“Autograph or a selfie, not both.” That’s my next executive decision in the effort to move people through the line and away. “When you’re finished, please clear this area to my right. Thank you.”
Ten minutes goes by. Twenty.
The crowd is only getting larger. Every person who bought tickets to the show tonight is apparently here, trying to make up for the loss.
Finally Pepper turns to me, but she doesn’t squeeze my arm. She writes on her pad, What can we do? I feel bad about letting them all down.
“Yeah, so do I, songbird. It’s life. You ready for a break?”
She worries the inside of her cheek. I’m pretty sure she’s wiped but feels guilty leaving them unsatisfied.
“Okay, everyone. That’s it for now. Ms. Heart needs a break.”
The fans groan and shout their protests. “I bought tickets for tonight. I should get a chance!” one girl yells.
“She’s staying here in the casino all week, even though she won’t be singing. Stick around and there may be other pop-up meet and greet opportunities. Remember, tickets are all refundable if you can’t come to a rescheduled show. Go and see the booking office for more information. Thanks, folks!”
I wrap a loose arm around Pepper’s waist and hustle her away before more people make demands. Her bodyguard stays on the other side of her, sticking close. It’s exactly what he should be doing, but I still want to punch his teeth in. I’m beginning to hate her whole fucking team, except maybe that blue-haired roadie who stuck by her last night. Shouldn’t she at the very least have a personal assistant helping her manage situations like this?
Or hell, arranging them? I don’t know.
I don’t like feeling like Pepper Heart is hanging out in the wind for everyone to take advantage of.
I especially hate knowing I’m a part of that shit.
Pepper
I shouldn’t be so happy to be in Tony’s keeping again, but I am. The guy should’ve been a band manager. He’s ten times better than Hugh. He just seems to get it. He knows the fans are important. He understands sometimes it’s about giving back to them, and not just selling albums or tickets to a concert. That it’s about loving on them.
He sees that but he also takes care of “the talent.” Of me. He knew when I was done, even when I wouldn’t admit it.
And I am totally and completely exhausted.
And famished.
I elbow Tony and he looks down, a wrinkle of concern on his forehead. “What is it, songbird?”
Songbird.
I love his pet name for me. So much better than when he throws out sweetheart, which always sounds a little scornful.
I put my fingers to my lips and attempt the sign language sign for eat or food or something like that.
“You’re hungry? Let’s get you some food. You want fancy or casual?” He holds two palms out, talking with his hands, as always. I slap the palm he put out for casual.
He chuckles. “Casual? Okay. You like burgers? There’s a great joint up the strip. I’ll take you there.”
I nod.
He directs his attention to Anton, who we’ve both been ignoring. “You take a hike. I got it from here.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Brando. My job is to stay with Ms. Heart at all times.”
“I respect that, I do. But I don’t want you tagging along. Your boss can take it up with me if he wants.”
“Where are you taking her?”
“For a burger.” Tony’s already leading me away, and he doesn’t bother to turn around to answer Anton. “Trust me, nobody’s gonna fuck with her when I’m around.” He sounds every inch what he is: a dangerous mobster and I have zero doubts it’s true.
Nobody screws with a guy like Tony Brando unless they want to end up with cement shoes.
And that should scare me, like it did yesterday, instead of making me feel all glowy and safe.
Tony leads me through the casino and into an elevator to the parking garage below. He opens the passenger door to a black BMW. I’m not sure if I should be impressed with his manners or not. Is chivalry normal for mobsters? I try to think of the mafia movies I’ve seen. Yeah, I think they might be chivalrous. There’s an old world code these men live by, and it involves protecting women. Tony, especially.
I get in the car and we take a short drive to a hipster diner—one of those retro kind of places with the 50’s decor and a classic menu with upgrades. Like BLTs with avocado on gluten-free bread. And ten different kinds of burgers.
“Whad’llya have?” Tony asks before the waitress gets there. I point to the bacon burger and sweet potato fries. “To drink?” I shake my head. “Does that mean water?” I nod.
Tony grins. “Never imagined I’d be playing twenty questions with America’s darling of alternative pop.”