Playing Dirty (Stargazer #2)(3)
Author: Jennifer Echols

And Sarah hadn’t been there to help Wendy through any of it, because she’d stupidly volunteered to save Nine Lives. She would have felt better if their friend and former trainee Tom had remained in the office, but he’d shipped off to save a client in Moscow about the same time Sarah left for Brazil.

She still remembered her shock at the way brave Wendy had looked in the LaGuardia ticket lobby when she’d driven Sarah there for the flight to Rio. Overcome with a wave of dizziness, Wendy had sat on a bench by the windows, both arms wrapped protectively around her middle, seeming uncharacteristically lost. She’d called Daniel to come rescue her. And when Sarah had returned from Rio this week, Wendy had been sitting in the same place, in the same position, this time because her feet were swollen, with her arms wrapped the same way around her much bigger tummy.

Sarah could not involve Wendy in the trouble she’d found for herself in Rio. She had a band to rescue and her job to save, all by herself.

She focused on the music again. The Cheatin’ Hearts’ songs were an odd mix. Erin and Owen co-wrote the overblown love ballads. Quentin probably should have seen a more intimate collaboration between the two coming: that Erin would cheat on him with Owen. Martin wrote the most complex and technically demanding songs, which tended to be minor hits and critical favorites. Two of his songs had won Grammys. He’d gotten into fistfights with the losers at the awards after-parties both years.

But their biggest hits were the ridiculous songs by Quentin. Even Sarah had heard these when they crossed over to the pop charts and became the background music in sports arenas. There was “I Want a Leia,” about Star Wars or sex, according to how much smut your sense of humor could stand. There was “Heavily Sedated,” which unfortunately was autobiographical. And then there was their biggest hit of all, “Come to Find Out,” a colloquial term in Alabama for making an unexpected discovery: “Come to find out you done done it again / Come to find out I got screwed in the end / Shoulda known better there’d be no doubt / You done the mailman” (or “the mayor,” or “all the neighbors,” depending on the verse), “come to find out.”

But every song had that unmistakable Cheatin’ Hearts harmony: Quentin’s strong, lazy voice on melody, Erin’s high voice an octave above him, Owen singing baritone, and Martin anywhere and everywhere between, his voice transforming the chord mid-syllable. They didn’t seem to use backup musicians, and they put out an enormous sound for four people. Sarah turned the car air conditioner down before she realized that it was the music making her hair stand on end.

Finally, finally, she pulled the convertible into the parking deck at the Galleria. Besides an enormous shopping mall, the complex featured Sarah’s hotel and the building that housed the band’s publicity office. She checked her look. Leather bag, ominously organized. High-heeled sandals, strapped on securely. Tight pants, clean and smooth. Cleavage, showing. Makeup . . . She examined her chin in the mirror on the visor. The scar Nine Lives had given her was going to show, but she’d minimized it as much as possible. Hair—

She sighed ruefully as she fingered her hair into place. Hot pink and platinum blond streaks shocked her natural brown. Even now, months after her impulsive makeover that had transformed her from sporty tomboy to vixen, her new look still caught her off guard when she got a glimpse of herself. She had a feeling that, even though her old hometown was a four-hour drive from Birmingham and her mother was rarely in residence, there would be a family reunion during her stay. And her mother would have something dry to say about her hair.

Leaning back against the seat, Sarah tried to relax into the part and channel Natsuko. Natsuko had been the publicist for a Japanese rock band performing with one of Sarah’s clients at the Grammys last year. Everyone referred to her in awed tones by that single name, like Madonna, because nobody could pronounce her last name, or—more probably—because Natsuko was a force of nature. She wore low-cut tops, tight pants, killer heels, and blue streaks through her black hair, never afraid to outglitz the genuine stars. When she barked an order, the ultra-cool hipster rock stars who’d hired her snapped to attention and murmured placations to appease her. She was also something of a ho, having hooked up with two of the band members and a top reporter for Rolling Stone in the few days Sarah had kept tabs on her.

At first Sarah had been jealous of Natsuko. Then she’d fallen in love. Finally she’d had an epiphany. After years of clients pushing her around and Wendy telling her that dressing for work in something other than athletic wear might help, she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. A few months later, when her husband told her he wanted a divorce, she’d grown up.

She’d channeled Natsuko for nine months in Rio. The new act had worked better than her old one for threatening rock star ass**les, but it still seemed unnatural. This persona was very different from Sarah’s normal one. Natsuko didn’t have a mother, but had leaped fully armed out of the head of Zeus. She was taller than Sarah and infinitely more sophisticated. Her face revealed nothing, no vulnerability. She only arched one eyebrow when calling a bluff. She used her cle**age and, if necessary, sex appeal as a weapon. Consequently, unlike Sarah, she’d had sex with more than one person in her lifetime.

A car crashed across a seam in the pavement somewhere in the echoing parking deck, and Sarah started around. Then she berated herself, because Natsuko was never startled. Sarah was deathly afraid that Nine Lives would finagle his way out of prison and report to Manhattan Music about what she’d done to him. Worse, he would bypass going after her job and come after her. But projecting strength she didn’t possess would salvage her job and—maybe—keep her safe. She dragged her bag out of the car, kicked the door closed, and walked to the office building entrance with the gait of a no-nonsense bitch used to high heels, humming “Come to Find Out.”

The guitar dropped out of “Naked Mama.” Quentin glanced up from the strings of his bass to see what was going on. Martin had stopped playing and was reaching to a nearby music stand for his cell phone. Now that the rest of the band had stopped playing their instruments, too, Quentin could hear Martin’s phone beeping “Stars Fell on Alabama.”

With a groan, Owen hurled his drumsticks at Martin and the phone. Quentin jumped backward in reflex, nearly dropping his bass guitar. The sticks narrowly missed Martin and Quentin, flew over Erin’s head, and clattered against the glass wall of the sound booth. The album technicians in the control room ducked instinctively.