Playing Dirty (Stargazer 2)

And Sarah hadn’t been there to help Wendy through any of it, because she’d stupidly volunteered to save Nine Lives. She would have felt better if their friend and former trainee Tom had remained in the office, but he’d shipped off to save a client in Moscow about the same time Sarah left for Brazil.

She still remembered her shock at the way brave Wendy had looked in the LaGuardia ticket lobby when she’d driven Sarah there for the flight to Rio. Overcome with a wave of dizziness, Wendy had sat on a bench by the windows, both arms wrapped protectively around her middle, seeming uncharacteristically lost. She’d called Daniel to come rescue her. And when Sarah had returned from Rio this week, Wendy had been sitting in the same place, in the same position, this time because her feet were swollen, with her arms wrapped the same way around her much bigger tummy.

Sarah could not involve Wendy in the trouble she’d found for herself in Rio. She had a band to rescue and her job to save, all by herself.

She focused on the music again. The Cheatin’ Hearts’ songs were an odd mix. Erin and Owen co-wrote the overblown love ballads. Quentin probably should have seen a more intimate collaboration between the two coming: that Erin would cheat on him with Owen. Martin wrote the most complex and technically demanding songs, which tended to be minor hits and critical favorites. Two of his songs had won Grammys. He’d gotten into fistfights with the losers at the awards after-parties both years.

But their biggest hits were the ridiculous songs by Quentin. Even Sarah had heard these when they crossed over to the pop charts and became the background music in sports arenas. There was “I Want a Leia,” about Star Wars or sex, according to how much smut your sense of humor could stand. There was “Heavily Sedated,” which unfortunately was autobiographical. And then there was their biggest hit of all, “Come to Find Out,” a colloquial term in Alabama for making an unexpected discovery: “Come to find out you done done it again / Come to find out I got screwed in the end / Shoulda known better there’d be no doubt / You done the mailman” (or “the mayor,” or “all the neighbors,” depending on the verse), “come to find out.”

But every song had that unmistakable Cheatin’ Hearts harmony: Quentin’s strong, lazy voice on melody, Erin’s high voice an octave above him, Owen singing baritone, and Martin anywhere and everywhere between, his voice transforming the chord mid-syllable. They didn’t seem to use backup musicians, and they put out an enormous sound for four people. Sarah turned the car air conditioner down before she realized that it was the music making her hair stand on end.

Finally, finally, she pulled the convertible into the parking deck at the Galleria. Besides an enormous shopping mall, the complex featured Sarah’s hotel and the building that housed the band’s publicity office. She checked her look. Leather bag, ominously organized. High-heeled sandals, strapped on securely. Tight pants, clean and smooth. Cleavage, showing. Makeup . . . She examined her chin in the mirror on the visor. The scar Nine Lives had given her was going to show, but she’d minimized it as much as possible. Hair—

She sighed ruefully as she fingered her hair into place. Hot pink and platinum blond streaks shocked her natural brown. Even now, months after her impulsive makeover that had transformed her from sporty tomboy to vixen, her new look still caught her off guard when she got a glimpse of herself. She had a feeling that, even though her old hometown was a four-hour drive from Birmingham and her mother was rarely in residence, there would be a family reunion during her stay. And her mother would have something dry to say about her hair.

Leaning back against the seat, Sarah tried to relax into the part and channel Natsuko. Natsuko had been the publicist for a Japanese rock band performing with one of Sarah’s clients at the Grammys last year. Everyone referred to her in awed tones by that single name, like Madonna, because nobody could pronounce her last name, or—more probably—because Natsuko was a force of nature. She wore low-cut tops, tight pants, killer heels, and blue streaks through her black hair, never afraid to outglitz the genuine stars. When she barked an order, the ultra-cool hipster rock stars who’d hired her snapped to attention and murmured placations to appease her. She was also something of a ho, having hooked up with two of the band members and a top reporter for Rolling Stone in the few days Sarah had kept tabs on her.

At first Sarah had been jealous of Natsuko. Then she’d fallen in love. Finally she’d had an epiphany. After years of clients pushing her around and Wendy telling her that dressing for work in something other than athletic wear might help, she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. A few months later, when her husband told her he wanted a divorce, she’d grown up.

She’d channeled Natsuko for nine months in Rio. The new act had worked better than her old one for threatening rock star assholes, but it still seemed unnatural. This persona was very different from Sarah’s normal one. Natsuko didn’t have a mother, but had leaped fully armed out of the head of Zeus. She was taller than Sarah and infinitely more sophisticated. Her face revealed nothing, no vulnerability. She only arched one eyebrow when calling a bluff. She used her cl**vage and, if necessary, sex appeal as a weapon. Consequently, unlike Sarah, she’d had sex with more than one person in her lifetime.

A car crashed across a seam in the pavement somewhere in the echoing parking deck, and Sarah started around. Then she berated herself, because Natsuko was never startled. Sarah was deathly afraid that Nine Lives would finagle his way out of prison and report to Manhattan Music about what she’d done to him. Worse, he would bypass going after her job and come after her. But projecting strength she didn’t possess would salvage her job and—maybe—keep her safe. She dragged her bag out of the car, kicked the door closed, and walked to the office building entrance with the gait of a no-nonsense bitch used to high heels, humming “Come to Find Out.”

The guitar dropped out of “Naked Mama.” Quentin glanced up from the strings of his bass to see what was going on. Martin had stopped playing and was reaching to a nearby music stand for his cell phone. Now that the rest of the band had stopped playing their instruments, too, Quentin could hear Martin’s phone beeping “Stars Fell on Alabama.”

With a groan, Owen hurled his drumsticks at Martin and the phone. Quentin jumped backward in reflex, nearly dropping his bass guitar. The sticks narrowly missed Martin and Quentin, flew over Erin’s head, and clattered against the glass wall of the sound booth. The album technicians in the control room ducked instinctively.

Quentin was fed up, too. The track had sounded great until they were interrupted. “What the hell,” he protested. Then, realizing he’d cussed in front of the elderly couple watching from the control room, he said, “Pardon me, Mr. and Mrs. Timberlane.”

The Timberlanes were Quentin’s next-door neighbors. Occasionally, when Quentin let them know he’d be home from tour for a few weeks, recording with the Cheatin’ Hearts in his basement, the Timberlanes sent their butler to complain about the noise. It was impossible they’d actually been disturbed. The sound booth was so well insulated that the music could hardly be heard in the kitchen upstairs. So Quentin always invited the Timberlanes over to sit in the control room.

Seems he guessed right that they just wanted in on the action. Instead of looking offended at his language, Mrs. Timberlane smiled serenely and Mr. Timberlane winked at Quentin: Thanks for letting me take my chick on this hot date.

“It was Rachel,” Martin said. As Quentin turned, Martin was straightening his glasses, which immediately fell crooked again, as always. He returned the phone to his music stand. “Our esteemed record company hired one of those crisis management types to keep the band from breaking up. She’s at the PR office right now.”

“To keep the band from breaking up,” Quentin repeated, hoping he sounded incredulous. He lifted off his bass guitar, set it in its stand, and circled his stiff neck to pop it. For the past month, he’d worried constantly about the band breaking up. But that would happen only if the other band members knew what he knew—and that was exactly why he didn’t want some specialized public relations consultant poking around.

Erin told Quentin, “This is your fault.”

Quentin reached to the wall and turned off the sound into the control room before he challenged her. “Why is it my fault? The record company checks on us once in a while.”

“This is not a regular record company check-in,” Martin said ominously. “She honestly thinks the band is breaking up because you two are doing it”—he gestured between Erin and Owen—“and you’re jealous.” He pointed at Quentin. “You took it too far this time, Q.”

“I did not,” Quentin protested. After two years, he knew exactly how far to take the band’s antics, gaining them the new fans he loved and frightening the record company he hated, without the record company sounding the alarm and sending an agent to spy on them.

At least, he’d thought he did. Now that the band actually had something to hide from Manhattan Music, maybe they should have behaved themselves for once. But he’d figured that would seem even more suspicious than their usual debauchery. So he’d set up all sorts of mischief for them in the past week.

He’d gambled and lost.

And he’d lost more than this wager. He was losing his edge. His near-death experience in Thailand must have affected him more than he’d thought.

“You fired our manager,” Owen yelled at him from behind the drums. “You made us delay production on the album. You engineered this thing between Erin and me. It’s too much at one time. Now we’ve got the Evil Empire up our ass.” He stood.

Quentin made a fist, ready for anything.

But Owen passed Quentin without taking a swing at him. He stomped out of the sound booth, slammed the glass door behind him with a sickening crack, and jogged up the stairs toward the kitchen.

“That broke something,” Quentin said.

“If that didn’t,” Erin squealed, “this will.” Too late, Quentin saw her moving toward him with her hand out. He was used to the sting of her slap, but this time it jammed his glasses painfully into the side of his nose.

Martin came around the drums to catch Erin from behind and pull her crashing into the cymbals.

The Cheatin’ Hearts suddenly looked more like professional wrestlers than country music superstars. Which was appropriate, since they’d practiced these moves a thousand times.

Quentin pressed his fingers to his skin to stop the bleeding, wishing the fake fight was a little more fake. Later Erin would claim she’d put on the show for the album technicians in the control room. It was always someone like a technician, supposedly on their side, who was the unnamed source in the tabloid story about the band’s behavior. Feeding stories to the tabloids was almost as important to their careers as putting out new music, in Quentin’s opinion.

But he suspected that this time, Erin had just wanted to hit him. It had been a hard month.

“You could let me take my glasses off first,” he growled at her. Of course, he shouldn’t complain. Whenever he fake-fought Owen, he really let Owen have it. Good to get some aggression out. Lord knew they had plenty.

Pulling away from Martin, Erin mouthed behind her hand at Quentin, “I’m sorry,” and stuck out her bottom lip.

Quentin laughed and mouthed, “S’okay.”

“Let me go fetch Owen and make up for our lovers’ quarrel or whatever that was supposed to be.” Erin passed Quentin and pulled the door. It didn’t budge. She turned to Quentin and said, “The dumbass actually broke it.”

With a sigh, Quentin stepped forward to try the door for Erin. It was stuck. He gave it a good jerk and heard glass breaking. One of the technicians got up and was able to open it from the outside. Several shards of glass and a loose screw fell onto the floor.

Erin jogged up the stairs after Owen. Despite the stories they’d leaked to the media, Owen and Erin’s brand-new romantic relationship was fake. Even Quentin and Erin’s long-term affair was fake. In reality, Erin and Quentin had broken up for good two years ago, before the group had signed with the record company. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the sight of her running up the stairs in very short shorts.

After she disappeared, Quentin remembered the Timberlanes and hoped they weren’t horrified at the band’s fake violence and real damage to his house. He punched the intercom button. “Mr. and Mrs. Timberlane, would you like some more iced tea?”

They shook their heads. Mrs. Timberlane was smiling and patting Mr. Timberlane’s knee like she was thoroughly enjoying this date. Mr. Timberlane kissed her forehead.

Erin led Owen downstairs by the hand. Owen closed the door to the sound booth behind them and unsuccessfully tried the handle, like he didn’t believe he’d broken it (typical). The Cheatin’ Hearts resumed recording, but the session was ruined because their concentration was lost. They all anticipated Martin’s phone playing “Stars Fell on Alabama,” signaling more bad news. Finally the call came, and Quentin reached over to turn off the sound to the control room again.

Martin’s eyes were wide behind his crooked glasses. He unclapped the hand over his mouth to announce, “The PR chick is enormous and scary, with pink hair.”

Owen said, “She sounds like a girl Wookiee.”

“She’s headed this way,” Martin said ominously.

Quentin took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, touched the wound on the side of his nose, and slid the frames back on. “I guess I’d better go put my contacts in.” Part of his job as the band’s front man was to look as studly as possible. He hoped his glasses didn’t make him look as nutty-professor as Martin, but he knew they made him look nerdy enough, which was why he never wore them when meeting with record company representatives or starting bar fights that would be photographed for the tabloids.