Monroe–style wig from our first song sits perched on a Styrofoam head next to it.
Suddenly I have a plan.
I snag the bag, stuffing my phone inside and throwing the wig in after it while telling myself it’s not stealing. I’ll bring it back before the show on Sunday. I’m only borrowing it for a little while. Just long enough to get my head together.
There’s a gray beanie on the counter, and I snatch that up too. Then I scramble to the costume rack, pulling down a couple of dresses that might fit me. Someone’s puffy winter coat is hanging at the end of the rack, and I tuck that under my arm for good measure.
I spin to book it out of the room, but a makeup kit on the counter catches my attention. That could come in handy.
When I grab for it, my finger hooks one of the eye patches the dancers use in our spy-themed number at the end of my set. I stuff everything into my bag. Then I duck out the door and head straight for the crew bathroom in the rear to don my disguise.
It’s sprinkling when I push through the exit door at the back. A venue guard is stationed right outside, but he barely gives me a second look as I step out into the rain.
I’m free.
Outside. All by myself.
Honestly, when I looked in the mirror, I was shocked by the transformation. I styled the wig so it almost covers one side of my face, then threw the hat on over it for good measure. But the eye patch is the real clincher.
People are still streaming out from the stadium. Several fans wearing T-shirts for my tour brush past me as though I were a normal person.
It’s thrilling.
I spot a line of taxis waiting on the other side of the road, and I hoist my arm up. “Taxi!” I’ve never ridden in one before, but I’ve seen them in movies. I know how this works.
But none of them circle around to pick me up, and a large truck drives past, splashing a wave of filthy water over me.
I scream in frustration and surprise, but no one comes to help, so I plod across the street on my own. The frills at the bottom of my dress are plastered flat against my body, and mud is dripping down my bare legs and into my heels. I stoop to slick it off with my hand.
“You need a taxi?” I look up to see a grim-faced man rolling down the window of his cab. But when his eyes meet mine his head jerks back. I’m worried he recognizes me, but he doesn’t say a word, and I realize he’s probably reacting to my eclectic appearance.
“Yes, please.”
He waves me over, and I climb inside.
“Where to?” he asks from the driver’s seat.
“Umm…”
Where am I going?
I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
But then it hits me. There’s one place I’ve always dreamed of going back to. I was worried I’d never find the time, but I have three whole days before the show. I can go anywhere I want.
“Cupid City, please.” I straighten up in my seat, grinning.
It’s the town where I grew up. The only place that ever felt like home.
“Where the hell is that?”
“Oh. It’s in North Carolina.”
He laughs, then he cranes his neck to stare back at me and abruptly stops. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.” Why wouldn’t I be?
He sighs. “Right. I’m gonna need a pre-authorization on that charge and your ID.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your credit card and your driver’s license.” His words are gruff, as though I’m irritating him. “I have to verify funds before I drive you halfway across the country.”
I dig out my phone and pull my cards from the little wallet stuck on the back, but then I pause. My ID has my legal name. It isn’t well known, so it should be all right. I’ve never used the credit card, but I always carry one, along with some cash, for emergencies.
I hand him the cards through the little window in the clear divider separating us and realize my hands are shaking.
“No, scan the card. Behind me.” He hands it back.
“Where?”
He sighs again, then he directs me to touch it to a box on the back of the passenger seat.
“Sorry, I’ve never used one of these before,” I explain, but he squints at me in the mirror. I need to try harder to blend in. People might get suspicious.
He hands me my ID back, and I sigh, dropping my shoulders and resting my head back for a moment as we roll out of the stadium parking lot.
I’m doing it. I’m taking a vacation. It’s happening.
Melody would be proud of me. She’s always encouraging me to demand more downtime. She knows how exhausted I’ve been.
But what if she thinks I’ve been kidnapped? That the stalker finally got me?
I need to let her know I’m safe and that I’ll be back for Sunday’s show so management doesn’t cancel it.
My fans in Toronto paid their hard-earned money to see that show, and I’m not going to let them down.
The last thing I need is another big PR disaster on top of what happened with Johnny.
That kind of thing could destroy my brand, which is something a lot of people have worked hard to create.
My whole team depends on it for their livelihoods.
But I need a break.
Just. One. Break.
Enough time to clear my head. To get back to where I can feel the music the way I used to and remember what I love about it. The fans. Entertaining. My music.
Afterward I’ll do everything they need me to do exactly the way they need me to do it. I’ll work twice as hard to make up for the lost time. I’ll say whatever they need me to say.
I pick up my phone and turn it on, and it’s like a bomb going off in my hand: dozens of pings and beeps, and my custom ringtone with the old 6ixPack song “Tell Me U Love Me” playing on repeat.
My driver glares at me in the rearview mirror, and I hit the button to silence it.
Forty-two notifications. Calls and texts and voicemails. Darcy. Melody. Tony. Even our stage manager, Bruno, sent me a text asking where I was. Half the messages are in all caps with punctuation marks trailing after them.
DARCY: WHERE ARE YOU???
MELODY: TEXT ME BACK IF YOU’RE OK!!!!!
Everyone is panicked.
I take a deep breath, then tap out a quick message.
ME: Hey, Mel. Please let everyone know I’m safe. I just need some time away. Promise I’ll be back for the next show.
I wait, nervously bouncing my knees as the dots that indicate she’s typing appear.
MELODY: You go, girl!
Her words bring tears to my eyes. She’s always got my back.
She sends a selfie of her blowing me a kiss, but her mascara is running and her eyes are all red. She must have been so worried.
ME: You’re the best, Mel. I’m so sorry I scared you.
MELODY: No way! I’m SOOO proud of you right now. You deserve a break. Just be careful, OK??
ME: I will. I promise. Love you.
MELODY: Love you too! Now go have fun. And be safe!
Safe.
Tony’s probably shitting himself right now, and I’d almost feel bad for him if he weren’t such an ass to me all the time. Barking orders and suffocating me with his arcane safety protocols. It’s obvious the guy gets off on being in control.
But Tony’s not in control today. I am.
At least for a little while.
A call comes in, and it’s Darcy. I already know what she’s going to say, so I tap Ignore. But now I’m thinking about Melody’s words again.
I will be careful. I’ll be safe…assuming the stalker doesn’t figure out where I am.
But what if they do? How will I protect myself? I don’t know the first thing about fending off a violent person.
I nibble my lip.
What do other celebrities do when they want to get away? Do they bring their whole security detail with them? There’s no way in hell I’m doing that.
Maybe I could hire a personal bodyguard? Like Whitney Houston in the movie. Some good-looking man who knows what to do in a dangerous situation.
Encouraged, I do a quick search on my phone for personal security in Cupid City, then place a call to arrange for a hopefully sexy man to protect me while I’m there. On my terms.
Then I turn off my phone so Tony can’t trace it and lean way back in my seat, smiling at the brightly lit buildings we go by.