“Wow!” Jerry yelled.
I turned the phone around. “Cool, huh?”
“Jerry, go play with your trains,” Eve said. “Let me finish talking to Auntie Liv.”
Auntie Liv.
That made me feel old.
But it made me feel mushy.
“Hey,” Eve said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Eve…”
“Take a break from the city,” she said. “ Just come my way for a night or two. Brian has the weekend off. I can ship him and the baby to his mother’s. She always offers to help but never actually shows up. He can crash there.”
“And we’ll trash your house?” I asked.
“Party animals,” she said.
“Two sips of wine and you’ll be asleep by seven,” I said.
Eve stuck her middle finger up to the screen.
I laughed. “Look, I have to go. Lunch with the old man. He’s…”
My voice trailed off when I saw a massive bus pass me by. The thing looked bigger than a train. All black. Windows black. Wheels black. And right behind the bus there were two police SUVs, lights flashing, but no sirens.
Police escort?
“Liv?” Eve asked.
I was frozen watching the scene before me.
The second the bus stopped, people rushed toward it.
It went from a normal street to a mob scene.
“Liv!” Eve barked.
“What?” I snapped. I looked at the phone screen. “Sorry. I mean… I have to go. I’m here. At the office. Something is happening. Look.”
I turned my phone for a few seconds to show Eve the scene.
“Holy shit,” she said. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably someone my father works with.”
“Get an autograph if it’s someone we know,” Eve said.
“Gotta go. Heart you.”
“Heart you back,” Eve said.
I ended the video call and kept walking toward the front doors of SLECK RECORDS.
The bus was off to the side.
With another door opened.
Security was standing there, pushing everyone back.
I tried to see who was going to get off of the bus but the crowd was too much to take.
When I walked into the lobby, it was sort of the same.
Everyone and their brother trying to sneak a peek at who was here.
“Hey, darling,” a voice said next to me.
Harold was in charge of the entire building’s security.
“What do we have here?” I asked him.
“Rock stars,” he said. “Final Line?”
“Final Line?” I asked. “Never heard… oh, you mean Filthy Line?”
“There it is,” Harold said, snapping his fingers together.
“Wait,” I said. “Filthy Line is here? For real?”
“You know them?”
“Who doesn’t?” I asked.
“Me,” Harold said. “I’m more of a bluesy kind of guy. Or three chords and a message.”
“Right,” I said. “Well, I better try and beat this rush.”
“Just wait here, Olivia,” Harold said. “Your father sent me to check on you. Keep you here.”
“Of course. So, he’s cancelling lunch?”
Harold frowned. “Just humor me and hang out here.”
I showed my hands in defeat and walked to the reception desk.
The three ladies were standing, phones out, biting their bottom lips, waiting to catch a glimpse of Filthy Line.
Waiting to see Nash.
Fucking Nash.
I let out a breath, almost ashamed to admit that there were pictures of him in my room at the old man’s giant house. From when Filthy Line first broke big and I was obsessed with them. Not that I wasn’t still a fan or anything, I just didn’t have pictures of Nash taped to my walls in my apartment. Then again, before judgment is thrown my way, the sight of him with his hands behind his head, those wild thin lips in a smirk that could break anyone’s heart, ripped jeans pulled down almost too far…
I cleared my throat and looked down at the paper on the counter.
FAMED BAD BOY ROCKER STEALS CAR, DRIVES IT INTO LAKE, THEN STANDS ON ROOF OF CAR AS IT SINKS, ASKING WHAT A PIRATE’S FAVORITE LETTER IS
It was a story about Nash.
Stealing a car and sinking it into a lake. Drunk, pretending to be a pirate. Labeled as another black checkmark for the band’s history of excess, drug abuse, lawsuits, jail time, and even death.
I read the entire article and it was nothing but a death sentence for Nash and the rest of the band. Laced with rumors too. That Nash had a sex addiction problem. That Jay was being sued for an undisclosed sum for an incident in Vegas last summer. That Dex had so much white powder up his nose he sneezed snowflakes. That Reed had checked in and out of an alcohol treatment center four times this year alone. And that Sab was working on a side project that was causing tension in the band.
Basically… Filthy Line was about to explode for good.
I called bullshit on the entire thing.
It was for attention and nothing more.
I looked to my left and saw the crowd growing even more.
I was going to be stuck there for a little bit.
So I took out a pen and notebook and decided to have a little fun.
The coast was clear about twenty minutes later.
The girls behind the desk all got their precious blurry cell phone pics of the band as they were hurried through the lobby and into the private elevators, reserved for people like my father.
It wasn’t as exciting as they all painted it to be.
I barely got to see them.
Just the tops of their heads as they scrambled to safety.
The fans were crazy. That was for sure.
Doing anything to get near their favorite rock star.
Which I totally understood.
“You’re good to go,” Harold said.
“Tell my father I’m on my way?” I asked.
“No, Olivia. I meant… you know, go.”
Harold nodded toward the front doors.
“Of course,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I said.
I backed up.
“Olivia?”
“I’m going to have a little chat with him,” I said.
“I can’t let you go up there now.”
“Come closer and I’ll pepper spray you, Harold. And I don’t want to do that.”
Harold stepped toward me and I reached for my bag.
I had no pepper spray.
The deadliest thing I had was a tampon. Not to cause harm but for most guys it would gross them out. You put that where? And it does what? And then my favorite… Does it feel good when you put it in?
Harold stopped. “Olivia…”
“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure you don’t get into trouble.”
I turned and started to run, only to smash head-first into some guy’s shoulder.
He stumbled to the left and I dropped my bag.
Trust me, this wasn’t some cute thing where I’d meet a hot guy and he’d whisk me away forever.
This guy was on a cell and looked pissed.
He was short, chubby, and had his hair slicked back.
“Sorry,” I said.