Up some stairs and into the elusive, exclusive backstage area the bodyguard and I went. A high wall sheltered us from the actual stage and its surrounds. But it soon opened to a larger corridor with people rushing back and forth. The banging vibration of the bass seemed to seep through the walls, the music loud enough to make my ears ring. We made a sharp right turn, and the sort of industrial look gave way to a slick little lounge with a bar and fridge, a large arrangement of white orchids, bottles of water lined up on a side table, a glass bowl full of M&Ms (Adam’s favorite), and an Amazonian woman busy with her cell. Tall, brunette, vaguely terrifying, and wearing a pair of fifties-style Saint Laurent platform heels I’d had wet dreams of owning. Oh, good Lord, those shoes. I could have drooled. A cheap knockoff of them sat at home in my wardrobe. I was still saving them for a special occasion. But not this sort of special occasion. Coming here tonight, doing this, had seemed like more of a combat boot kind of situation. Storming the rock ‘n’ roll castle and all that.
“Thanks, Ziggy,” she said, dismissing the bodyguard before her gaze flicked over me with obvious disinterest. “You’ve got sixty seconds. Talk.”
“And who the hell might you be?” I asked, not so politely, refusing to be cowed.
At this, she smiled. “I’m Martha, Adam’s manager, and you?”
“Jill. Adam’s ex. But I’m sure the bodyguard already told you that.”
The speculative look in her eyes increased some hundred-fold. “So, what do you want, Adam’s ex?”
“To talk to Adam about something he sent me recently.”
She raised her chin. “The check. I didn’t know he’d done that.”
“You know everything he does?”
“Basically,” she said, tone blasé. “You have to understand, rock stars are all big, whiny babies who need someone running their lives, or everything goes to hell in a handbasket. For Adam, I am that someone. Next question. If the check is real, and you are who you say you are, why not just take the money and run?”
I sighed. “I thought about it. That album has been the bane of my existence ever since it came out. I can’t go anywhere without hearing the damn thing. Bars, gas stations, the grocery store…it’s like I’m being musically stalked.”
“The songs aren’t exactly complimentary toward you,” she allowed.
At this, I rolled my eyes. A terrible habit, but I couldn’t help myself. If someone said something breathtakingly obvious, my first impulse was always the silent and deadly, duh. “I’m not getting into that with you. It’s private. Well, it should be private. Though it would be fair to say that Adam’s version of our relationship and mine differ significantly. But the fact is, he’s been working on making it in the music business since long before I met him. It was his dream, and he worked hard and saw it through. Kudos to him. If he’d just sent me his share of the rent and so on for the period we lived together, then I wouldn’t be here right now. Because this check…it’s too much. Way too much.”
“Seven digits is impressive. But he can afford it, if that’s your concern.”
“I’m sure he can, but that’s not the point.”
“You’ve never given any interviews about him. Never sold any photos from when you were together. I’d have been alerted to it if you had.”
“And?”
Her gaze scanned my body, up and down. “Are you pregnant?”
“No.”
“Do you hope to get pregnant?”
“Good Lord. Get your mind out of my uterus. I just want to talk to him about the check.”
For a long moment, the manager chick, Martha, just stared at me. Then she said, “Interesting. Come with me.”
Then she was off, striding in those elegant towering high heels. I bet she could sprint in those suckers. It was like the whole world was her runway and she had places to be.
“Where are we going?” I asked, not quite jogging to keep up. Short legs sucked sometimes.
“You want to talk to Adam?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Yes or no, Jill? I don’t have time to screw around.”
“Yes, I want to talk to him,” I said, brows drawn down. “I need to talk to him.”
The various dressing rooms and storerooms and who knew what else gave way to larger hallways. Props, lights, and all sorts of things sat in neat piles here and there. Plenty of people moved to and fro, and more just hung around. Out through a pair of big double doors, and we were in a tunnel with a couple of security guards waiting alongside a large, shiny black Mercedes Benz SUV.
Martha opened the car’s back door. Once more, her cell sat in her hand, her gaze glued to the screen. “Get in.”
I hesitated. Of course, I did. Because where I came from, being lured into vehicles by relative strangers was generally believed to be a bad thing. And this woman didn’t even have the decency to first offer me candy or a kitten.
“I repeat, I do not have time to screw around. In a little less than two minutes’ time, Adam will be rushed straight through the backstage area and out here to the car,” said Martha, sounding vaguely bored. “Your choices are either getting in said vehicle, or having Bon return you to the audience area. Which will it be?”
The security dude gave me a glance. Pretty sure those bulges beneath his suit coat weren’t from
