17
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.”