Murder Is Our Mascot (29 page)

Bronwyn groaned in disgust at the sight of him. "Ugh, seriously? Tim Scott is here? That dude is so lame. I was hoping they'd sent Charlie Chill instead."

Tim Scott was somewhat of a regional celebrity. Having spent the past thirty or so years in music journalism and radio, he'd had his fair share of breaking news reports—from an eye witness account of the fire at the Calexico Theater to an exclusive interview with Silver Echoes when they announced their reunion tour.

More recently, Tim spent most of his time in the studio hosting a syndicated music news show called
Tune Talks
.
His show was widely popular across the southeast region—though he was based out of Atlanta, people tuned in from three states over to hear his up-to-the-minute news briefs on today's rock gods and their antics. He would also occasionally regale his audience with stories and anecdotes from his heyday interviewing and partying with the bands like The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. It was rare now for Tim to leave the studio—he preferred that the rock stars come to him.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said as he reached us. "I," he paused for dramatic effect, "am Tim Scott. It's a pleasure to meet you both." Tim took my hand in his and pumped it up and down enthusiastically as Bronwyn groaned behind me. Tim didn't seem to notice.

My stomach fluttered. Tim Scott certainly wasn't the type of man to get my heart pounding, but his appearance at Castle Rock meant my little pet project of the last few months was a big deal. Tonight was the official return of the Pop Rock Prince himself—and the media was paying attention. Good publicity for Castle Rock was just what I needed to butter Parker up for that promotion next week.
Not too shabby, Ame.
I gave myself a mental high five.

"It's nice to meet you." I released his hand. "I'm Amelia Grace, and this is our promotions and booking intern, Bronwyn Sinclair." I inclined my head toward the narrow-eyed, pink-haired teen peering at him disdainfully from behind me. "She's a
huge
fan," I added with a wicked grin.

Bron wasn't amused. She let me know it by connecting her elbow to my rib with surprising force as she grudgingly stepped forward to shake Tim's hand.
Oof!
I grimaced and gingerly rubbed my ribcage. For a sprite of a girl, she packed some power.

Tim's face lit up. "Always nice to meet a fan." Before Bronwyn could protest, he launched into a story about one of his more "hip"
Tune Talks
installments. Bron glowered at me, but I ignored her and surveyed the gear being unloaded from the 95Rox van. It looked like Tim was planning to run a live broadcast—there was a 95Rox pop-up tent, a PA system with speakers, a microphone and headset—and super sexy radio guy!

My gaze landed on Tim's assistant, the tall man that had set up the broadcast equipment.
Hot damn!
He was lean and ruggedly handsome, with shaggy brown hair that curled up from under his black 95Rox baseball cap. Despite his slender build, I could see the muscles in his arms ripple as they flexed under the weight of the speakers he carried. He returned my stare, his grey eyes burning into me. I felt my cheeks grow warm and averted my gaze.

When I looked up again, he was smiling at me. Disguising a quick breath check under a cough, I walked steadily toward him. After all, as the manager of Castle Rock, I should introduce myself—especially to hot man candy working radio promotions in front of my venue. Right?

I opened my mouth to greet him as I drew near but cried out instead as I tripped over a speaker cord. The setting sun was suddenly blocked from view by a dark shape speeding through the air. Terror seized me. The cord I'd tripped on had yanked itself free from a speaker with such force that it pulled the speaker off of its stand. The huge black box was now hurtling straight for me.

MURDER AT CASTLE ROCK

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