Fanatically in Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  Beau’s lips took one final pass before he eased back, a satisfied smile on his face.

  I smoothed my hand over the hard hill of his working-boy bicep. “Why are you stopping?”

  “Because we both have jobs.”

  “You need to go in there and catch some sleep. And I could take the day off.”

  “No to both of those. The Paisley I know wouldn’t hide from Jaz. You meet her, hold your head up high, and don’t take any crap. Call me if you need backup or pastries.”

  My eyes held his a little longer than necessary before I finally stood. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  Beau’s boots landed on the wooden porch floor as he rose, planting a kiss on top of my head. “You can do this.”

  “Right.” I released what would probably be the second of hundreds of sighs for the day. “I guess I should go. I need to rip off the Band-Aid, dive in head-first, drink my poison . . .” I was out of metaphors and out of time.

  “See you later, Pop Princess.”

  I walked toward Shirley the Camry, my steps slow as if headed for doom.

  “Paisley?” Beau called.

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “I came back early because I missed you.”

  My heart stopped being anxious long enough to drink this in and hold the words close. “You did?”

  “I did. I thought about you a lot.” But he wasn’t smiling about it.

  “Right back at you, Beauregard.”

  “It’s a little annoying.”

  “Like poison ivy.”

  He held a porch post and grinned. “Want to go out this Friday night?”

  He and I had barely had time to have a proper date. But now that this Category Five Hurricane named Jaz had made landfall, there were no spare hours. We were insanely, impossibly behind. “It would have to be a late one.”

  He nodded and opened his screen door. “Sugar Creek convenience store is open twenty-four hours. They’ve got a heck of a deal on two-for-one nachos.”

  “Beauregard, I don’t put out for less than two-day-old hot dogs.”

  He laughed and gave me a slow wink. “Knock ’em dead today, babe.”

  Knock ’em dead.

  I would later rue those words.

  Chapter Five

  If you’d ever looked at the back of my desk, you’d see a chaotic tangle of cords and knots of wires so intricate, yet accidental, it would take hours to unravel. That was exactly what my stomach felt like as I drove Henry and me to Jaz’s temporary abode. The closer we got, the more I worried my car was too shabby, my purse too last season, my hair not styled on-trend, and my weight a little too extra. In my head, a tribal drum beat loudly, and with every slam of the mallet, I heard a new self-criticism. I should’ve gotten Botox, should’ve worn Spanx, should’ve made Henry drive, should’ve given up carbs.

  “I’m good enough. She’s not better than me. I’m good enough.”

  “What’s that?” Henry asked.

  “Nothing.” I made a left turn, slowing my speed, but only delaying the inevitable. “You can't take point on the Jaz Fan Fest, but yet you somehow have the time to tag along?”

  “You're still wearing your event planner training wheels,” Henry said. “We can’t afford to mess this up.”

  “Then maybe you should run the show.”

  Henry straightened his tie and popped a breath mint in his mouth. “That doesn't work for me.”

  “If I wind up in therapy over this, I’m sending the bills to you.”

  “Pay for all the therapy you’d need? Nobody’s made of that kind of money.”

  Flicking on my blinker, I jerked the wheel in a hard right, sending Henry smacking into the door.

  “Hey.” Henry rubbed a red spot on his forehead.

  “Sorry. Dodged a squirrel.” The GPS led us beneath a metal archway proclaiming we’d arrived at the Sugar Creek Hills golf course. We stopped at the security gate, gave them our information, and were waved on through. Our company had worked a few events in the exclusive neighborhood, but it still provided a shock to my system every time I got near. There were homes here that could rival any Los Angeles mansion. Even though our small town of Sugar Creek wasn’t overflowing in rich folks, the expensive subdivision didn’t lack for occupants.

  A few minutes later we pulled into the meandering driveway of a pink stucco Mediterranean that thumbed its nose at the more traditional Victorian and craftsman styles that dominated the town.

  Shutting off the ignition, I turned to Henry. “How are you feeling? Are you gonna use your big boy words in there, or will I need to translate for you again?”

  My partner gave me Death Stare Number Eight. “I will handle myself with professionalism as always.”

  I laughed as I got out of the car, enjoying seeing Henry off his game more than I should. Ten steps before we got to the front door, two refrigerator-sized men blocked our path.

  “Can I help you?” a man with a tall afro asked, his lips barely moving, his eyes hardly visible behind metal sunglasses.

  “Paisley Sutton and Henry Cole to see Jaz, please,” I said.

  The man lifted an arm as wide as a hundred-year oak and murmured into the watch on his wrist. Wearing an earpiece, he must’ve gotten the okay from a higher power, because he gave a curt nod. “Do you have any firearms, explosives, drugs, or processed food on your persons?”

  “No,” Henry said.

  “No, sir,” I echoed.

  Henry gave me the side-eye. “Her purse contains two Hershey bars and a bag of Mike and Ikes.”

  That little snitch.

  A second guard, bald as a baseball, held out his hand. “Your bag, please, ma’am.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. While I watched Number Two rummage through my things, Henry got a pat-down and a few waves of a sensor wand from the other one.

  After a completed security check that would put the TSA to shame, Bodyguard One declared us safe. “Please proceed to the front door and lightly knock. Do not ring the bell. Jaz might be meditating.”

  Was meditating code for mid-day selfie-taking session? “I’ll be taking that candy back,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Bodyguard One said. “I can’t let this trash in the house.”

  “I’m not facing Jaz without sugar.” I wrenched my treasure from his steel grip and hustled down the sidewalk, an apologizing Henry behind me. After a dainty rap against the door, I heard the clip-clop of heels inside before the door inched open. A young woman poked out her head, her top knot bobbing at a crooked angle on top of her scalp and hanging on for dear life.

  “Yes?” Eyes behind glasses darted to and fro while loud rap music seeped from the house.

  “Hi there.” I provided another introduction, growing weary of the protocol, but yet I wasn’t so far removed from the celebrity life that I didn’t understand.

  “Oh, Miss Sutton, Mr. Cole. Come on inside.”

  We stepped into a marble-floored foyer big enough to swallow my living room in one bite.

  “I’m Reese Riggins, Jaz’s personal assistant.” The blonde woman looked to be no more than twenty-five, slender as a sunflower stalk, and barely taller than my own five-foot-two.

  “Is Jaz available?” I yelled over the pounding music.

  “Yes.” Reese Riggins seemed oblivious to the volume. “She’s just finishing up her yoga.”

  From beyond the grand staircase before us came a familiar shrill holler. “Reese, what is in this smoothie? I asked for wild blueberries, not regular old berries! Did you think I couldn’t taste the difference? And where’s my special straw? This one is all bendy! Do I have to do everything around here?”

  I smiled sympathetically. “She sounds very zen.”

  The young woman pushed up her glasses. “I’ll let her know you’re here. Feel free to make yourself at home.”

  While Reese ascended the stairs toward the dragon’s lair, Henry and I glanced at the palatial accommodations around us. We meandered to a living room, the
floor covered in a massive leopard patterned rug with gray leather couches aimed toward a two-story fireplace. Over the mantle hung a life-size painting of the one and only Jaz.

  Henry pointed toward the gaudy display. “Do you think she has signed prints of that?”

  “The woman’s only here a week, and she had to redecorate?” It reminded me of the hotel rooms we’d stay in during tours, where Jaz would haul out candles and framed photos of her own pouty face.

  Henry stared at the painting like it was the Mona Lisa. “I find it tasteful and evocative.”

  “Then, I’m pretty sure the Louvre would be a huge disappointment to you.” Ten minutes later, I checked my phone for the time, as we were still waiting for the arrival of the Divine Miss J. “One more minute, and I’m leaving.”

  “We’re not leaving, Paisley,” Henry said.

  “Jaz is making us wait on purpose. She’s establishing dominance and control. We had an appointment and—”

  “Paisley, darling!” Jaz chose that moment to float down the staircase like Scarlet O’Hara. Gone was the wig, giving us the full effect of how gorgeous Jaz truly was. Her father was from Hong Kong, and her mother was of mixed Scottish and Asian blood. When you put that genetic cocktail together and shook it a bit, you got the unique, exotic beauty that was Jaz. Her thick black hair hung in waves down her back, and her chiseled face required no contour. Almond-shaped brown eyes conveyed an allure that beckoned to join her in something leading to trouble. “I’m so glad you and your handsome friend are here at last!” She’d poured herself into a fitted gray halter top and black leather miniskirt, and every step flexed her enviably toned legs. Also, one with a yen for high heels, Jaz sported spiked ankle boots that looked more like weapons than footwear. “Kiss, kiss!”

  Catching my look of annoyance, Jaz embraced Henry first and kissed his now rosy cheeks.

  When she aimed those lips toward me, I held up a hand. “How about we just get down to business?”

  Jaz’s ears perked as she frowned. “What’s that?”

  “I said, how about we just—”

  “No, the music. Tee Pee, turn that garbage down!” Jaz screeched. Within seconds the house went quiet. “My boyfriend is an aspiring rap star and hasn’t learned that louder isn’t necessarily better. Now, where were we?”

  I think Henry was ogling Jaz, and I was wishing for a teleportation machine to send me back to last week when I should’ve stuck to my refusal to deal with this fan fest. “We were going to review the week’s events and discuss tonight’s opening concert.”

  “Perf!” Jaz crooked her finger in what was probably a fantasy-come-true gesture for Henry.

  Henry and I settled onto the oversized couch opposite Jaz.

  I scrolled through notes on my iPad. “We start tonight with a light dinner of finger foods, and the catering company should arrive within the hour to set up in the ballroom.”

  “Did you get the pescatarian menu request I sent?” Jaz curled her legs beneath her.

  “Yes,” I said. “But seven a.m. this morning was a little late for the caterers to come up with freshly sourced Chilean sea bass. Beaver Lake seems to be all out of those for the season.”

  “Fine.” Her gaze narrowed, probably deciding how much sarcasm she would allow. “I’m sure whatever is fixed will be totes sufficient.”

  “There will be only a few hundred people here tonight. The handful of fans you selected, the folks on your guest list, as well as leaders and business owners from the Sugar Creek community who paid out the nose to attend. And the press, of course.”

  Jaz studied a manicured nail, not even bothering to pretend to be interested. “Very good. Henry, how about you tell me about yourself?”

  Henry opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “Jaz, we have mere hours before this whole thing spins into motion. We still need to discuss the show, the events for tomorrow—”

  French doors at the back of the room opened, and a man wearing a towel walked barefoot into the living room. “Wassup, my lady!” His dreadlocks danced as he all but skipped to Jaz and wrapped her in a wet hug. “Gimme kisses, my little campfire marshmallow.”

  Jaz slithered out of the man’s hold. “Tee Pee, you’re getting me wet!” She slapped away his hands as if he were dripping tar instead of water from a dip in the pool.

  He shrugged it off and stuck out a fist toward me to bump. “Hey, little dudes, I’m Little Tee Pee, Jaz’s main squeeze.”

  “Little Tee Pee. How… quaint.” My online trolling had informed me Little Tee Pee was only twenty-four to Jaz’s thirty-three. He had dirty blond hair he kept wrapped in a wide bandana and a collection of gold chains at his neck that looked straight out of 1985.

  “Yeah. Like, I rap, right? But I dig national parks. I want to promote sick beats and camping.”

  Henry’s voice was dry as a fallen magnolia leaf. “What a unique combination."

  “My first song hit the charts a few months ago. Maybe you've heard of it? ‘I want S’more of Your Pine-Scented Love.’”

  Jaz had recently divorced music producer Apollo Fox, and her rebound boy was quite an eclectic pick. “I’m not much for rap, but Henry here sings it nonstop.” I grabbed Henry and gave his shoulder a friendly whack. “He’d love a live demo.”

  “Perhaps another time.” Henry sliced me with a look.

  “Hey, how about we have the rest of this meeting outside at the pool?” Tee Pee suggested with all the enthusiasm of a Labrador. “Did you bring your swimsuits?”

  “Of course not,” Henry said.

  “Mine’s at the dry cleaners.” I waved my hands in front of Jaz’s blank face to get her attention. “Trina Sparkles arrives an hour before the concert, and Rolling Stone has sent a photographer to be here soon after. They’ll want to get a few quick shots of the Electric Femmes.”

  That was not one of my favorite details of the evening. This might’ve been Jaz’s week, but there were a few events in which I had to step back into Electric Femme mode and play the part of a happily reunited band member. The thought of the reunion concert at the end of the festival was enough to give me permanent nausea.

  Reese, the harried assistant, reappeared. “Jaz, Johnny Pikes is here.”

  Jaz spun on the poor girl. “Did I or did I not ask you to make me a new smoothie?”

  “Yes, you did. And I was, but—”

  “No buts.” Jaz pointed toward the kitchen.

  “Totally one of the titles of my songs,” Little Tee Pee said. “No Butts Near the Campsite of My Dreams.”

  Henry looked at the man like a circus oddity.

  Reese pushed up her glasses. “But Jaz, Mr. Pikes brought—”

  “For the love of probiotics, will you just go?” Jaz turned back to me, dismissing her assistant. “You know how puffy my skin gets if I don’t have my fruits and veggies. And I need it now.”

  Reese hesitated a moment longer before finally nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, where were we?” Jaz tapped a nail to her smooth chin. “Ah, yes, the concert.” She paused at the sound of the doorbell. “Tee Pee, get the door, would you? That will be Johnny.”

  I straightened my posture and took a few cleansing breaths. At one time in my life, there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done to have met Jaz’s manager Johnny Pikes. He was music royalty, and at fifty-five, had the Midas touch. Every career he managed took off like wildfire. Pikes represented the crème de la crème of current and future music legends.

  Little Tee Pee returned with Johnny by his side.

  “Jaz, you’re looking wonderful.” Johnny greeted his megastar with a hug. Genetics had been good to the man, as his face showed barely a crease, and his full head of brown hair looked the same as it had ten years ago. “Arkansas suits you.”

  Her smile for her manager was frosty and short-lived. “I don’t think I’ll be buying a summer home here anytime soon.” Jaz made quick work of introducing Henry and me.

  Johnny shook my hand with a firm grip. “I�
�m a fan of your earlier work, Paisley.”

  Oh. Would that be my time with the Electric Femmes or the diarrhea medicine jingle I did last year? “Thank you, Mr. Pikes. It’s an honor.”

  “Your Enchanted Events has saved us in our time of need,” he said. “Sometimes, Jaz gets a little stressed and overwrought. We all have bad days, right?”

  I couldn’t recall the last time I’d pushed someone into oncoming traffic, but whatever helped him sleep at night.

  Reese Riggins scurried back into the den. “Here’s your smoothie, Jaz.”

  Her boss took the proffered glass. “With wild blueberries?”

  “The wildest.”

  “I’m very proud of this calm demeanor I’m seeing, Jaz,” Johnny said. “It’s important for everyone that we all move on, forgive and forget, right?”

  Jaz frowned. “Right.”

  Reese wrung her hands, her voice barely more than a squeak. “Mr. Pikes, I hadn’t had a chance to update—”

  “Hello, Jaz.”

  Like a scene from a soap opera, a new character stepped into the picture, and my eyes widened at the sight of this late edition.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Reese said. “America Valdez is here.”

  America, clearly unharmed from her bus mishap, wandered into the living room, her designer sunglasses extra dark and her skirt extra short. “Don’t everyone rush to greet me now.”

  Jaz spun on her manager. “What is she doing here? Absolutely not!” She advanced on America, but Johnny blocked her charge. “Get her out right this second.”

  “No can do, Jaz.” Johnny’s voice carried a note of warning. “You said you’d do anything to restore your image, and this is the next phase of the plan.”

  Jaz looked like she was a second away from morphing into Medusa. “I agreed to this homespun festival you cooked up, but I will not let you ruin it by bringing in that no talent, lip-syncing, pink-haired—”