"Those were designed by Jackson Deering, the original owner of Castle Rock," I explained. Jackson, Parker's father, passed away two years ago and left the venue to his son.
I turned back to smile at Jared and found that Candy and Bobby had wedged themselves between us. Cliff shuffled behind them, looking disinterested, and Shawn brought up the rear as he carefully inspected his surroundings. I stifled a sigh and led them down the hall to the downstairs stage.
Forty-five minutes later, we stood in the green room with cold beers in hand, having wrapped up our tour of the venue. After dodging several more drunken propositions from Bobby, I was relieved to see Laura Holly step through the door. Laura was our most popular bartender. Some nights she had customers lined up twenty deep just to order a drink from her.
Since I'd last seen her at Camila's over lunch, Laura had changed from jeans and sweater into a tight, black leather skirt and the Castle Rockettes baby tee. It was also too short for her, but she didn't seem to mind baring a little extra skin. She'd cut the sleeves off, and it looked more like a bra than a tank top.
"Hi, y'all," she cooed in a twangy Southern accent. I knew the drawl was one hundred and ten percent fake, reserved for coaxing customers to drop an extra dollar or two into the tip jar. Patrons weren't crazy about her tough-girl Boston accent, so she'd adopted her own version of a sweet Georgia lilt. I wasn't a fan. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends here, Amelia?" She drew out each syllable of my name, "A-meee-leee-yaaa," in a singsong drawl that drove me nuts.
"Everyone, this is Laura Holly, one of our bartenders. She'll be happy to bring you more drinks."
Laura grinned. "Sure thing! Can I get any of you another brewski?" I rolled my eyes at her rehearsed Southern charm. She was laying it on thick, and, as usual, it was working. The men practically drooled as she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and fluttered her lashes. Even the quiet drummer, Cliff, gave a low admiring whistle.
Candy didn't like the way Jared was eyeing the lovely bartender. She made her displeasure known with a loud cough and a hard elbow to Jared's ribs. It was good to know it wasn't just me she hated.
"I'd love another drink," Bobby drawled as he ogled her, instantly smitten.
"Comin' right up, stud." Laura gave a small curtsy and winked at him before leaving the room. I was relieved that Bobby found someone else to leer at. It was funny to think that I'd had countless fantasies about pinning him down in this very room, and now I couldn't wait to get away from him. Be careful what you wish for, am I right?
"If you're hungry, there should be enough snacks here to hold you until after sound check." I gestured to the smorgasbord of cheeses, meats, crackers, bite-sized sandwiches and more set up in an attractive display across the long buffet table. I'd gotten every refreshment Bobby had requested on the rider—the list of demands from his contract. The table was stocked with everything from chilled coconut water to a bottle of brandy and a bowl of green—and only green—peanut butter M&Ms. Rock stars are so needy.
"Actually, love, I'm craving something a little…sweeter." Bobby stared hungrily after Laura. "Like a Georgia peach." He cackled at his innuendo.
Cliff silently munched away on a handful of M&Ms, and Candy dragged Jared over to the table to fix a plate of snacks. Shawn stood in the corner of the room, texting away on his cell phone. He must have felt my eyes on him because he looked up and smiled, flashing me those sharp pearly whites again. "Is the owner in today, by chance?" he asked. "I'd like to introduce myself since we'll be around here all week."
"He's downstairs in his office, I think. I'd be happy to walk you down there," I offered. Anything to keep Mr. Moneybags happy.
I led him downstairs to Parker's office. My ears perked as we halted in front of the door. Parker's laughter could be heard from inside. A woman responded in hushed, sultry tones, too muffled to understand. I could hear my boss loud and clear, though. "Oh yeah, baby," he said, his voice unusually thick. "Right there…" His words dissolved into a husky moan.
I whirled away from the door, shocked. Seriously? First Kat—and now Parker? Another throaty growl erupted from Parker's office, followed by a passionate sigh. I blushed. When did Castle Rock become a sexual playground? And why am I the only one not getting any? I thought, blushing harder when Jared's rugged features flashed through my mind.
Behind me, Shawn cleared his throat, causing me to jump. Oh no. I wasn't the only one who could hear Parker and his mystery lover. I could kiss that promotion goodbye if Parker knew I'd let a client listen in on his afternoon booty call. I had to do something.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Stone," I said loudly. I flung myself in front of the office door, as if my body would shield his ears from the primal noises on the other side. "I, er, forgot that Mr. Deering had a meeting this afternoon."
"Right." Though his tone was dry, he didn't sound angry. In fact, there was an amused expression on Shawn's face as Parker's lover let out another loud sigh. His dark eyes sparkled with a hungry curiosity that made me uneasy.
"Very well, then," Shawn said in a good-natured tone. "I'll come back down when he's no longer tied up." He winked at me before disappearing back into the stairwell. I stared after him. What the hell…?
Another moan from Parker's office sent me scurrying down the hall. Between the overheard booty calls, Bobby's lewd advances, and Stone's voyeuristic reaction to Parker's tryst, I felt dirty. Glancing down at my trashy skintight Castle Rockettes shirt was the last straw. Screw it. I need a break. I stalked toward my office.
Kat hobbled inside as I reached my door. She'd changed into a bright purple long-sleeved tee and skinny jeans. Catching sight of me, she made a beeline for my office. I held open my door and let her stumble past me, where she plopped down in the chair opposite my desk.
"Finally!" she cried, peeling off her boots. "Traffic was a bitch! I had to park in a garage off of Peachtree and hoof it the rest of the way here. Seriously regretting my choice of footwear right now." She rubbed a spot on her foot where a bright red blister was already forming. Ouch. Kat looked up at me. "What'd I miss?"
"You don't wanna know."
She made a face. "That bad, huh?" She glanced at my top. "I can't believe you're actually wearing that."
I sighed. "There's got to be a way to get rid of these without jeopardizing my promotion." I thought for a moment and then snapped my fingers. "What if we give the whole box of 'em to the merch booth and sell them during the show? Parker can't get mad if we turn a nice profit, right?"
Kat's eyes lit up. "Ame, that's brilliant!" She high-fived me. "Spoken like a true future venue co-owner," she said, winking. "I'll grab them from Parker's office and drop them by the merch booth."
"Actually," I said, gathering some walkie-talkies into a mesh bag, "how about I get them while you take these to the stage crew? It'll give you a chance to meet Bobby." Sound check was starting, and I wasn't ready to face Shawn just yet after our awkward encounter outside Parker's office.
"Really?" Kat snatched up the bag and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. "You're the best!" She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and ran her fingers through the strands to pump up the volume. "Wish me luck!" She winked and then bounded out of the office.
I closed the door and quickly tugged off my blazer so I could pull the tiny shirt over my head. It had been tighter than a corset, and I sighed with relief that I could finally breathe normally again. Parker would just have to understand that I couldn't run his venue for him if I suffocated.
After changing back into my crimson shirt and grey blazer, I printed the will call list and gathered several bundles of tickets to take to the box office out front.
I headed toward Parker's office first to see if the coast was clear to sneak in and snag the box of T-shirts. I was just in time to see Shawn Stone step into Parker's office. The door closed behind him.
I cringed. I wasn't about to barge into Parker's office while he was speaking with a client. Grabbing the shirts would have to wait. Inst
ead, I headed toward the box office to find our intern, Bronwyn Sinclair.
Bron sat at the box office window, smacking her gum and twirling a teeny strand of her hot pink hair around her finger as she flipped through the latest issue of Cosmo. "Hey!" she protested when I slid the will call list over the page she was reading.
I glanced down at the magazine. "That article on '9 Ways to Please Your Man in the Bedroom' can wait, honey. You're on the clock."
"Fine," the nineteen year-old grumbled. She rolled her heavily made-up eyes and slid the magazine back into her purse.
I sat the ticket bundles on the counter and gestured to the papers I'd given her. "There's a separate list for each night—this one is for tonight only. If you can't find a name under the Will Call section, check Bobby's guest list on the last page."
"Got it, boss lady. This ain't my first rodeo," Bron griped. She seemed extra moody today. I started to ask what was bothering her when something behind me caught her attention. Bronwyn's face lit up. "Sweet! 95Rox is here!"
I turned and shielded my eyes against the setting sun. A cargo van displaying the logo of our local rock station, 95Rox, was pulling to a stop in front of the gravel walkway. A man in a 95Rox baseball cap climbed out of the driver's seat and began unloading equipment from the back of the vehicle. Another man with a silver ponytail and goatee hopped out of the passenger side and approached us, waving. His torn jeans and faded 95Rox shirt made him look like a roadie.
Bronwyn groaned in disgust at the sight of him. "Ugh, seriously? Tim Scott is here? That dude is so lame. I was hoping they'd sent Charlie Chill instead."
Tim Scott was somewhat of a regional celebrity. Having spent the past thirty or so years in music journalism and radio, he'd had his fair share of breaking news reports—from an eye witness account of the fire at the Calexico Theater to an exclusive interview with Silver Echoes when they announced their reunion tour.
More recently, Tim spent most of his time in the studio hosting a syndicated music news show called Tune Talks. His show was widely popular across the southeast region—though he was based out of Atlanta, people tuned in from three states over to hear his up-to-the-minute news briefs on today's rock gods and their antics. He would also occasionally regale his audience with stories and anecdotes from his heyday interviewing and partying with the bands like The Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin. It was rare now for Tim to leave the studio—he preferred that the rock stars come to him.
"Good afternoon, ladies," he said as he reached us. "I," he paused for dramatic effect, "am Tim Scott. It's a pleasure to meet you both." Tim took my hand in his and pumped it up and down enthusiastically as Bronwyn groaned behind me. Tim didn't seem to notice.
My stomach fluttered. Tim Scott certainly wasn't the type of man to get my heart pounding, but his appearance at Castle Rock meant my little pet project of the last few months was a big deal. Tonight was the official return of the Pop Rock Prince himself—and the media was paying attention. Good publicity for Castle Rock was just what I needed to butter Parker up for that promotion next week. Not too shabby, Ame. I gave myself a mental high five.
"It's nice to meet you." I released his hand. "I'm Amelia Grace, and this is our promotions and booking intern, Bronwyn Sinclair." I inclined my head toward the narrow-eyed, pink-haired teen peering at him disdainfully from behind me. "She's a huge fan," I added with a wicked grin.
Bron wasn't amused. She let me know it by connecting her elbow to my rib with surprising force as she grudgingly stepped forward to shake Tim's hand. Oof! I grimaced and gingerly rubbed my ribcage. For a sprite of a girl, she packed some power.
Tim's face lit up. "Always nice to meet a fan." Before Bronwyn could protest, he launched into a story about one of his more "hip" Tune Talks installments. Bron glowered at me, but I ignored her and surveyed the gear being unloaded from the 95Rox van. It looked like Tim was planning to run a live broadcast—there was a 95Rox pop-up tent, a PA system with speakers, a microphone and headset—and super sexy radio guy!
My gaze landed on Tim's assistant, the tall man that had set up the broadcast equipment. Hot damn! He was lean and ruggedly handsome, with shaggy brown hair that curled up from under his black 95Rox baseball cap. Despite his slender build, I could see the muscles in his arms ripple as they flexed under the weight of the speakers he carried. He returned my stare, his grey eyes burning into me. I felt my cheeks grow warm and averted my gaze.
When I looked up again, he was smiling at me. Disguising a quick breath check under a cough, I walked steadily toward him. After all, as the manager of Castle Rock, I should introduce myself—especially to hot man candy working radio promotions in front of my venue. Right?
I opened my mouth to greet him as I drew near but cried out instead as I tripped over a speaker cord. The setting sun was suddenly blocked from view by a dark shape speeding through the air. Terror seized me. The cord I'd tripped on had yanked itself free from a speaker with such force that it pulled the speaker off of its stand. The huge black box was now hurtling straight for me.
MURDER AT CASTLE ROCK
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Murder Is Our Mascot Page 22
