“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.
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 fuck 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 buttocks. 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 fucked him, when you wouldn’t fuck 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 roa
red.
Nine Lives scratched his cheekbone with one pointed fingernail, leaving a red mark. Then he looked at his watch. “Fred,” he called, “the concert will be over in a few minutes. Let’s go get him.”
“What do you mean, ‘go get him?’ ” Sarah asked, trying her best to sound calm. “Do you mean the singer? What do you want with him?”
“He’s got a little coke problem, right?” Nine Lives asked. “OD’d recently in Thailand? If you’ve been on his ass, he hasn’t done it since. I’ll bet he’s really bluesing for some coke. It just so happens that I have some coke. I thought I’d get him good and hopped up. And then I’ll let him watch while I show you what really happens in a Brazilian prison.”
Sarah looked at Goonie. Goonie smiled at her.
She watched trees and buildings and signs spin by out the windows of the limo for a few moments while it sank in.
She said quietly, “The thing is, Bill, he’s not really on coke. You know how you’d collapse at nightclubs in Rio and I’d start a rumor in the press that you had diabetes? Well, the Cheatin’ Hearts are the opposite. Quentin has asthma and allergies. He doesn’t do coke.”
“Wow, you can lie with a straight face,” said Nine Lives.
“Bill, you have to believe me. Quentin’s never done drugs. He was in the ICU in Thailand because of an allergy. If you coke him up like he’s an addict, he really will OD. You’ll kill him.”
“Sarah,” Nine Lives said condescendingly, “if we don’t give him enough, he won’t get off.” He pointed to the TV. The camera focused on Martin’s hands as he played the intricate guitar solo in “Heavily Sedated.” Black track marks marred both arms. Nine Lives said, “The Cheatin’ Hearts don’t do drugs. Right!”
“Allergies,” Goonie said, shaking his head and laughing.
Sarah recalled what Quentin had told her: Be careful what you say to the press. It might come back to sting you. She’d better keep her mouth shut. Nine Lives had become an avid news reader of late. Cocaine was bad enough, but if she wasn’t careful, she’d persuade Nine Lives to feed Quentin an almond.
It was difficult to act alluring to a greasy rock icon while she was having an allergic reaction, but she gave it a go. She leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, “We don’t have to do it like this. It’s no fun if we’re angry with each other. Do you have your plane here?”
He nodded.
“You and I can ditch Goonie and Fred and fly to Monte Carlo. Or Cannes. Monaco.” Sarah tried to think of more resort towns where French was spoken. She was fluent in French, and she didn’t want to get stuck in another Portuguese situation.
“No dice,” he hissed. “You’d just be trying to get away from me the whole time. No, I think I’d rather get revenge.”
“Me, too,” said Goonie.
Fred leaned through the window between the front and back seats. “Me, too,”
“Turn around and drive the car, Fred!” Goonie boomed. “That’s how we wrecked this morning.”
“How do you feel after that shot?” Nine Lives asked her.
“Itchy.”
“How about some more?” He patted her in a friendly way on the shoulder where he’d injected her. “I don’t think I gave you enough before.”
Not even Natsuko could see her way out of this now. When Sarah showed up at the concert with Nine Lives, Quentin would come to rescue her, and Goonie and Fred would take him. She had to keep him out of this. It wasn’t his fight. She couldn’t go to the concert. She would let them kill her instead.
“Holy shit,” Nine Lives gasped. “Goonie, give Fred his fifty bucks back. Sarah’s crying.”
“That’s what we like to see,” said Goonie. “Don’t wreck, but you gotta look at this, Fred. There’s a girl in there.”
Fred glanced through the window between the seats. “There’s a bitch in there, more like it.”
“There, there,” Nine Lives purred, rubbing Sarah’s knee. “We don’t want to hurt you, Sarah. Not unless you make us mad. We just want to soften you up for our big night. Or do we? Goonie, maybe you like a fighter.”
Goonie said, “I want her softer than that.”
“Okay,” she said, sniffling and dabbing carefully under her eyes with her fingertips. “Do you mind if I lie down?”
Nine Lives patted his thigh amiably. Sarah stretched out across the seat with her head in his lap. Goonie rubbed her feet in the high heels soothingly. Out the sunroof, the clouds were violent pink with the sunset, and so clearly defined. The sunroof was open, she realized. The ultimate opulence in Alabama: windows open with the air-conditioning on.
“I made up this song a couple of days ago,” Quentin said on the TV, “watching Sarah work out in the gym of the hotel at the Galleria.”
He’d been watching her? Sarah had some hard questions for her creepy fiancé.
He had better be glad she would never see him again.
If she turned to look at him on the TV she would cry harder, so she stared out the sunroof and let his voice soothe her as Nine Lives felt around in his pockets for the little bottle of venom.
“Now I wish I hadn’t written this one,” Quentin said, “because I’m trying to get Sarah back, not make her run some more. It was supposed to be a surprise for her, and she’s not here. But Erin’s giving me that look. It’s next on the playlist, so I guess we have to do it. ‘Pink-Haired Sarah.’ ”
The easy, funky little beat was unlike anything Sarah had heard the Cheatin’ Hearts play before. She thought analytically that Quentin might get his first Grammy from this one.
Pink-haired Sarah in the sun.
I wonder what makes Sarah run?
Or not, Sarah thought. Sun and run. Good one.
Nine Lives had found the bottle.
What does Sarah have to lose?
Pink-haired Sarah has the blues.
Sarah thought about Wendy. She thought about her mother.
Nine Lives unwrapped another syringe.
What does Sarah know is coming?
What keeps pink-haired Sarah running?
She thought about Quentin standing with his father in the gravel parking lot of the Highway 280 Steak House, which rarely served steak. Quentin and his father opened the hood of his truck and peered into the engine. They straightened and laughed together, and Quentin looked so proud. Then he saw Sarah watching from the doorway of the restaurant. He gave her the lopsided grin. Quentin would be fine without her.
Nine Lives stuck the needle into the bottle and pulled back the plunger.
Sarah laughing in the sun.
I wonder what makes pink-haired Sarah run?
Then came the chorus, with Erin, Martin, and Owen in a soaring three-part harmony: “Run, Sarah, run.”
“Run,” sang Quentin. “Pink-haired Sarah, run.”
She took a deep breath and held it as Nine Lives pulled back her sleeve to expose her shoulder.
“Run, Sarah, run,” sang the chorus.
Quentin sang, “Hon, what are you running from?”
Sarah leaped up from the seat, caught hold of the edge of the sunroof, and hauled herself through the small opening.
And braced herself as Fred made a sharp turn into the nearest parking lot.
“Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, realizing the futility of the exercise even as she did so. Of all the luck, they’d pulled over at a much-advertised strip club. It was probably an hourly occurrence here for a pink-haired woman in a low-cut shirt and an emerald necklace to scream for help out the open sunroof of a limo.
They had both her ankles, but she kicked violently and managed to grasp the side of the car. She was almost out.
Then, with one hard jerk from inside the limo, she bounced onto the seat beside Nine Lives again.
Goonie grabbed her, putting his full weight on her arms while Fred sat on one of her legs. She jammed the other high heel into an unknown part of Nine Lives and ground in. Not because this would help, but because she was pissed.
&
nbsp; “Would you hold her?” Nine Lives yelped. One of his cat-eye contacts had fallen out. He turned his furious gaze on her: one cat eye, the other eye with the pupil blown out almost to the edge of his hazel iris. He sat on her, too, and felt around on the seat for the lost bottle.
“Don’t do it, man,” Goonie advised. “The concert is around the corner, and we need her conscious to get us past security.”
Everything is going to be okay, she recited Martin’s litany in her head. Everything is fine. I’m fine. Everything is okay. And then, Quentin’s words: It’s okay to ask for help.
“Pink-Haired Sarah” neared its end, and Quentin prepared to repeat the first verse. He signaled to Martin to signal to Erin to signal to Owen to change the lyrics, replacing run with come. He’d sung it this way for them in the album sessions, but Erin nixed this version because she thought Sarah would hate them for the dirty double entendre. It seemed appropriate now, and Quentin had nothing to lose. The crowd whooped its approval at the change as Quentin sang,
Sarah laughing in the sun.
I wonder what makes pink-haired Sarah come?
Come, pink-haired Sarah, come.
A limo with a smashed fender made its way slowly through security to park at one side of the stage. Quentin had thought all the professional wrestlers were in the audience already, but sometimes Mad “Red” Mud liked to be flamboyantly late.
They ended the song to the loudest applause of the night, which Quentin barely registered. Martin had predicted that “Pink-Haired Sarah” would win Quentin his first Grammy. But who cared, if the song’s eponym ran to another hemisphere to disentangle another codependent band? If she was really angry with him, she might do just that. She might instruct her office not to tell him where she’d gone.
In that case, he could fly to New York tomorrow and do some snooping. He already had an in with the lady in the Stargazer travel office. Or he could sweet-talk Wendy. Or have a man-to-man with Daniel.
Something thwacked him in the back of the head, and Owen’s drumstick rolled in front of Quentin’s toes. Owen kept a stash of extra drumsticks for this purpose. Quentin must have been daydreaming. “Martin wrote this next song,” Quentin said quickly, “ ‘Barefoot and Pregnant.’ You may notice that Erin is taking her shoes off.”
Playing Dirty Page 31
