6. The VIP Lounge
NICKY
Not this time.
I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to stand at a portal into the arena so I could watch Sheree at her sound check. This time, I knew what I was doing, and I wasn’t going to be distracted.
I all but ran down the massive curved concourse, my practical sneakers slapping against the poured concrete. The merch stand was just up ahead, and now I had a large felt-tip marker in my pocket. I was going to mark those merch boxes myself. When the sales team insisted on keeping the scanner, I’d work around them.
No more losing a full case of merch. I’d set up my own unofficial inventory system, using the antiquated practice of handwriting. Powered by grim determination.
As I cleared the final curve, Bianca’s figure grew clearer in the gloom.
“Well, there you are! Took you long enough!”
I bit back my frustration. I’d gotten my lanyard from security as soon as we’d pulled into the garage, but she’d still gotten there first.
And in time to pull one of the black short-sleeved Sheree tees over her satin tunic. She looked terrible. And pissed.
“Forget it,” she said when I moved to join her. “Not this time. Bruce doesn’t want any more fuckups, so I’m on merch. For the entire concert.” Her voice dripped acid. Wasn’t merch her job?
“I’m sorry. What am I supposed to do?”
She sneered. “Well, honey, you’re going to help Bruce in the press suite. Do not fuck that up.”
Damn. It was hard to learn new systems. I hated not knowing how to succeed. “What do I—what—how do I help them?” I was stammering in my confusion. The workers setting up the merchandise were watching, wide-eyed.
Bianca dismissed me with contempt. “Today you are not my problem. Go ask Bruce.”
She turned away.
As much as I disliked her, and as much as I didn’t want to display any more ignorance, I needed more from her than that. “Where are they?”
She didn’t turn but gestured with her chin. “VIP elevators. That way.”
I sighed as the workers slashed cartons open with box cutters. I’d had such a good plan for the primitive inventory too. I turned, feeling dismissed and shamed and angry at the same time. But then I remembered the Bianca Classic and turned back.
“Bianca,” I called, putting some strength in my voice, “do I need a pass for the VIP elevator?”
She heaved a dramatic sigh and turned back, pulling her messenger bag open. “Jesus Christ. All right. Here—VIP suites. And you might as well take the backstage pass too. You never know what Bruce will need.”
She handed them over, but instead of taking them, I grabbed her wrist instead. I tugged her closer and whispered. “I know I fucked up, but if you’d work with me, I’m sure I could be of help.” She reared back in disgust, but I didn’t let go of her. “Do you really mean to be a villain here?”
Her face crumpled at that, and an involuntary little “uh” escaped from her mouth. “I’m under a lot of pressure here, you know.”
“I’d like to help if I can.”
She eyed me. I couldn’t read her look, so I took the passes and turned for the elevators.
“Wait,” she commanded. She reached under the counter and pulled out a box. “Here. He’s just going to send you back down for these anyway. For promotions. A dozen commemorative programs, a dozen bonus CDs, and a dozen black T-shirts—short-sleeved, size large.”
“What if someone in the press needs another size?”
“Too bad!” she snapped. “They can give it to someone else!”
“Okay. Want me to log these out of the inventory?”
“Bruce will do it. It’s his system. Go on. He’ll be waiting for these.”
“Got it. Um, thanks, Bianca. You saved me a trip.”
She rolled her eyes and faced away from me. I was dismissed.
Still, it was progress.
Stadium security at the elevator barely glanced at my badge, but the large guy at the door to the press suite was one of Sheree’s team. He actually read the tag.
“This says Bianca van Wetzell, and you’re not her. Care to explain yourself?”
It took three different phone calls while various TV news crews moved past me and into the suite, but finally, Bianca confirmed she wasn’t dead in a broom closet and I had her permission to go into the VIP area.
The security guard grinned at me, perfect teeth blazing in a face crowded with character and scars. “That Bianca, huh? So, you’re the new intern? We had passes for a Daniel Thorn.”
“He and I had to swap places. I’m Nicky.”
“Okay. I’ll check with Lyre Records, but we should have passes generated for you by New Orleans. You need merch, VIP, and backstage, right?”
“That’d be great.”
“I’m Aldo, by the way, but everyone calls me Fist.” He held out a hand that could easily palm a bowling ball, and we shook. His grip was gentle. “My first job is to protect the boss, but if you need any muscle otherwise, you let me know.”
“Thanks, Fist.” What a nice guy. “Hey, I don’t have anyone’s phone numbers. That is, I have our bus driver’s, but that’s about it. Can you tell me a security number, in case of . . . I don’t know?”
“Shit, yeah. Everyone needs to have this number. Ready?” He took the box of merch from me and held it while I typed the number into my phone. “How come you don’t have all the—never mind, don’t tell me. You better get in there. The press is coming thick and fast. Sheree will be here in”—he consulted a huge wristwatch—“two hours and seventeen minutes. After sound check and lunch.”
“So precise!” I took my box back from him.
“The boss is an angel. She can keep to a schedule. Makes our job so much easier. Nice to meet you, Nicky.”
“You too, Fist!” The name felt funny in my mouth, but he grinned and waved me on.
The room inside was surprisingly plain. A Carolina-blue rug swept for miles, but it was basically a low-ceilinged cement box. This was for VIPs?
A trio of guys by the door clocked my lanyard and passes and zeroed in on me.
“Hey, I need the link to the press kit,” one guy said.
“We’re live any time between 5:07 and 5:14, so my director needs to know when we can get our five-minute exclusive with Sheree.”
“Goodies! Here, I’ll take those from you.” The third guy reached for the box, but I jerked it back instinctively. He wasn’t bothered. “My camera guy is going to set up some auxiliary lighting. Where can we plug in?”
I blinked at them and stammered uselessly while they watched me do it. Then their attention shifted to behind me, and I was off the hook.
Rescued by Dean the Leaner. Who would have thought I’d ever be glad to see him?
“Guys,” he said. “Our exclusives have already been determined, and the lighting in here is as good as it’s going to get, so pack that shit back up. And don’t scare the new girl.” He slid an arm around my shoulder and tucked me into his side. I twitched to pull away, but he was indifferent. “And the goodies will come when Bruce shares them. I know you guys. You’ll take it all, and no one else will get any. Hey! Hear that?”
He didn’t need to say anything more. Sheree’s voice came over loudspeakers all over the stadium. Sound check had begun.
The entire room emptied out, various reporters and camerapeople fighting each other to get through the two glass doors that separated the VIP suite from skybox seating.
“Where’ve you been, cutie?” Dean didn’t let go, but his voice dropped to a far less friendly tone. “Bruce has been waiting for that.”
The thumb is the weakest part of any grip. I dropped my shoulder as I turned my back to him, twisting out from under his arm. “Want me to hand out this stuff?” I asked, holding the box between us.
“Put it in that office over there. Bruce does that. Then find catering and ask them why the hell we don’t have a bartender yet. You’ve got the link to the press kit, right? Shit. I’ll send it to you.” In true gentlemanly fashion, he did not offer to hold the merchandise while I fumbled for my phone. “You should always have this link, even if you’re working merch. Bianca didn’t tell you?”
“I’ve been told very little,” I started, but he was hailed by a blonde woman in a tight red suit that screamed “on-camera field reporter.” He abandoned me, so I found the office and then went after catering.
I was sent on plenty of small-scale errands, but I also had a chance to hear both Bruce and Dean handle the press. I got to stand at the balcony rail and watch some of Sheree’s sound check, her iconic voice ringing through the empty auditorium.
And I was still there when it was Aftermath’s turn, and I saw Mal, Ian, and luminous Archer take their places at the front of the stage, setting up where they wouldn’t interfere with the main act’s staging.
As I listened, I wondered, Had they been this relaxed before? Were they teasing the sound engineers? Had Archer been so . . . charming?
When they finished, he stood at center stage and screamed into the microphone, “Good night, Charlotte!” Then he held his hands up as if acknowledging a massive wave of applause. Two of the print journalists beside me chuckled.
One of them saw that I’d noticed. “Who are they?” he asked.
I gave him what I knew about Aftermath and was ashamed that I knew so little. After everyone was crowded back into the now-small suite to await Sheree’s arrival, I checked the press kit.
One paragraph at the end on Aftermath. Been together for almost a decade. From Long Island, New York. Names and the instruments they played. Nothing more.
I found the reporter. “Give me your contact info. I’ll send you something more about Aftermath.”
He shrugged, indifferent, but shared his details with me.
And then all the air got sucked out of the room via the doorway, where Sheree had entered. Her security guys were nearby, but no one could get in the way of that easy grin. I was starstruck. She was right there.
And right by her side was her new husband, the adorable comic Basc Newton.
I took a few bad photos and texted them to Selene and Judy. They were squealing digitally with me when I noticed Bruce waving at me.
“C’mere,” he hissed. “Take these.”
He thrust an unbalanced armful into my hands. I found myself juggling a cake carrier, two bouquets of flowers, and a large Tupperware filled with something vinegary. Carolina barbecue. Yum.
But what was I doing holding it?
Oh. Got it. Sheree’s personal assistant, Allie, was similarly burdened, and even Basc Newton was carrying a book, a large ceramic plaque, and a tall cone of daisies, which he was holding at arm’s length. We’d all been reduced to being the walking gift table.
But there was no question of Sheree holding anything. She needed both hands for excited hugs, signing autographs, posing for photos with every single person—even the plastic reporter babe in the tight red suit.
She was charming. As she worked the room, she came near me, and I could hear her being lovely to people. She laughed and appreciated and made it seem like this was her favorite part of the job. She was worth watching.
Eventually, Bruce herded the crowd back, and it was time for the television cameras to have their moment. The lighting immediately made the room hotter as every semifamous person within two hundred miles came forward to welcome her to Charlotte.
When they all pulled back with excited grins, I raised an eyebrow. What was coming next?
A large man in a conservative suit, his head almost brushing the low ceiling, entered the room. Coos and humming followed him as he moved to the center, but it wasn’t until he reached the middle by Sheree that I could see what was in his hand.
It was a leash.
And at the other end of the leash was an excited, completely happy dog made of wiggles and joy and (apparently) highly flexible rubber. It looked like a puppy but was the size of a small pony.
Sheree fell to her knees with a cry of delight. The enormous puppy fell across her legs, wagging so hard its back end was in full motion. “Baby!” she cried.
The very large man beamed. “On behalf of the Charlotte Area Chamber of Commerce, we want to present you with this twelve-week-old Great Dane bitch with our sincere appreciation for bringing your tour to our wonderful city!”
For once, Sheree wasn’t making sincere eye contact with a speaker. Her hands were filled with long, silky ears and puppy kisses. “Oh!”
The entire room, from jaded reporters to the bartender, wore happy grins . . . except for adorable Basc Newton.
Who sneezed.
Repeatedly.
Sheree looked up from admiring charcoal-gray paws the size of dinner plates to look at her new husband. “Basc, honey, are you okay?”
She rose to her feet when he was unable to stop sneezing long enough to answer. She reached to lay a hand on his cheek but he jerked back, pointing at the dog.
“Are you allergic?” she asked.
He nodded, and then, in desperation, thrust his armful of gifts at the large man with the leash and fled the room, still sneezing.
“Oh dear,” Sheree said, her face falling. “Emmett, will you go with him?”
The blade of a security guard behind her shook his head. “No,” he said, and no man had a stonier voice.
“Shit. Oh, I’m sorry! Oh, puppy!” Sheree bent to caress the dog sprawled across her feet, but she was watching the door too.
“Miss Sheree,” the large puppy man said. “I’m so sorry about this! We didn’t know!”
“Of course,” she said. “How could you? I didn’t know myself! We’ve been married such a short time. This dog!”
“We should have asked first. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“No!” Sheree looked as if she’d been stabbed. “No, can I keep it? I mean, can I find someone to take this beauty so I can see him sometimes?”
“Well, it’s a she,” the man said, beaming. “And we’d be pleased as punch to put her in your hands! We all want to know you’ve got a little Charlotte magic in your life!”
“I want that too! Can I? Really?” Her smile when she took the leash from the man was pure sunshine. “Angel!” She bent to the dog again. “What’s your name, sweet thing?” Sheree looked back up at the man, who shrugged.
“She’s yours to name, ma’am.”
“I’ll call her Charlotte!” The name was a universal hit. “Oh, I’m going to find you such a good home, darling! You sweetheart!”
For the rest of the meet-and-greet, Sheree kept Charlotte by her side, including during the TV interviews. I made my way to the office and dumped my armful of Carolina barbecue. Then I found Bruce and murmured to him so I wouldn’t disturb the event. “Don’t you think I should take that dog for a walk? And do we have any poop bags?”
Bruce jerked as if he’d been zapped. “Fuck. A dog. She’s going to be given dogs at every single stop on this damned tour. I’m going to have to put out a press release.”
“Better a video of her handing off the dog with a kiss,” I said thoughtlessly. “She can tell us how much she loves the dog but Basc is allergic, you know? It’ll go viral.”
He glared at me. “Please. All right, take . . . here’s two hundred dollars. Go buy some dog food or something. Enough to get us to where we can unload the mutt.” He thrust cash at me.
“How am I supposed to get that?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. Take an Uber. Bring me receipts for everything.”
“Oh, okay. Shall I take the puppy? My dog looked like that when he needed to, you know?—”
“Christ. Thank you all! Sheree, you’ve got a schedule to keep! Let’s hand the leash over to Vicky here, who’s going to take the dog for a walk while you get ready for the show!”
Sheree pouted and kissed the dog on its wrinkled, oversized snout. When she handed me the leash, she looked me in the eye. Sheree herself looked me in the eye. “Thank you, Vicky,” she said.
“Um, it’s Nicky.”
“Of course it is. How very Bruce.” She raised a humorous eyebrow in Bruce’s direction, and I felt a fizzle of connection. With Sheree! My new best friend! “Thanks, Nicky. Thanks for watching out for Charlotte.”
“My pleasure.” And it was too.
Charlotte came with me with perfect joy. Whatever else she was, she was a trusting, loving dog, and I was already in love with her.
Of course, she made a puddle in the elevator, which I had to confess to the security guard in the main concourse. He lectured me sternly about the fact that this was clearly not a service dog, and only service dogs were allowed in the stadium.
All I had to say was, “This is Sheree’s dog,” and he shut right up. “So call a janitor,” I said bravely and sailed away, not knowing which direction I wanted to go in but sure that I couldn’t stop to ask. It would ruin my exit.
Charlotte and I found our way outside, and I found an Uber—on my account, but I could present Bruce with a receipt for that too.
At the nearest pet store, the manager could not have cared less that I was wearing a backstage pass to the Sheree concert that evening, but he was dizzy with joy at the sight of Charlotte.
“What a beauty! She’s a blue, huh?”
“A blue?”
“Her color. Where’d you get her?”
“My, um, my boss just got her as a gift. I need to buy supplies for her. Can you help me?”
“Terrible idea,” he tsked. “No one should ever give a pet as a gift or a surprise. It’s unconscionable. Let’s get this little girl outfitted.”
The shopping cart was soon overflowing. Charlotte frisked happily through the store, her baby paws scrabbling for purchase on the linoleum. The manager and I were discussing puppy food and how much she should be fed when I felt her weight and her warmth on my legs. She’d plopped down and was leaning against me.
“Still a puppy. She needs a lot of sleep. Hang on.” The manager got a second cart and pulled the dog bed from my stash to line the wire bottom. Boosted in, Charlotte turned in three circles and threw herself down like a bag of hammers dropped from a great height. She was asleep in seconds.
We pushed the two carts through the store, and I quickly outspent Bruce’s two hundred dollars. Gulping, I stepped away from the manager and called for approval. Since Bruce hadn’t given me his phone number, I called the only contact I had.
Fist answered. “Nicky? You okay, girl?”
“I’m good, Fist. Thanks for picking up. I’m buying supplies for the dog.”
He chuckled. “I heard about that. Yeah?”
“Well, Bruce didn’t give me enough money. I can put the rest on my credit card, but can you ask him if I can spend more? I’ll bring receipts. Maybe you can find him?”
His voice was muffled; he had his hand over the speaker. Then he came back. “Boss says buy what you need. She’s good for it.”
I huffed a blinking laugh. Sheree had just given me the green light to spend money.
Sure.
Just another day.
“Thanks, Fist.”
“Call if you need help.”
Bruce, Dean, and Bianca were net negatives, but Sheree and her security team, the bus drivers, and even the members of Aftermath were making my life better. I stroked Charlotte’s sleeping head and got back to spending money.
The only thing I didn’t buy was the enormous kennel the guy recommended.
“I’m telling you, lady, you can’t get the small one. This dog is going to grow like a weed over the next few months.”
“How much?” I asked nervously.
“She’s still a puppy, and I’ll bet she weighs forty pounds already. But give her a year, and she’ll end up around a hundred and forty.”
I goggled at him. “I only weigh one hundred and twenty myself!”
“Yep. You’re going to need to get some training in right away. Let’s get you a few books on the subject . . .”
The kennel he recommended wouldn’t fit in the bus. I’d have to make her a den under the kitchenette table. I bought a few baby gates without much hope that it would work in the long term. But who knew how long I was going to have care of this silky, sleepy, sweet dog?
As it turned out, that wouldn’t be a problem.