Whose Bed Is It Anyway?

I’ll kill you, Cassie.

Bad enough she’d let herself be harangued into this ridiculous exercise, but ducking into the men’s room in a moment of rare claustrophobic panic? All kinds of embarrassing.

A whoosh of air and a wall of encroaching noise announced the arrival of someone else in the room. Thank God she’d found an empty cubicle.

She checked the state of the wall before she slumped against it. Grateful to be in an empty cubicle? In the men’s room? Could my life get any worse?

She held her breath to listen, knowing if she was discovered in here, flouting all security rules, she’d never achieve what she’d set out to do. And the dreams of fourteen kids would literally go down the pan, along with her professional reputation.

Plan A should have worked just fine: approach someone in authority, ask politely, make an appointment. Not hide out like a weird stalker. In a cubicle. While thousands of fans charged the backstage corridors wanting a piece of the notoriously damaged, famously over-sexed rock deity, Nate Munro.

Where was Plan B when she needed it?

A deep American accent bounced off the tiled walls. ‘Quick, Nate. In here. Give us five minutes ’til they’ve been herded out. There’s a car on its way to pick you up out the back.’

No. Sasha’s shoulders crept towards her jaw, tightening the muscles around her neck like a noose. Not Nate. Not here. Not in this bathroom.

‘What happened to Security? They’re crazy out there.’ Sure enough, it was Nate’s voice now, much deeper, richer than she remembered, but unmistakably his. Tinged with his working-class roots and a smattering of amusement, but refined by maturity and years of stateside living.

The American voice responded with an air of glee, ‘Crazy for you. They love you. The world loves you, Nate. You are gold.’

True enough. Aeons ago in Sasha’s smitten seventeen-year-old eyes being with him had felt as if she’d been sprinkled with gold dust. Nathan Munro. Her eyes fluttered closed at the storm of innocent memories. A young singer desperate to be heard. Night after night of listening to his songs, songs he’d written about her.

He’d scaled the heights against the odds. She’d watched his life spiral out of control, as Chesterton had turned its back on him. And she’d been as scathing as the rest.

But now... Wild boy turned out-of-control rock star. Sold out across the globe on his five continents Hall of Fame tour, catapulted to the top of the charts with his husky sultry songs and edgy dark style. The devil with a god’s voice.

And powerful too. What he wanted he got and to hell with the consequences.

So what the heck she thought she’d achieve by asking him for help now, she didn’t know. But Sasha inhaled, renewing her resolve. It had been for ever ago. Ten years. He’d probably forgotten about her, about them. Or hated her, still.

No matter. She would find a way to ask him for help, and make good on that promise to her kids—that was what was important, not their past history. But she couldn’t face him here, after all this time, not in a loo. Even she wouldn’t be able to take herself seriously surrounded by pipe work and the cloying smell of pine.

No, she was a music professional and she had standards. She’d find another way: phone his agent, bribe him into submission. Beg. Something.

So just leave. Please.

The American spoke again. ‘You want me to find you someone for tonight? There’re plenty of women out there. Your usual? Blonde? Tall? Big—’

‘Sure. Whatever.’

‘I’ll get the guys onto it.’ The crackle of a walkie-talkie split the room.

‘But only for an hour or so. I’ve got a date later and I don’t want to be late.’ Nate’s voice was laced with irritation.

What? Sasha’s shoulders hiked to her ears again. He was planning a one-nighter and a date?

Well, the man had stamina.

And no morals.

And that was none of her business.

She’d got over him a long time ago. Hard not to with his colourful love life splashed front page most days of the week. Supermodels, actresses, singers hung off his arm at every opportunity. She just hoped he wasn’t planning on entertaining in here; she had things to do.

‘So you’re not going to the afterparty?’ the American asked. ‘Twelve months of non-stop touring and you’re going on a date instead of getting loose? She must be special.’

‘I’ll come along to the party later.’

‘So who is it this time? Not Cara again? She’s trouble, you know. Two stints in rehab. Possession. You’ve got to steer clear from girls like that.’

‘But she did my sales a heap of good. She was good value.’

‘Nice thinking, Nate. Point well made. Keep your options open. A pretty lady on your arm keeps the rest of your fans hopeful. But remember, don’t do anything stupid—stay away from the two cardinal sins: drugs and marriage. Drugs bring their own problems, pal, but cosy is the kiss of death to your career.’

‘I had a lucky escape with that fiasco of an engagement. I’m never going there again.’

Sasha’s frown deepened. Did she detect a tinge of boredom in his voice? Something not right in Nate’s opulent successful world? And since when was marriage part of the axis of evil?

He’d clearly changed beyond anything she remembered. The Nathan she’d known at first had been sweet and kind and hadn’t thought of women as good value. But then, she’d witnessed the beginning of that change: the way he’d morphed from sweet teenager to brooding, angry young man.

Seemed that downward trajectory hadn’t stopped.

Suddenly the shrill blare of a text message made her jump.

Shoot! No. No! She clamped a hand to her mouth. Had she said that out loud?

Fumbling into her bag, she fell against the wall, dropped her phone and then watched in silent Slow... Motion... Horror. It bounced and slithered across the tiles, under the cubicle door, and out to the other side.

Crouching down, she watched, mortified, as her bright sparkly purple cell finally came to a stop next to a pair of battered black biker boots.

So yes, it seemed her life could get much worse.

Silence reverberated around the room for two long seconds, save for the hard thump of her heart against her ribs. And the shuffle of heavy feet.

‘What have we got here?’ The American voice deepened as a hand reached for her phone. He read the message out. ‘“Target located? Is he still to die for? What about that ass?”’ He laughed. ‘Hey, Nate, either you’ve cornered the gay military market, or we have ourselves a desperate female admirer.’