40. Washington, D.C
NICKY
Ian was gone.
No.
Ian had left.
He’d stood on the side of the highway and demanded that Ken leave him there.
I got trapped in a loop. The only thing I could think of was the vulnerability of a single human standing next to a constant stream of traffic going fifty, sixty, seventy miles an hour.
One idiot swerves. One guy pops a tire. One speed demon tries to pass someone on the shoulder . . .
Archer and Mal were standing behind me, drawn to the front of the bus by Ian’s sudden departure. I turned to them, desperate to have one of them explain this away.
“He’s got a temper.” Mal shrugged.
“A temper?” My voice rose to a shriek. “A temper? He’s all alone on the side of the highway!” I wheeled to Ken. “How could you just leave him like that?”
Ken was negotiating his reentry back into the stream of traffic and didn’t look at me. He answered through gritted teeth, “Man’s not a prisoner. What am I supposed to do, tie him up?”
Frustrated, I pushed between Archer and Mal and reached for my phone on the table.
“He’s not answering,” I said, panic filling my mouth with the acid-green taste of metal. “He’s been hit!”
Archer came back and put his arm around me. “Ken says Ian turned off his phone. I’m sure he’s fine. See out there? He can climb over the retaining wall, and he’ll be on a surface street in no time.”
Mal put a large hand on my shoulder. “He’ll be at the gig. You can count on him. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry? What a useless thing to say. “But he was so mad! At me!”
“I know.” Mal found my mug and poured me another cup of coffee. The heat surprised me, made me realize my hands were frozen. “He’ll get over it. He’s just disappointed. We all are.”
I remembered that they’d gotten invoices too. “Guys, I really didn’t know about this,” I said pleadingly.
“It’s okay, Nicky. It’s fucked up.” Archer moved so I could sit in the booth and then joined me. “But it’s okay.”
It was very definitely not okay. But I couldn’t think of what to do about it.
Ian wouldn’t answer my calls or respond to my texts. Neither Archer nor Mal could get a rise out of him either. The bus ride to the stadium took forever, every second increasing the amount of emotional cord I was spooling out behind us in a useless attempt to stay connected to Ian. I spent the entire time on the floor with Charlotte, checking my phone and cuddling with her.
It felt like a lifetime ago when we’d been strolling with the puppy through the verdant, warm rest area, meeting other dogs, keeping Charlotte away from trash, laughing.
Behaving as a true couple. As partners.
As people who were destined to be together.
Just minutes before disaster struck. The contrast—the then-and-now of my situation—left me confused, teary, and desperate to hear from him.
We finally pulled into the parking garage below Nationals Park, the descent into shade immediately lowering the temperature. July in the District of Columbia was no joke. Did Ian have enough cash on him to buy water? He could summon an Uber or a Lyft. He’d do it if he got dizzy, wouldn’t he? He wasn’t a total idiot, right?
“Some kind of welcoming reception waiting for us,” Ken called back.
Archer stepped over Charlotte and me to look through the windshield. “It’s Bruce. And . . . uh, Nicky? Stand up, honey. You’re going to want to stand up. Mal, hand me Charlotte’s leash.”
“Why? Is it Ian? Is he okay?” Panic fizzed through me. What?
What?
Bruce climbed onto the bus once Ken shut off the engine. He was followed by Fist.
And a policeman.
Oh, dear god. They were going to tell me Ian had been killed.
Mal was behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder to stabilize me, and I was grateful.
“Here you are at last,” Bruce said.
I was confused. His tone of scorn didn’t match the grim news I was expecting.
“Took your time, didn’t you?” he said. “Bus two got here almost half an hour ago.”
Archer eyed him suspiciously. “We stopped to walk Charlotte.” He brought attention to the large animal at his hip. Charlotte was fully alert and missing her usual welcoming energy.
“The dog. Of course you did. Well, this doesn’t concern Aftermath.” Bruce pinned me with his glare. “This is about Miss MBA Intern—or should I say, Miss Former MBA Intern.”
Mal got a little taller, his chest a little broader. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means I’m fully aware of what you tried to pull last night,” Bruce said with a smug smile. “Trying to blame me for your thefts.” He looked to Fist and nodded significantly, but Fist was at parade rest, looking at the far unseen horizon without showing any emotion at all. Bruce turned back to me. “And this is my response. Lyre Records has decided to press charges against you for theft, honey.”
Every eye in the world was fixed on me. My heart was going like hummingbird’s wings. “Against me? But I’m not the one stealing things. You are! You and Bianca!”
“Feel free to tell it to the judge. Literally. You can tell your side in a court of law. Now this fine officer”—he turned and put a hand on the policeman’s shoulder—“is here to assist.”
“You’re going to arrest me?” My whole body was cold. Mal’s hand at my waist was the only source of warmth.
Prison. Cell blocks. Shame.
“Not if you do as you’re told.” Bruce’s smile told me he was throwing me a lifeline. Probably one tied to a rotting boat. “He will escort you to Union Station and make sure you board a train for wherever they have to take you back. I wouldn’t bother going back to your MBA program. They’re sure to kick you out now. So, where will you be going, dear?”
My mind was frozen. Home, I supposed. “Delaware.”
“Of course,” he said condescendingly. “I suppose it’s better than Jersey. And Aldo”—he gestured to Fist, who was still ignoring everything—“will be our representative to make sure you are doing as you’re told.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Archer tried, but Bruce cut him off.
“Nicky Swanson, you’re off the tour right now. Get off this bus immediately.”
“But—my stuff!”
“Right now,” he insisted. “Your possessions will be sent to you once it has been verified that they really are yours.”
A flash of anger sizzled through my horror. “I guess you’d agree my sandals weren’t stolen! Can I at least put them on?”
“We have no proof of that. Off the bus. Officer?”
I whimpered when the policeman stood forward. “Sorry, miss. I’ll give you a ride to the train station.”
Archer and Charlotte stepped forward, and Charlotte got her leash tangled around Bruce’s legs.
“This damned dog!” he cried, taking a swat at her.
Charlotte uttered a growl for the first time in her life and pulled her lips back in a snarl, showing her teeth.
Bruce backed down immediately.
Mal slung a strap over my shoulder. He’d shoved my laptop back into my bag while Archer was blocking the front of the bus. I was desperately grateful. I turned to hug him, and he slipped my phone into the back pocket of my jeans—the only time I was ever grateful that someone grabbed my ass. “Thank you, Mal.”
“You’ll be okay,” he said. “We know the truth.”
“I want that bag checked! Right now!” Bruce was outraged.
He looked to the police officer, who shrugged. “I’ll need a warrant to search her.”
Bruce was irritated. “Fist,” he demanded.
Fist paused but stepped forward. He held out an oversized hand, and I put my laptop case in his care. He went through it, and I tried to remember what he might find. “Oh—my lanyard!” I said just as Fist pulled out my backstage and VIP passes.
“Aha!” Bruce was triumphant. “I’ll take those! Nice try, thief!”
“I’m not a—” My protest ended in a sigh. Why bother?
“Now. Off now.” Bruce pointed imperiously.
I hugged Archer. “I’ll text you your press schedule for this afternoon.”
“Love you, Nicky.”
“Love you back.” Then I stopped to kiss Ken’s cheek.
“Good luck, little missy,” he said. “You’ve got my number. Keep me informed.”
I teared up at that. I did have Ken’s number. He was the first one to help me, just two months and a long lifetime ago.
I came out of the safety of bus eight to find that all the other buses had emptied. People were gathered around to see what was going on—why there was a police car, its lights still flashing, pulled alongside our group. The backup singers and the dancer Archer had briefly dated. Queenie and Sampson, the hair guru. My former roommate, Sanders, the lighting tech. Freddy, the drummer, and Kai, Ian’s hero?—
“Ian!” I turned back to the bus and pleaded with Mal and Archer, “Tell Ian—tell him—” I had nothing to say to him. “Tell him I hope he’s alive.”
They looked as if their best friend was being led to her execution. Which was how this felt.
“This woman,” Bruce shouted, his voice echoing around the concrete of the parking garage, “is a thief who has stolen thousands of dollars of merchandise from the tour. From Sheree. From you.” I hung my head, humiliated and embarrassed. It would do no good to protest my innocence. I felt so small, so pathetic, that maybe I had stolen all the merch.
But no. I would hold my head up. I was innocent.
“Justice will be served.” Bruce wrapped up his public shaming. “And she will be punished. Officer?”
I’d never thought of it before. I’d seen countless TV shows and news reports of people being put into cop cars, but the hand that man laid on the back of my head to ensure I didn’t bang my head against the door of his car felt like the weight of the world.
It felt like judgment.
But before the policeman closed the door, Charlotte wriggled through to deposit a gift on my lap—one now-damp sandal. I burst into tears and hugged her.
Irked, Bruce grabbed the leash she was dragging and tugged her back. Then he dropped it and backed away, fearful of her anger.
“Come, Charlotte,” Archer called from the bus steps, and she raced back to him.
Good dog.
Archer lobbed my other sandal to Fist, who plucked it out of the air and told the policeman he’d ride in the back with me. At least I wasn’t alone as I was escorted off the premises of the Sheree tour.
“I’m sorry as hell about this, Darling Nicky,” Fist said, finally breaking through his Easter Island stone face once we were being driven down the street. He handed me my other sandal, and I wiped my tears to focus on slipping them on. “Bruce made it pretty clear that it was my job if I didn’t back him on this. My part of the punishment for bringing an accusation to him.” I darted a glance at the policeman at the wheel, but Fist shrugged. “He doesn’t care if we talk, do you, pal?”
The cop didn’t turn around, but he watched us in the rearview occasionally. “I think this whole thing stinks, and I’m pretty sure my sergeant got backstage passes tonight for his daughters. So, you go ahead and talk. I can’t hear a damned thing.”
He surprised a watery chuckle out of me. Of course Bruce had bribed a cop. Why would he demonstrate decent morals now?
“Don’t think for a minute,” Fist said, “that this didn’t happen because you guys spotted the same FedEx guy. When my commander, Emmett, brought this to Bruce? Bruce lost his shit, I’m telling you. He spent the whole morning ranting and raving and making phone calls. I got it from Allie, Sheree’s personal assistant? She’s on bus two, and she told me Bruce and Bianca were going batshit. So, don’t give up hope, Nicky. People that stressed end up blowing it.”
“You think?”
“I know. They’ll do something stupid and get caught. Do you have money for the train?”
I had my phone, which held my ID and credit card. “I can make it.”
“I’ve got cash if you need it.”
“I’m okay, Fist, really. Thank you.”
“That shit with the FedEx guy? That was fucked up. And that was on me. You found him for me, and it’s not going to happen again. So, we thank you, Nicky—all of us on Sheree’s security team, but mostly me. You need something, you let me know.”
I was crying again. Both Fist and the cop waited with me and then walked with me to the train, getting past the gate attendant thanks to the cop’s badge. The first train out was the Acela to New York. I thanked them both (what an odd day, to be thanking the policeman who nearly arrested me) and stepped onto the train.
But I had a thought and leaned back out quickly.
“Hey, Fist. Did Allie say that Dean was in on all the panic on bus two this morning?”
“That weaselly little would-be porn actor? She didn’t mention him.”
“But she did mention Bianca.”
“Sure did. What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. Okay. Thanks again.”
“Be cool, Darling Nicky.”
I slid into a seat and waited for things to make sense. The train pulled out of the station and began the rattle north. As the rhythm gained speed, I found I was running a decision through my mind. Was I really going to tuck my tail between my legs and head home to Delaware, ashamed of something I didn’t do?
Or was I going to stay on this train all the way to New York City, home of Lyre Records? Wasn’t there some finger-pointing of my own I needed to do?
What was the name of the Lyre CEO again?