lody
"Who else has seen this?" I asked, feeling my face flush with anger.
"No one. As far as we know," Chip, my new head of security, said. "Besides the two of them, of course."
"How did you get a hold of it?" I asked.
"Look, maybe the less you know about how we handle—"
"You can stop right there," I said. "This is my tour. It’s my na on the marquee and it’s my na on the ticket. The label may be paying your salary, but I manage myself, which ans I’m personally responsible for every perforr, crewmber, and person in the audience over the next thirteen weeks. I may just look like a young woman to you, but I can assure you, I’ve been in the business all my life and know exactly how dark and deep the cracks run."
Chip nodded. "The phones that were issued to the band at the start of tour rehearsal are property of the label. Therefore, Red Banana Records maintains access to all communications and recorded material contained on them."
"You sound more like a lawyer for the label than security," I said.
"It’s getting harder for to tell the difference myself these days," Chip said, a slight grin showing through his silver moustache.
"We need to know for sure. Where the hell is Gill?" I asked, but before Chip could answer, I’d walked off the stage and was headed for the band’s dressing room.
I was a ball of rage. We’d spent months carefully vetting every single tour staff mber and run background checks on all of them, including the musicians, roadies, and technical crew mbers. Even the ones who’d been with for years. And yet, this sli bag sohow squeezed through the cracks. Another predator waiting to strike.
At least this ti I’d had a heads-up and could do sothing about it.
I busted through the dressing room doors hoping to see the whole band, but only finding my long-suffering drumr, Rod Archer, on the floor doing his usual pre-show yoga.
"Where the fuck is Gill?" I barked out.
"Last ti I saw him he was talking to so fans," Rod said, in between breaths, completely unfazed by my dramatic entrance. Over the last twelve years, Rod had seen at my absolute bat shit craziest, and it would take a hell of a lot more than my storming around backstage to break the flow of his chi, or whatever he called it.
"What fans? Where were they?" I asked.
"I dunno. So girls. He was by that tent where we did the VIP et and greet earlier."
I groaned. "By the press tent?"
"I guess so, yeah."
Great. The absolute last thing I needed was for the press to get a front row view of murdering my new guitarist. Of course, if Doc Diamond was still my manager, Gill would already be in an unmarked grave before I ever knew there was a problem. Then again, Doc would also secretly be pocketing an extra fifteen percent of the tour’s profits.
"I’ll radio my team," Chip said, still a bit winded from our jog to the backstage area.
I nodded.
Chip Robertson had co highly recomnded by Stracey, the incomparable vocalist and perforr, who he’d done five tours with. And while I was impressed with his credentials and work so far, I was worried that he might not have the physical strength and stamina he once had. After what had happened with my last bodyguard, there was no way I was going with soone who didn’t have experience and a spotless record. Unfortunately, that narrowed the pool down to slightly older candidates.
"Blue Team, this is Team Leader," Chip said over his radio. "I need a twenty on Zeppo, over."
Starting at an early age, I’d been hounded rcilessly by the paparazzi, so our security team always used code nas when discussing mbers of the band. Sotis it was cartoon characters or historical figures. Once, I got to be Joan (as in of Arc). On this tour, the musicians were nad after an old cody group called the Marx Brothers. My code na was Maggie, after Margaret Dumont, the most famous of the female leads. Of course, Chip had to explain all of this to , as I knew nothing about the Marx Brothers, other than that they made black and white movies and that one of them had a big moustache and smoked a cigar.
"Roger, Team Leader. This is Blue Three. I’ve got eyes on Zeppo," a voice crackled back on Chip’s radio.
"Roger that, Blue Three. Please escort Zeppo to the band’s dressing room. Maggie’s orders. And collect his phone as well. This is a code ’Spanish Archer,’ so act accordingly."
"Roger, Team Leader. Out."
"What’s a Spanish Archer?" I asked.
"It ans soone’s getting fired," he replied.
I shook my head, still not understanding the reference.
"You know," Chip said, thrusting his elbow outward. "Spanish Archer. The old ’El Bow.’"
"Thank you, Chip," I said, trying my best to smile through my seething anger at Gill.
Just then, the rest of my band ca into the dressing room together.
"Hey, Boss," Vick Weathers, my keyboardist and musical director, said. Multi-instruntalist Andy Schultz, and legendary U.K. bassist and veteran road dog Edgar "Puddin’" Daily had all done multiple tours with , but none of them had put in the ti that Rod had.
Gill Crenshaw, on the other hand, had only been in the band for two months. Both of which were spent rehearsing for what my label kept referring to as my "career redefining" tour. Gill was a top player who ca highly recomnded by Puddin’. They played together on Brooks Martin’s last world tour and had great on-stage chemistry together. Gill seed like the perfect fit for this tour, which was now in jeopardy before we’d even played the first show. Tonight’s gig was a charity event hosted by Gunnach Pharmaceuticals which was supposed to serve as a dress rehearsal for the tour, which made this whole situation even more ssed up.
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