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.
Nine Lives’ driver, Fred, stood next to the open back door of a limo with a wrecked front end. Before Sarah slid onto the seat, she looked into his eyes. Dilated pupils. “Et tu Brute?” she asked.
Fred said, “Shut up and get your little Caesar ass in the car.” Even though she got in without protest, he gave her a shove across the seat, muttering, “Et tu Brute.”
“Come on, Fred,” she coaxed. “Bill could kill me with that bee venom. You’re not mad enough at me to kill me, are you? You’re not willing to kill a girl over a few paychecks?”
“It ain’t the paychecks so much,” he said. “It’s what happens to you in Rio when your cash is cut off. Why couldn’t you just let him f**k you?” He slammed the door.
Sarah pressed her cold hands to her face. She was about to cruise Birmingham in the methmobile. She was going to die here in the methmobile of an induced allergy attack at the hands of a demented rock star while the man she loved played a country concert under Vulcan’s bare bu**ocks. And it wasn’t funny if she couldn’t e-mail it to Wendy.
The doors opened on both sides. All three men reached out to her. Goonie sat on her legs and held her wrists while Fred put his knee on her throat.
“This isn’t necessary,” she croaked.
“I seen what you did to Bill with that shoe,” Fred told her.
Beyond Fred’s leg, Nine Lives stuck the needle into the small bottle again.
“Thank you for using a clean syringe,” she said.
Nine Lives assured her, “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, Sarah.”
Fred and Goonie laughed.
“How do you know how much to give me?” she asked.
“I’ll give you just a little at first,” Nine Lives said.
“And if your head gets swole up,” said Fred, “we’ll know that was too much.”
She asked, “Can’t I just have some meth?”
Goonie said, “Bet you fifty she keeps a straight face through this.”
“You’re on,” said Fred.
“I wouldn’t take that bet,” said Nine Lives as he jabbed the needle into her shoulder.
She watched several red-ringed white hives pop up on her arms, and she gripped the limo seat hard as her throat began to close. Nine Lives on one side and Goonie on the other just watched her, amused. It got worse and worse, and then it didn’t get any worse. She wouldn’t die from this dose.
Through the sparkles flashing in front of her eyes, she tried to watch the Cheatin’ Hearts concert on the small TV hanging from the ceiling of the limo. Quentin wore the green college T-shirt with the fire-breathing dragon, sleeves rolled up to expose his tanned biceps. The cameras seemed to take perverse pleasure in cutting to his ancient deck shoes as he adjusted the sound of his bass guitar with a pedal. But through song after song, most of the broadcast zoomed in on his handsome face, the flash of his deep green eyes, his tangled waves of brown hair.
His hair. The Cheatin’ Hearts weren’t wearing their characteristic cowboy hats.
He hit the money note at the end of “Party in the Double-Wide,” but after that, his voice grew raspy. He traced a circle in the air with his finger, grabbed a water bottle at the base of his mike stand, and walked offstage. The other three began an instrumental without him.
The camera swung to Erin, who looked especially beautiful tonight, in her way. Her boobs were enormous in the bustier she wore with her Daisy Dukes, her blond curls were equally enormous and bouncy, and her carefully made-up frosted pink lips shone in the spotlights. She looked happy. The camera flashed to Owen, who looked happy. The camera flashed to Martin, who focused on his guitar.
Martin’s shirt was off.
The instrumental ended quickly and Quentin returned, fist to his mouth, still coughing a little. “Sorry about that, folks,” he said. “Y’all may have heard I had a little problem this afternoon. It ain’t a party until somebody pulls out the beta-agonist.” The crowd cheered like he’d named a beer brand. He smiled his lopsided smile and shook his head at Erin.
“Now he’s going to mention you again,” Nine Lives said, absorbed in the show. “I swear, if he mentions you again—”
“Sarah,” Quentin said into the microphone, “if you don’t show up, we might just release our third album free on the Internet.” The crowd cheered again.
Sarah thought, There goes my job.
Throughout “Honky-tonk Hell,” Sarah focused on the TV, Quentin’s smiling green eyes, his smooth lazy voice. He was so happy and comfortable onstage, a joy to watch. Nine Lives stared at her.
The song ended. Nine Lives said, “He’d better not mention you again.”
Quentin asked, “Have y’all been watching the World Poker Tournament?” He paused for the crowd’s cheer. “Y’all know Hell’s Belle, the poker queen? That’s Sarah’s mother, and this song’s for her.” The band began “Naked Mama.”
Sarah thought, There goes Christmas in Fairhope.
“I hate country music,” said Nine Lives.
“Me, too,” said Goonie.
Sarah said, “I used to.”
The song ended. The camera caught Quentin mouthing to Martin, “Where is she?”
Nine Lives leaned forward with his chin in his hands, pointed fingernails pricking his face. “You made that guy fall in love with you,” he murmured. “Just like you did me. And you f**ked him, when you wouldn’t f**k me.”
“Oh, did you think he was talking about me ?” Sarah laughed. “No, he’s talking about a different Sarah.”
“Sarah,” said Quentin, “you need to get your purty pink-haired self up here.”
Nine Lives watched her, waiting for her to crack. She concentrated on Quentin, who had his hands in his hair.
“Sarah pointed out to me that this next song could be interpreted as being about backdoor action,” he said. “So we’re dedicating it to Nine Lives, who’s in prison in Rio.” The band started “Come to Find Out,” and the crowd roared.