22—Indianapolis （The Belted Stag）
From the outside, The Belted Stag is not as impressive as one would think for a must-see celebrity attraction. I guess it does deliver on the promise of “belt store.” I also haven’t seen a single reference to ponies in the half hour Nash and I have been staking out the place from the café across the street. We have no guarantee this is the right location, but it won points for having an animal reference and pretentious logo.
More impressive is the fact that the business is closed to the public and contains an entire camera crew. In a bout of irony, we’ve been taking photos and filming them for the last few minutes. You know… just in case.
“Guess that explains why Jarvis was willing to break his no leaving the venue on a show day rule,” I say.
“What could they possibly be filming in a belt store?” Nash asks.
“Commercial, maybe? He might have a sponsorship deal with them.”
“Can’t. He’s exclusive with Sandeke Telecom. Trust me, the Lord Commander His Majesty Denver Sandeke made sure his prize pet was locked down hard with legalese.”
“Then maybe he’s planning to jump ship.”
“Yeah, probably. I heard the belt industry is really driving today’s futures. What even is telecom?”
“Okay, fine. Then, I have a better question. What’s she doing here?”
Nash follows my attention to the business-suit-clad woman exiting a vehicle stopped in front of the store.
“Oh shit! That’s Rena Rivera from Lakebend Records. Why the hell would she be in Indianapolis?”
“At Jarvis’ belt store with a camera crew? Great question.”
“You got her on video?”
“Yep.”
We exchange a look that doesn’t do much to soothe the tension in my stomach. None of this can be good. Chad seemed to legitimately think they were “going belt shopping,” which means he didn’t know the full plan either. (To be fair, if I had a high-stakes evil plot, Sandeke Telecom’s Administrative Talent Liaison vis a vis Something would be the last person I’d tell as well.)
“We really need to get in there and find out what’s up,” Nash says. “You can’t go in, for obvious reasons, but maybe I can give it a shot? Technically, I worked on Jarvis’ Sandeke pitch for five minutes. He might not hate me as much. Doubt he even knows I was involved.”
“He knows you’re close with Larinda, the focal point of whatever this betrayal is. That’s enough to get you booted.”
“Yeah, good point. Shit, what do we do?”
“Maybe it’s time to activate my in with my touring bestie.” I grab my phone and pull up the text stream with Chad.
“Who’s your touring bestie?” Nash asks. “Wait, what is a touring bestie?”
“Chad, and I have no idea.”
“Chad’s in on this?”
“I don’t think he knows he is, but yeah.”
Nash huffs a laugh. “Sounds about right. Oh hey, look. The guest of honor has arrived.”
We watch through the window as a large, souped-up SUV double-parks in front of the store. No less than six people climb out, two of which are Chad and Jarvis.
I see why Chad hasn’t responded to my text when he marches behind Jarvis with the laser focus of a man who takes unwanted-belt-holding seriously. Let’s hope he likes to brag about his clutching privileges just as much.
“Can I get you anything else? Would you like a refill?” our server asks, drawing our attention from the events outside.
Her question comes with a smile that’s not quite flirty but a tad above friendly. Maybe she’d be interested in helping us?
“A refill would be great. Thanks, Kim,” I say. “Hey, do you happen to know what’s going on across the street? We thought we just saw Jarvis McKinnley.”
“No way. He’s here?!”
She leans forward to look through the glass like he might still be standing on the sidewalk.
“Pretty sure it was him,” Nash adds, following my lead. “I heard he’s really into… belts.”
“Totally! He’s in town for a show tonight. A few of my friends are going, although, if I’d been able to afford tickets, it would have been to see Larinda not him.” She leans close. “Between you and me, his music is okay but he sort of seems like a jerk.”
Yep, she just earned herself a hefty tip.
“Sorry, that was mean,” she says with a wince. “I’m sure he’s not what he seems.”
He is.
“Anyway, I’ll ask the owner and see if she knows anything about what’s going on.”
And there’s an even bigger tip.
“That would be great. Thanks,” Nash says.
We continue scouting the street after she leaves, the gravity of our situation sinking in as evidence mounts that this conspiracy runs even deeper than we thought. If Rena is here, that means Lakebend is involved. Since Lakebend is Larinda’s label as well, why isn’t she being included in whatever this is? And why all the secrecy?
It only takes a few minutes for Kim to return with wide, excited eyes.
“This is top secret,” she whispers. “Sam said they’re shooting a music video. One of our employees is even an extra in it! So freaking cool!”
Nash and I exchange a look before forcing a smile.
“Wow,” he says in a somewhat believable impressed voice.
“I know, right? Sam also said the big order we’re filling now is for them! I wonder which drink is Jarvis’.”
Probably whichever one is needlessly complex and obnoxious. Is there an order for a large non-fat chai Frappuccino in a medium-sized cup at exactly 178 degrees with freshly squeezed oat milk, 113 granules of sugar, 1.23 pumps of caramel, 2 ounces of organic triple-whipped cream, a pinch of tarragon (if you have it, if not Saigon cinnamon), and an emptied tea bag that once had Meyer lemon tea on the list?
“Okay, well, I need to check on my other tables. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”
“Great. Thanks,” Nash says as she takes off.
“A music video?” I hiss once we’re alone. “Why would they be filming a music video hours before a concert? There’s already enough chaos to deal with. What’s the rush?”
“And why would a top-tier label exec need to be here for it? They have entire departments for this shit.”
Right, yeah. Good point.
“Could it be related to the engagement? Some publicity stunt?” Nash suggests.
“Without Larinda? She doesn’t know anything about this. I’m sure she would have mentioned it if she did.”
A chill runs through me as I peer into the store for some phantom clue about what’s going on. Something isn’t right. I feel it in my gut and suspect whatever it is might be related to the notebook threat I found.
“I have to get over there and find out what they’re up to,” I say.
Nash shakes his head. “Dude, I get your concern. Believe me, I feel it too, but there’s no way for you to do that. They have the place completely sealed off.” He waves toward the window where we can see some of Jarvis’ security blocking the entrance to the store. Behind them is a circus of flashing lights and movement that definitely seems excessive for belt browsing.
“There must be a rear door,” I say. “We could sneak behind the store?—”
“And what? Even if you get inside, then what?”
“I don’t know, I’ll figure it out, but I can’t sit here and do nothing!”
“Well, you can’t just march over there and say ‘Hey, how’s the evil belt scheme going?’ either. I’ve been abducted and interrogated by imitation mobsters, and trust me, it’s not fun.” He scrunches his nose in thought. “Actually, it was kind of fun, but the point is, yours probably won’t be.”
“Yeah, I’ve already had my own run-in with security,” I mumble.
He’s right—about all of it—but I also know this gnawing sensation isn’t going away.
“So what are we supposed to do?” I ask, adjusting my hair beneath my ball cap. My knee thumps the underside of the table.
“Okay, look,” Nash says after a pause. “Try Chad again. Maybe he’s got something.”
“There’s no chance of distracting him when he’s in Jarvis mode. He takes his servant role very seriously… too seriously, really.”
Nash grunts and leans back in his chair, his fingers now tapping the table as well. If there was a mainstream market for “anxiety beat” music, we’d be hitting charts.
I scan the café in search of any magical solution, but several seconds later, all I’ve got is recruiting the elderly couple two tables over to run interference while we try to sneak past the guards.
Then I spot the small display of Kitty’s Kafé merch. They’re even selling the hats and t-shirts worn by the employees. The idea forming in my head is 100% not a good one, but what fun is a spy caper without a disguise?
“Hey, I have an idea,” I say, signaling Kim.
Nash’s concerned expression is justified but I don’t have time (or interest) in letting him talk me out of this.
“Need something?” Kim asks as she approaches.
“Yes, please. The check and also…” I point at the merch display. “How much for those hats and shirts?”
I was right. Nash hated my idea. He really hated the fact that with Kim’s help, we were able to make it happen.
“This is beyond stupid and never going to work,” he hisses at me as we approach the back entrance of The Belted Stag with drink carriers in hand. We’re also wearing the Kitty’s Kafé uniforms (ish) we purchased.
But the best part? My new favorite server asked her very busy manager to let her deliver The Belted Stag order while we tagged along to carry it. We then convinced Kim that the most polite way to do so would be through a back entrance so as not to interrupt any activity—for example, music-video filming—that might be occurring inside the store.
I’ll admit “the plan” isn’t exactly ironclad. It doesn’t even extend past this part.
“You wait here just in case,” I say to Nash.
“In case of what?”
“I don’t know. In case I’m neutralized. We need a witness to report back to basecamp about what happened.”
He gives me a look that shows me just how much that didn’t increase his excitement about any of this.
“And basecamp is…?”
“Whatever you want it to be, I guess.”
“I see. And how long do I wait before reporting back to basecamp?” His tone is not one that I appreciate at the moment.
“I don’t know. Five minutes? Ten? A half hour?”
In the movies, they always know how long their partners should wait before leaving them behind and blowing shit up. When they say to proceed if they’renot out in fifteen minutes, was that based on a carefully constructed practice run? Were they going off their vast experience of blowing up bad guys’ hideouts? Personally, I’m reluctant to rest my fate in the hands of a guestimate, but Nash already thinks this is a terrible idea.
“Twenty minutes,” I say confidently. “If I’m not back in twenty, assume I’ve been compromised and… Larinda. Yes. Larinda is ‘basecamp.’ Tell her.”
“Tell her what? That you left this world trying to deliver coffee to a belt store?”
I scrunch my nose. “Maybe not that. But be sure to tell her I love her. Oh! And that ‘Third Last Kiss’ still needs work on the bassline before engineering.”
“Sure. Or you could just text her that stuff.”
“Where’s you sense of spy adventure? It’s way more dramatic coming from someone else.”
“My spy days are over, dude. Well, they were supposed to be.” His eye roll is yet another clue that he’s not fully on board.
I ignore his skepticism and focus back on Kim who takes the carriers from Nash, while also doing an excellent job of pretending she didn’t hear any of that weird conversation.
“There’s definitely a back room we can hide in, right?” I ask her.
She nods at me. “No one will see you. Well, unless they go in the back room.”
“Do people go in there a lot?”
“How should I know? I don’t work here.”
Hmm. I decide not to relay this potential hiccup to Nash, who’s now leaning against the side of the building looking slightly irritated and very bored.
I give him a thumbs up when he glances over.
“Basecamp,” I mouth.
“Whatever,” he mumbles.
Good enough.
He does at least open the door for us, but the second Kim and I slip inside, it becomes clear our attempts at silent sneaking were unnecessary. Music blasts throughout the building. The song is clearly a Jarvis McKinnley track, but not one I recognize.
Kim looks back and motions toward the opening ahead, which must lead to the main area of the store and the origin of the music.
“Hide somewhere,” she says at my ear. “I’ll deliver these.”
“You can’t carry them all.”
“I’ll make two trips.”
I don’t argue, mostly because I just realized Nash was right. This plan is stupid.
“You know what? Maybe we should just?—”
“And every tear I cry, each promise held true
Makes a fool outta me, and a liar outta you
While you’re breakin’ hearts, I’ll break in these boots
Walkin’ away, walkin’ away from you.”
No.
Effing.
Way.
I freeze in horror as I absorb more of the terrible lyrics hiding an even more terrible truth. This can’t be what it sounds like. It can’t, but then, wouldn’t that explain every puzzling clue we’ve discovered so far?
After several excruciating seconds, I drop the carriers on the table and march back outside to Nash.
“It’s a fucking breakup song!”
“Excuse me?”
“The music video!” I wave toward the door. “They’re filming a video for a new breakup song!”
“Huh? Why would they…” His eyes go wide. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah! Exactly.” I slap my hand against the door. “That must be why he wants Larinda to dump him!”
“And why it’s ‘better if she cheats.’”
“But why would Rena be here unless…”
My blood goes cold.
Nash must arrive at the same conclusion when his expression sinks.
“Those bastards,” he whispers.
“Larinda has been at odds with Lakebend since the day she told them she wanted to work with me instead of the big-name producer they lined up for her. They must have had enough and are finally choosing sides. I bet they’re going to drop her by blowing up the infamous on-again-off-again melodrama with Jarvis once and for all.”
“And making her the villain of the story,” Nash spits out. “They’ll brand her as the cheater, so their guy’s the saint with a poor little broken heart. Then they release a sappy breakup song that goes viral, and bam. Instant smash hit. Jarvis will be more popular than ever while Larinda is left in the dirt.”
“Even worse, if the song is finished, they must have been planning this for a while.”
“Long before the joke engagement.”
We’re silent as the horrible plot ferments into reality. The Curdler strikes again!
I knew something was up. From the beginning, this entire tour, the engagement, the meet and greet, that strange photoshoot in Jarvis’ dressing room—all of it has been… wait.
Oh no.
What was that strange photoshoot in Jarvis’ dressing room?!
“Shit…” I say.
“What? There’s more?”
“Maybe. Back in Dallas Lakebend made me do this odd photoshoot with Jarvis and his cutouts in his dressing room. Remember I told you about that?”
Nash clearly remembers and clearly has similar concerns.
“Did they ask for you specifically?”
I nod. “Chad even spouted off this whole corporate rationale for why it had to be me… fuck!”
I kick the door before leaning against it. Eyes closed, fists clenched, I scour my brain for any clues that could explain what that was about and how they’re planning to use it against us.
“You need to go back in there,” Nash says.
“What?” I straighten in surprise.
“Take your phone and record as much of the song as you can. If they’re shooting a video, they’ll be replaying it over and over. We need a copy so we can pick it apart and look for other clues.”
Crap. Yeah. We need all the evidence we can get.
“Be careful,” he says as I reach for the handle. “If we’re right, they’re going to be more than pissed if they catch you spying.”
I nod back, and we exchange a long, commiserating look. Maybe I finally understand Chad’s “Blood Brothers” code. Nothing brings people together like belt drama.
Inside, the song is still blasting and the back room is still empty. I pull out my phone as I duck against the wall, just beside the opening to the main floor of the store. The song sounds like it’s about halfway through based on the amount of instrumentation and backing vocals.
Also, it’s awful. No surprise there. It would make me want to rip my ears off even if it wasn’t about Larinda cheating on him and breaking his heart… and boots, apparently. I suppose we have bigger questions to ponder, but a huge part of my brain really wants to know why they decided a belt store would be the ideal location for a song about boots.
Now that I’m paying attention, I hear speaking voices as well. A director calls out instructions, although they’re too muffled and drowned out by Jarvis singing about his uncomfortable shoes to interpret them.
I’m feeling good about our (new) plan, until a figure appears in the doorway. I jump back in alarm, but breathe easier when I see it’s Kim. She gives me a curious look before taking my arm and pulling me further from the doorway.
“I’m finished delivering the drinks. We should go.”
“Yep, I’m right behind you,” I lie.
There’s no way I’m leaving until I have this whole damn song on my phone.
She continues to the exit, thankfully not looking back to check on me. I’m confident that once she’s outside, Nash will run enough interference to give me the time I need. Unfortunately, I only get a few more seconds of recording time before someone screams to stop the music.
“I said seven-eighths oat milk and two-eighths soy! This is clearly six-eighths oat milk and one-eighth soy!” that same voice roars.
One guess who it is. Hint: it’s the person who also can’t math.
“We’re so sorry, Mr. McKinnley,” another person says.
“Exceedingly sorry, sir!” And that’s Chad. “I’ll go personally to get this fixed.”
“You better,” Jarvis snaps. “Well, don’t just stand there! And where’s my belt? Not that one, the one for verse two! How many times do I have to explain that each one is a different emblem of speech?!”
Probably a lot since that makes no sense.
“Would you like?—”
“No, dammit! Just play the song!”
“Right away, Mr. McKinnley. Should we take it from scene?—”
“No! No cameras! Just the song. I need to re-center myself and find my inner lake after this disaster. Someone liquify me!”
The music resumes its melodic lying, this time from the beginning. I check my phone to make sure it’s recording and hold it as close to the doorway as possible.
There’s no obvious sound or movement for over a minute. Everyone must be remaining deathly still as Jarvis recovers from the trauma of an incorrect milk ratio. In addition, my brain is now devoting way too many neurons to figuring out if seven-eighths plus two-eighths is that different from six-eighths plus one-eighth. If you have seven-eighths, take one away, add three to make nine-eighths, that’s really… I don’t know, but it definitely tastes exactly the same.
“What the frick?!” a voice shrieks directly beside me.
Uh-oh. I was so distracted by seventh-grade fractions I didn’t sense anyone approach.
I force an easy smile through the pounding in my ears. Are my hands shaking too? Hopefully not. I shove them (and my phone) in my pockets.
“Hey, I, uh, heard you needed a new beverage?” I say to the fuming country music star.
Jarvis looks ready to implode, and I straighten to my full height for the coming confrontation. I really hope Nash includes some colorful commentary about my bravery and commitment to the betterment of humanity in my eulogy.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just stopped in to see if I could help. Did I hear something about an oat milk emergency?”
“How did you know we were here? Turn that damn music off!” he shouts into the other room.
The song screeches to a halt, and Jarvis directs his fury back at me.
“It was obvious,” I say, forcing myself to calm. “Filming a music video is a pretty big deal.”
“Yeah, but no one is supposed to know! It’s a secret.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because!”
I wait several seconds for the rest.
Okay. Guess that was it.
“Well, while I can’t argue that unshakable logic, I don’t get why you’re so upset. I just wanted to help.”
“Well, I don’t need your friggin’ help! How have you not gotten it by now, Valerie? Nobody needs you. Nobody even wants you. You’re a fraud and an embarrassment. You. Don’t. Belong. Here.”
I flinch, but manage to disguise how much that hurt.
“I see. So… I guess… good luck with the belt video?”
“Where do you think you’re going?!” he growls as I start for the door.
“You literally just told me you don’t want me here.”
“I don’t!”
“Right. So I’m going somewhere that isn’t here.”
“Like hell you are.”
I’m so confused.
I squint at him, hoping there will suddenly be captions floating across his forehead that’ll translate his brain for the rest of us.
Belts equal emblems.
Math equals eh.
“You think I’m letting you out of here to go blab my secret to the universe?”
“And what secret is that, exactly?”
It’s then that I notice our audience. Rena in particular looks very unhappy about my presence and this turn of events.
Chad looks… I can’t tell, actually. His fixed grin says he’s thrilled to see me. His popping eyeballs say he’s not. His hands are too wrapped up in unwanted belts to interpret.
“Who told you we’d be here?” Rena asks, stepping forward.
Not gonna lie, her angry face is a tad more formidable than the previous one that was unraveled by milk.
“No one told me,” I say.
“It was me! I told him! I’m so sorry!” Chad blurts out.
I give him a hard look.
“No you didn’t,” I say, widening my eyes at him. Because he really didn’t.
He reminded me that Jarvis liked belts and would look for a pony store. If anything, his information was more of a misdirection than a hint.
“It’s his eyes! When he looks at you, you just… I don’t know. Look at him,” Chad explains with a groan. “They’re all green and shit and the lashes!”
Oh great. Twelve people are now looking at me and none of us knows why.
I blink, hoping that’s also some magical power.
It’s not.
“Okay. Enough. I’ll take care of this,” Rena says to Jarvis and another woman who is probably the director. “We don’t have much time before Jarvis needs to be back at the venue.”
Fists clenched, eyes narrowed in rage, Jarvis steps like he’s going to come at me, then recoils like someone held him back. Since no one did, it just looks like he walked into an invisible wall.
His gaze is hostile as it fires more daggers in my direction, but he doesn’t move until his assistant, Mallory, takes his arm and directs him around. At that point, he moves so easily he was clearly waiting for someone to do exactly that. Seriously, does he commission a script-writing team to spell out his day every morning? Hey, maybe they would know how many minutes Nash should have waited before reporting to basecamp.
Any hint of amusement fades when Rena’s icy stare lands on me.
“Let’s go.”
She points at the door behind me, and I turn with a deep breath.
Yeah, this is gonna be bad.