“Maybe, yeah,” I say, glancing around the room and trying to avoid her eye. She’s attractive, yes, and maybe if I wasn’t working, I’d respond to the flirting, but I’m on the job, which makes it impossible. But maybe I should take her number. I don’t know anyone in LA, and it might be helpful to have someone I can call on. And who knows? Maybe a date could be fun, if I ever get time off. It’s been a long time since I went out with a girl. I hand her my phone, and she inputs her number before handing it back.
“I should stay close,” I say, moving past her and toward Luna, who is now at the far end of the room.
“Oh, Will?” Natalie calls after me.
I turn.
“I found this on the dressing table when we arrived,” she says, pulling an envelope out of her handbag. It has Luna’s name written across it in a childish scrawl, the letters shaky and block printed with a black Sharpie.
“What is it?” I ask, reaching for it.
Natalie shakes her head. “I don’t know, but Luna’s mom told me if a letter showed up for Luna, I was to give it to you, not to her. I’m sorry. I totally forgot.”
“Thanks,” I say, tearing the envelope open and pulling out the piece of paper inside.
“What is it?” Natalie asks, trying to peer over my shoulder.
I’M WATCHING YOU, BITCH. THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING. NO MORE APPEARANCES OR YOU DIE.
“Nothing,” I mutter, shoving the letter back in the envelope. “Where did you say you found it?”
Natalie shrugs. “On the dressing table.”
“You didn’t see who put it there?”
“No,” she says, reaching for the envelope. “What does it say? Who’s it from?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, snatching the envelope away before she can grab it. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone around?”
Natalie frowns, thinking. “There was a guy wearing a hat. But I think he works for the venue.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t remember. He was walking away, so I didn’t really see him. I just noticed him because usually roadies aren’t in the green room area.”
“What color was the hat?” I ask her.
“Black, I think.”
“We’re leaving,” a gruff voice says behind me.
I look around. It’s Marty and he’s scowling at me while Luna stands beside him, glowering unhappily in my direction.
“She wants to go home,” Marty says, jerking his head in Luna’s direction.
I stuff the envelope in my inside pocket, hoping she didn’t see it, before leading Marty and Luna toward the exit.
“This isn’t a club, mate,” Marty says to me as we push through the crowd. “You’re not here to pull.”
“What?” I ask, my eyes on Luna, who has been waylaid by the guy from before with the slicked-back hair and diamond watch.
“You’re not paid to chat up women,” Marty tells me as we wait for them to finish their conversation. “If you want to get laid, do it on your own time.”
“I wasn’t,” I splutter, indignant.
“Of course you weren’t,” Marty says, slapping me on the arm. “Just do your damn job.”
Gritting my teeth, I pull out the envelope from my pocket. “This showed up earlier.”
As soon as Marty sees it, he snatches the envelope straight out of my hand. “Where’d you find it?” he demands.
“Her dressing table,” I tell him.
As he reads the letter, I pull out my phone and text the limo driver, telling him to pull up to the front of the hotel.
“Where’s your car?” I ask Marty.
“I valeted it.”
“Give me the ticket.”
“Why?” he asks.
“You go in the limo,” I tell him. “A decoy. To be safe. I’ll take Luna home in your car.”
“It’s a brand-new Tesla,” Marty says.
“Okay,” I answer with a bemused shrug. “Can I have the valet ticket?”
Grumpily he hands it to me, before shoving the envelope into his back pocket. “Keep your mouth shut about this, all right?” he says warningly.
I glance at Luna, who is still locked in conversation with the slicked-back-hair guy. Up close I can see his scalp and realize he’s trying to cover his encroaching baldness. He’s got his phone out and appears to be asking her for a selfie. Luna poses with him, and he puts his arm around her as he leans in close and snaps away.
I shove Marty aside and make a beeline toward them. When I reach them, I step on the guy’s foot hard and fast, grinding my heel into his toes. He yelps and drops his phone, letting go of Luna to dive for it. I push between them and am rewarded with the look of relief I see on Luna’s face.
“What the hell was that about?” Marty growls as I steer Luna toward the door, my arm a buffer between her and the crowd.
I glance at Luna. She knows I saw that sleazeball’s hand inching lower and lower down her back and that’s why I stepped in, but from her pleading expression, she doesn’t want me to tell Marty.
“Nothing,” I grunt, shoving open the door to an industrial kitchen with my shoulder and glancing backward to make sure the guy isn’t following us. He isn’t—he’s hopping on one foot and swearing about his smashed phone screen.
“Do you know who that was?” Marty demands angrily. “He’s only the biggest music producer in the world.”
“So what?” I ask.
“You just broke his damn foot!”
“I didn’t break it,” I say quietly. If I had wanted to break it, I think to myself, I would have broken it, and next time I see him put his hands on a girl without her permission, I’ll do more than break his damn foot.
I throw open an emergency exit door and lead Marty and a stone-faced Luna out into a back alley behind the hotel, where the limo driver has already pulled up. I open the back door, and Luna is about to climb in when I stop her.
“Marty’s taking the limo,” I tell her, waving the valet ticket. “We’re taking his car.”
“If you crash it, I’ll kill you,” Marty says, wagging his finger in my face as I shut the limo door on him.
I nod, whatever, and watch the limo drive away.
“Why are we not going with them?”
I turn and find Luna looking at me, with a slightly fearful expression on her face, as though she’s afraid to find herself alone in the alley with me. I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to tell her about the letter. “Standard protocol,” I blurt. “Come on, let’s find the valet stand.”
She pulls a face at me and then, huffing, struts off down the alley on those dangerous-looking skyscraper heels.
LUNA
I can still feel Craig’s hand on me like a thumping bruise from a recently occurred injury. There’s a thump in my head, too, not from champagne, as Marty wouldn’t let me have any, but from something else. Rage. I can’t believe I let Craig touch me like that and I didn’t say anything, didn’t tell him to get his hands off me, or push him off. I froze.
I’m glad Will did what he did, but Marty’s right. We can’t afford to upset Craig Matthers. I’m meant to be recording a song with him in the new year. He’s one of the biggest producers in the world. I tell myself that’s why I didn’t say anything to him myself. It wasn’t because I froze.