Playing Dirty (42 page)

They wouldn’t let him go look for her. He needed to rest and recover as best he could for the concert. And Owen had taken his cell phone away so he wouldn’t be tempted to talk. Which was just as well. He’d left Sarah three voice mail messages before he had the attack, when he was searching for her. If he left her ten more, he might start to look pitiful.

He sat up for the millionth time and scanned the parking lot for Sarah’s BMW. Spaces were filling up fast for the Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Event, but security had been instructed to look for Sarah’s pink hair and let her back here, past the barriers.
There wasn’t a sign of her. No flash of pink in the crowd. He waved halfheartedly to the Timberlanes and their butler, whom he’d gotten front-row seats.

Surely Sarah would show. If not before the concert, during. But he needed a plan in case she didn’t come. Maybe there was a red-eye flight from Birmingham to New York, or—hey, he had a big-ass truck! He could drive to Atlanta to catch a flight. He wondered how much it would cost to charter a flight himself. Usually he didn’t waste money on flashy stuff like that, but this was important.

Why didn’t she call?

Maybe there was something wrong with her cell phone. He could leave her an e-mail message in case she checked her laptop. He slid out of the truck bed and headed for the large trailer functioning as a dressing room so he could retrieve his phone from Owen.

Inside the trailer, Martin reclined on a sofa with his eyes closed, lost in something he was composing on his acoustic guitar, shirt still off. Erin laughed with the woman piling and spraying her hair on top of her head. Owen sat in a chair across the room from Erin, grinning at her unabashedly.

Quentin pulled up a chair next to Owen and sat down. Without taking his eyes away from Erin, Owen handed over Quentin’s cell phone so Quentin could make sure it was set to ring and that Sarah hadn’t left a message. Quentin let out a frustrated sigh and started coughing again.

The hairdresser spun Erin around to spray the back
of her hair. Now Erin faced Owen. Erin beamed at him. Owen’s smiled broadened.

Quentin tried to climb out of his mood to be happy for them. They both were so content, sharing sappy looks with each other across the room. But he only sank deeper into the funk, contemplating how he’d prevented them from being together for five years. Unknowingly, but he should have known.

After a few minutes of silence except for Martin’s guitar and Erin’s animated laughter, Owen said quietly to Quentin, “Don’t be sorry. I should have said something or done something. I was afraid of chasing her off, and I wanted to be near her. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”

Quentin typed a text message on his phone and handed it to Owen:
Vonnie Conner.

Owen looked at the screen and handed the phone back to Quentin. “Vonnie Conner,” Owen muttered in disgust. “Q, Sarah is nothing like that. Vonnie Conner led you on. Behind that poker face, Sarah feels and sees. She had my number from day one. That’s why I avoided her. Every time she looked at me, I felt like she was coming up and punching me in the chest.”

Quentin nodded, because he knew what Owen meant.

“I thought all along that it was a shame you couldn’t break Rule Three,” Owen said. “You’re perfect for each other. Surely she sees that, too. You’ll have a great life together. She’s just held up somewhere.”

Quentin sighed and nodded again.

Owen said, “I like it a lot better when you can’t talk.”

The trailer door opened. Quentin sucked in his breath, knowing it was Sarah at last.

Then coughed, because he’d breathed too deeply. It was only Rachel.

She stopped and put her hand through Martin’s hair. Then she came to stand in front of Quentin.

“Did you find her?” he whispered.

She shook her head no. “But I have a confession.” She eyed Owen, and then her gaze slid back to Quentin. “I’m the one who called her down here.”

“What?” Owen asked sharply.

She turned to make sure Martin hadn’t heard, then gave Owen a reproving look. Quietly she told Quentin, “I really did agree with you that we couldn’t get Martin in rehab secretly if he didn’t want to go. And if we went to Owen and Erin to talk about an intervention, they would kick him out of the band, which would be the end of him.”

Owen’s mouth twisted in guilt.

“What I didn’t agree with,” Rachel said, “was that the problem would work itself out. I had to do something. I’d heard of a PR crisis manager who’d saved Lorelei Vogel’s career a couple of years ago—remember what a mess that girl was? But I didn’t want to call this PR lady and explain Martin’s problem. My contract says you guys could sue me if I did that.”

“I wouldn’t—” Quentin started to protest.

Rachel held one finger up to his lips. “You haven’t been yourself since Thailand. I wasn’t going to take that chance, not when I’m supporting my sister and
my brother. Anyway . . . ” She took a deep breath. “I called Manhattan Music and told them the band was about to break up because you were jealous of Erin and Owen. They panicked, predictably. I made them promise not to say who called, just to convey that message, and I suggested the crisis manager. I figured when she came down to straighten you out, she would discover Martin’s problem and solve it. If anybody could have finagled a way out of that mess, it was her. But she was on maternity leave, so her company sent Sarah.”

“Was it Wendy Mann?” Quentin asked hoarsely. When Rachel nodded, he looked up at the metal ceiling and sent a silent thanks to baby Asher for entering the world at just the right time, so Sarah would be sent to save them all.

“I just wanted you to know,” Rachel said sadly. “I’m glad it all worked out for us, more or less. But Sarah’s thought the whole time that you’re in love with Erin. And if she’s angry about being lied to, that might be why she’s still missing.”

Quentin hugged Rachel, letting her know without words that she’d done the right thing, and she was a lot smarter than him.

Then he crossed the trailer, stepped into the setting sunlight, and slammed the flimsy door behind him. With one last glance around the parking lot for the BMW, he slid into the payload of Owen’s truck and composed an e-mail message to Sarah.

Sarah, I love you. Please come back to me. I’m so sorry. Rachel was the one who called you down to help Martin. The story about me was fake. She didn’t tell me any of that until just now. And I’m sure the denouement you witnessed at my house was a freak show. I didn’t mean for you to find out that way. I was going to tell you everything about me this afternoon, and all the rules, but you weren’t at your hotel or my house, and you didn’t answer your cell. I had no idea Erin was pregnant. If I had, I wouldn’t have let you go on thinking the baby was mine. I swear I had nothing to do with it. I last had sex with Erin two years ago, on Memorial Day. I remember this specifically because we played a gig in Auburn, and there was a row. I do love her, but not the way you meant the
day you asked in the emergency room. Honestly, Sarah, I know I’ve hurt your feelings over and over in the last ten days, because I thought I had to for the band. It’s killed me every time. Please don’t go to New York. If you’re there, please come back. If you don’t come back, I’ll come get you, but tell me your travel plans so we don’t chase each other back and forth across the continent. You know I could take that Fawn guy, and he will never, ever make you aloo gobi. They’re waving to me. I have to go. I’m getting a little desperate here, Sarah. I’d skip the Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Event to come find you, but then I’d be in worse trouble with you if you got fired. Right? Now I really have to go. This is driving me out of my freaking mind. I need you back. Where are you? Please come.

For long periods, Sarah would lie on one of the sofas in Quentin’s den with her head in Nine Lives’ lap, staring up at the cat-eye contacts that hid his pupils, dilated from methamphetamine. His story, terrifying the first time she’d heard it almost nine months ago, was familiar enough now that she could tune it out. She was out to get him, Manhattan Music had it in for him, the proceeds from his album sales were being used to bribe the TV entertainment news shows into calling him a has-been. He flipped through the channels, trying to find one of these shows to make his point to her. For some reason, each time he gave up,
he stopped the TV on a NASCAR race. Whenever he paused, Sarah responded calmly, “Mmmm-hmmm. I understand what you’re saying.”

Then he would jump up, take a swig of vodka from his flask, and pace around and around the coffee table as if he couldn’t figure out how to escape the
U
of sofas, ranting about the very real offense Sarah had committed against him. The food was bad in jail, and it was hard to get sushi and meth brought in when Sarah had cut off his money.

The cycle went on for hours while Sarah plotted a way out of this. There wasn’t a phone in the house. Her phone was in her bag in the BMW. That was her only hope, really: 911. There was no escaping in the BMW. Even if she managed to dash out to the driveway and slip into the convertible without Nine Lives catching her, his bodyguard would be waiting down at the gate. With a crowbar, because the bodyguard planned ahead.

Nine Lives pounced on the sofa. “How long did you think they’d keep me in Rio, Sarah?” he purred close to her face. “It’s fine to bribe the police, but when you leave, they start taking bribes from someone else.” His hot breath was on her cheek. He was near enough to bite her.

She tried to concentrate on NASCAR. “I was scared, Bill,” she said. “You cut me with your ring when you hit me.”

He smiled grimly and rubbed the scar in his plucked eyebrow. “And you need to be more careful with that shoe.” He leaned even closer. His lips touched her
cheek as he growled at her, “Have you ever gotten stitches in a Brazilian jail?”

His soft hand with the long fingernails filed to points grazed her rib cage and headed south. She tried not to tense. This NASCAR race was actually pretty exciting.

His fingers reached her hand guarding her lap. His nails rasped across the diamond-and-emerald ring. He started back, then picked up her hand to examine the stone more closely. “Speaking of rings,” he said. “You’re in the national gossip columns with this singer from the Cheatin’ Hearts. And they call me your
ex
-boyfriend. Did he give you this ring?” He moved his soft hand to her throat. “And the necklace? What happened to the ankhs I gave you?”

“You know it’s not like that, Bill,” she said with reproach. “I’ve told you I never date musicians.” This wouldn’t have been a lie ten days ago. “It’s business. New musicians, new jewelry.”

Nine Lives sniffed. “I have something special for you, too.” He pulled a tiny bottle and a packaged syringe from his pocket and showed them to her. “Kryptonite.”

Sarah hoped this wasn’t a new delusion. She said carefully, “I’m not Supergirl.”

“Figuratively, Sarah,” he said. “Do you think I’m
crazy
? It’s bee venom. You made the local paper with your little problem.”

“Bee venom,” Sarah repeated emotionlessly. “Where did you get bee venom?”

“Hospital,” he said simply. “They bottle it and give it to people with the allergy, to build up a tolerance. You’d be amazed what you can get
anywhere
for four thousand dollars and some crystal.”

Sarah laughed. “You’re going to shoot me up with
bee sting
?” Wait until she told Wendy about this. The gasoline-huffing boy band Wendy had handled last year didn’t hold a candle to Nine Lives and his bee venom.

He popped the sterile wrapping around the syringe. He was serious.

“You know that’ll kill me,” she breathed.

He said offhandedly, “If I give you enough.”

She vaulted over the back of the sofa and half ran, half fell down the stairs, then dashed down the hall to Martin’s room. Slammed the door, locked it, jerked out the top left-hand drawer of the dresser, and opened the gun case.

It was empty.

The door boomed next to her, and something slammed into her shoulder. She fell on Martin’s bed in a mass of wood splinters and plaster dust, with Nine Lives’ bodyguard heavy on top of her.

“Hello, Goonie,” she groaned.

“Hello, Sarah,” he said pleasantly. He stood her up and brushed her off casually enough. But he gripped her upper arm hard as he pulled her up the stairs.

“Please don’t let Bill play around with that bee venom,” she whispered to him. “It could kill me.”

He stopped her on the stairs and turned to her,
his pupils dilated. He’d started using, too. “You and me used to be cool, Sarah,” he told her. “You used to be all right. But while you were keeping Bill in prison, we were all stuck in Rio without a paycheck. Let him pass the bee shit to me, and I’ll shoot you up myself.”

Nine Lives was waiting in the kitchen. The two of them escorted Sarah down the driveway and held her while she recited the code for Nine Lives’ driver to open the gate. She glanced hopefully toward the bushes, but of course all the paparazzi were at the Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Event. She gazed the other way, toward the Timberlanes’ driveway, but their large car was gone.