Sinful Ella (Seven Ways to Sin 6)

“Thanks, Martine,” I said. “Are we leaving soon?” The adrenaline from the show was already starting to wear off, leaving me tired and worn down. I just wanted to sleep, even if I had to do so in the van.

But Martine shook her head, pursing her lips. “Not just yet,” she said. “I want you to go out into the house and mingle, okay? See if you can find that producer.”

Sighing, I followed her directions, weaving through the crowd, smiling and thanking everyone who stopped me to compliment the band, my voice.

“Excuse me,” a loud, grating voice sounded behind me, and a hand landed on my arm. “Do you mind if I steal you away for a moment?”

I looked up at the owner of the voice: a large middle-aged man with a shaved head and a red, sweaty face. While his clothes were simple—a solid black polo shirt and dark jeans—he was draped in thick, ostentatious gold chains, with matching gold rings that bit into my skin where he grasped my arm. “I don’t think we’ve met,” I said, as politely as I could.

The man smiled, revealing the glint of a gold tooth. “Barry Temple,” he said, releasing my arm to shake my hand. “Wander Road Records.”

Ah, so this was the producer Martine was so eager for us to speak to. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Ella.” I glanced around.

Barry smiled again. “Oh, I know,” he said with a wink. “I was very impressed by you up there. I think you could go far, with the right representation.”

My exhaustion forgotten, I broke into a wide smile. “Thank you!” I said. “But wait, let me find the girls. They’ll want to talk to you, too.”

Still grinning, Barry shook his head. “No, no, that won’t be necessary,” he said, and I felt some of my excitement fade.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I thought you liked the band.”

“Not the band, you,” Barry said. “You have it all: the voice, the looks, the sex appeal. Everything you need to make it as a star. And I can make it happen. We should talk.”

I took an uneasy step back, shaking my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I think there’s been some confusion. I’m not interested in leaving the Sinful Sisters. I made a commitment.”

Barry held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he said. “You’re the loyal type. I like that. I like you. Okay, the girls can come.”

I looked at him doubtfully. “Really?” I asked. Quickly, I looked around for Martine. Where was she? I needed her here, to handle this. I didn’t know what I was meant to be doing.

“If that’s what it takes to get you on my label, then sure. I like you that much.” In spite of my discomfort, I was pleased by his compliment. “But,” he added, “you’ll need to rebrand.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“I mean the name: Sinful Sisters.” He made a face. “You need a name that highlights you: Ella.” He thought for a moment, his red face wrinkled in concentration. Then he snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it: Sexerella.”

Again, I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said, uneasy. Where was Martine? “I’m not . . . that’s not really who I am.”

“No?” Barry’s eyes glinted as he took another step toward me, boxing me in against a wall. “I disagree. I think you’re very sexy . . . Ella.”

I didn’t answer, just looked around, desperate for anyone to step in, to help.

“In fact,” Barry said. “How about you and I find someplace more private? We can . . . discuss . . . your career.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, my voice sounding high and tight to my ears. “I’ve really got to get going . . .”

“I don’t think you want to do that, Ella,” Barry said. “I could make big things happen for you, as long as you keep me happy.”

I had had enough, and Martine was nowhere in sight. Desperate, I ducked under Barry’s arm. “I have to go,” I said, backing away.

For a moment, I was terrified that Barry would follow me, grab me, take me backstage with him, but he stayed where he was, an annoyed expression on his face. When I was sure that he wasn’t going to follow, I turned and ran. My dad was right: these people—these men—couldn’t be trusted. Maybe I really had made a mistake in coming out on this tour.

“There you are,” Martine said, grabbing me by the arm. “I saw you talking to Barry Temple. What did he say to you? What did you say? Does he want to sign us?”

Eagerly, Susanna and Liz crowded around us.

I shook my head, fighting back tears. “He said—he wanted—”

“What?” Susanna said, impatient. “Does he want to sign us, or doesn’t he?”