"What I didn't agree with," Rachel said, "was that the problem would work itself out. I had to do something. I'd heard of a PR crisis manager who'd saved Lorelei Vogel's career a couple of years ago-remember what a mess that girl was? But I didn't want to call this PR lady and explain Martin's problem. My contract says you guys could sue me if I did that."

"I wouldn't-" Quentin started to protest.

Rachel held one finger up to his lips. "You haven't been yourself since Thailand. I wasn't going to take that chance, not when I'm supporting my sister and my brother. Anyway . . . " She took a deep breath. "I called Manhattan Music and told them the band was about to break up because you were jealous of Erin and Owen. They panicked, predictably. I made them promise not to say who called, just to convey that message, and I suggested the crisis manager. I figured when she came down to straighten you out, she would discover Martin's problem and solve it. If anybody could have finagled a way out of that mess, it was her. But she was on maternity leave, so her company sent Sarah."

"Was it Wendy Mann?" Quentin asked hoa.r.s.ely. When Rachel nodded, he looked up at the metal ceiling and sent a silent thanks to baby Asher for entering the world at just the right time, so Sarah would be sent to save them all.

"I just wanted you to know," Rachel said sadly. "I'm glad it all worked out for us, more or less. But Sarah's thought the whole time that you're in love with Erin. And if she's angry about being lied to, that might be why she's still missing."

Quentin hugged Rachel, letting her know without words that she'd done the right thing, and she was a lot smarter than him.

Then he crossed the trailer, stepped into the setting sunlight, and slammed the flimsy door behind him. With one last glance around the parking lot for the BMW, he slid into the payload of Owen's truck and composed an e-mail message to Sarah.

17.

Sarah, I love you. Please come back to me. I'm so sorry. Rachel was the one who called you down to help Martin. The story about me was fake. She didn't tell me any of that until just now. And I'm sure the denouement you witnessed at my house was a freak show. I didn't mean for you to find out that way. I was going to tell you everything about me this afternoon, and all the rules, but you weren't at your hotel or my house, and you didn't answer your cell. I had no idea Erin was pregnant. If I had, I wouldn't have let you go on thinking the baby was mine. I swear I had nothing to do with it. I last had s.e.x with Erin two years ago, on Memorial Day. I remember this specifically because we played a gig in Auburn, and there was a row. I do love her, but not the way you meant the day you asked in the emergency room. Honestly, Sarah, I know I've hurt your feelings over and over in the last ten days, because I thought I had to for the band. It's killed me every time. Please don't go to New York. If you're there, please come back. If you don't come back, I'll come get you, but tell me your travel plans so we don't chase each other back and forth across the continent. You know I could take that Fawn guy, and he will never, ever make you aloo gobi. They're waving to me. I have to go. I'm getting a little desperate here, Sarah. I'd skip the Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Event to come find you, but then I'd be in worse trouble with you if you got fired. Right? Now I really have to go. This is driving me out of my freaking mind. I need you back. Where are you? Please come.

For long periods, Sarah would lie on one of the sofas in Quentin's den with her head in Nine Lives' lap, staring up at the cat-eye contacts that hid his pupils, dilated from methamphetamine. His story, terrifying the first time she'd heard it almost nine months ago, was familiar enough now that she could tune it out. She was out to get him, Manhattan Music had it in for him, the proceeds from his alb.u.m sales were being used to bribe the TV entertainment news shows into calling him a has-been. He flipped through the channels, trying to find one of these shows to make his point to her. For some reason, each time he gave up, he stopped the TV on a NASCAR race. Whenever he paused, Sarah responded calmly, "Mmmm-hmmm. I understand what you're saying."

Then he would jump up, take a swig of vodka from his flask, and pace around and around the coffee table as if he couldn't figure out how to escape the U of sofas, ranting about the very real offense Sarah had committed against him. The food was bad in jail, and it was hard to get sushi and meth brought in when Sarah had cut off his money.

The cycle went on for hours while Sarah plotted a way out of this. There wasn't a phone in the house. Her phone was in her bag in the BMW. That was her only hope, really: 911. There was no escaping in the BMW. Even if she managed to dash out to the driveway and slip into the convertible without Nine Lives catching her, his bodyguard would be waiting down at the gate. With a crowbar, because the bodyguard planned ahead.

Nine Lives pounced on the sofa. "How long did you think they'd keep me in Rio, Sarah?" he purred close to her face. "It's fine to bribe the police, but when you leave, they start taking bribes from someone else." His hot breath was on her cheek. He was near enough to bite her.

She tried to concentrate on NASCAR. "I was scared, Bill," she said. "You cut me with your ring when you hit me."

He smiled grimly and rubbed the scar in his plucked eyebrow. "And you need to be more careful with that shoe." He leaned even closer. His lips touched her cheek as he growled at her, "Have you ever gotten st.i.tches in a Brazilian jail?"

His soft hand with the long fingernails filed to points grazed her rib cage and headed south. She tried not to tense. This NASCAR race was actually pretty exciting.

His fingers reached her hand guarding her lap. His nails rasped across the diamond-and-emerald ring. He started back, then picked up her hand to examine the stone more closely. "Speaking of rings," he said. "You're in the national gossip columns with this singer from the Cheatin' Hearts. And they call me your ex-boyfriend. Did he give you this ring?" He moved his soft hand to her throat. "And the necklace? What happened to the ankhs I gave you?"

"You know it's not like that, Bill," she said with reproach. "I've told you I never date musicians." This wouldn't have been a lie ten days ago. "It's business. New musicians, new jewelry."

Nine Lives sniffed. "I have something special for you, too." He pulled a tiny bottle and a packaged syringe from his pocket and showed them to her. "Kryptonite."

Sarah hoped this wasn't a new delusion. She said carefully, "I'm not Supergirl."

"Figuratively, Sarah," he said. "Do you think I'm crazy? It's bee venom. You made the local paper with your little problem."

"Bee venom," Sarah repeated emotionlessly. "Where did you get bee venom?"

"Hospital," he said simply. "They bottle it and give it to people with the allergy, to build up a tolerance. You'd be amazed what you can get anywhere for four thousand dollars and some crystal."

Sarah laughed. "You're going to shoot me up with bee sting ?" Wait until she told Wendy about this. The gasoline-huffing boy band Wendy had handled last year didn't hold a candle to Nine Lives and his bee venom.

He popped the sterile wrapping around the syringe. He was serious.

"You know that'll kill me," she breathed.

He said offhandedly, "If I give you enough."

She vaulted over the back of the sofa and half ran, half fell down the stairs, then dashed down the hall to Martin's room. Slammed the door, locked it, jerked out the top left-hand drawer of the dresser, and opened the gun case.

It was empty.

The door boomed next to her, and something slammed into her shoulder. She fell on Martin's bed in a ma.s.s of wood splinters and plaster dust, with Nine Lives' bodyguard heavy on top of her.

"h.e.l.lo, Goonie," she groaned.

"h.e.l.lo, Sarah," he said pleasantly. He stood her up and brushed her off casually enough. But he gripped her upper arm hard as he pulled her up the stairs.

"Please don't let Bill play around with that bee venom," she whispered to him. "It could kill me."

He stopped her on the stairs and turned to her, his pupils dilated. He'd started using, too. "You and me used to be cool, Sarah," he told her. "You used to be all right. But while you were keeping Bill in prison, we were all stuck in Rio without a paycheck. Let him pa.s.s the bee s.h.i.t to me, and I'll shoot you up myself."

Nine Lives was waiting in the kitchen. The two of them escorted Sarah down the driveway and held her while she recited the code for Nine Lives' driver to open the gate. She glanced hopefully toward the bushes, but of course all the paparazzi were at the Nationally Televised Holiday Concert Event. She gazed the other way, toward the Timberlanes' driveway, but their large car was gone.

Nine Lives' driver, Fred, stood next to the open back door of a limo with a wrecked front end. Before Sarah slid onto the seat, she looked into his eyes. Dilated pupils. "Et tu Brute?" she asked.

Fred said, "Shut up and get your little Caesar a.s.s in the car." Even though she got in without protest, he gave her a shove across the seat, muttering, "Et tu Brute."

"Come on, Fred," she coaxed. "Bill could kill me with that bee venom. You're not mad enough at me to kill me, are you? You're not willing to kill a girl over a few paychecks?"

"It ain't the paychecks so much," he said. "It's what happens to you in Rio when your cash is cut off. Why couldn't you just let him f.u.c.k you?" He slammed the door.

Sarah pressed her cold hands to her face. She was about to cruise Birmingham in the methmobile. She was going to die here in the methmobile of an induced allergy attack at the hands of a demented rock star while the man she loved played a country concert under Vulcan's bare b.u.t.tocks. And it wasn't funny if she couldn't e-mail it to Wendy.

The doors opened on both sides. All three men reached out to her. Goonie sat on her legs and held her wrists while Fred put his knee on her throat.

"This isn't necessary," she croaked.

"I seen what you did to Bill with that shoe," Fred told her.

Beyond Fred's leg, Nine Lives stuck the needle into the small bottle again.

"Thank you for using a clean syringe," she said.

Nine Lives a.s.sured her, "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, Sarah."

Fred and Goonie laughed.

"How do you know how much to give me?" she asked.

"I'll give you just a little at first," Nine Lives said.

"And if your head gets swole up," said Fred, "we'll know that was too much."

She asked, "Can't I just have some meth?"

Goonie said, "Bet you fifty she keeps a straight face through this."

"You're on," said Fred.

"I wouldn't take that bet," said Nine Lives as he jabbed the needle into her shoulder.

She watched several red-ringed white hives pop up on her arms, and she gripped the limo seat hard as her throat began to close. Nine Lives on one side and Goonie on the other just watched her, amused. It got worse and worse, and then it didn't get any worse. She wouldn't die from this dose.

Through the sparkles flashing in front of her eyes, she tried to watch the Cheatin' Hearts concert on the small TV hanging from the ceiling of the limo. Quentin wore the green college T-shirt with the fire-breathing dragon, sleeves rolled up to expose his tanned biceps. The cameras seemed to take perverse pleasure in cutting to his ancient deck shoes as he adjusted the sound of his ba.s.s guitar with a pedal. But through song after song, most of the broadcast zoomed in on his handsome face, the flash of his deep green eyes, his tangled waves of brown hair.

His hair. The Cheatin' Hearts weren't wearing their characteristic cowboy hats.

He hit the money note at the end of "Party in the Double-Wide," but after that, his voice grew raspy. He traced a circle in the air with his finger, grabbed a water bottle at the base of his mike stand, and walked offstage. The other three began an instrumental without him.

The camera swung to Erin, who looked especially beautiful tonight, in her way. Her b.o.o.bs were enormous in the bustier she wore with her Daisy Dukes, her blond curls were equally enormous and bouncy, and her carefully made-up frosted pink lips shone in the spotlights. She looked happy. The camera flashed to Owen, who looked happy. The camera flashed to Martin, who focused on his guitar.

Martin's shirt was off.

The instrumental ended quickly and Quentin returned, fist to his mouth, still coughing a little. "Sorry about that, folks," he said. "Y'all may have heard I had a little problem this afternoon. It ain't a party until somebody pulls out the beta-agonist." The crowd cheered like he'd named a beer brand. He smiled his lopsided smile and shook his head at Erin.

"Now he's going to mention you again," Nine Lives said, absorbed in the show. "I swear, if he mentions you again-"

"Sarah," Quentin said into the microphone, "if you don't show up, we might just release our third alb.u.m free on the Internet." The crowd cheered again.

Sarah thought, There goes my job.

Throughout "Honky-tonk h.e.l.l," Sarah focused on the TV, Quentin's smiling green eyes, his smooth lazy voice. He was so happy and comfortable onstage, a joy to watch. Nine Lives stared at her.

The song ended. Nine Lives said, "He'd better not mention you again."

Quentin asked, "Have y'all been watching the World Poker Tournament?" He paused for the crowd's cheer. "Y'all know h.e.l.l's Belle, the poker queen? That's Sarah's mother, and this song's for her." The band began "Naked Mama."

Sarah thought, There goes Christmas in Fairhope.

"I hate country music," said Nine Lives.

"Me, too," said Goonie.

Sarah said, "I used to."

The song ended. The camera caught Quentin mouthing to Martin, "Where is she?"

Nine Lives leaned forward with his chin in his hands, pointed fingernails p.r.i.c.king his face. "You made that guy fall in love with you," he murmured. "Just like you did me. And you f.u.c.ked him, when you wouldn't f.u.c.k me."

"Oh, did you think he was talking about me ?" Sarah laughed. "No, he's talking about a different Sarah."

"Sarah," said Quentin, "you need to get your purty pink-haired self up here."

Nine Lives watched her, waiting for her to crack. She concentrated on Quentin, who had his hands in his hair.

"Sarah pointed out to me that this next song could be interpreted as being about backdoor action," he said. "So we're dedicating it to Nine Lives, who's in prison in Rio." The band started "Come to Find Out," and the crowd roared.

Nine Lives scratched his cheekbone with one pointed fingernail, leaving a red mark. Then he looked at his watch. "Fred," he called, "the concert will be over in a few minutes. Let's go get him."

"What do you mean, 'go get him?'" Sarah asked, trying her best to sound calm. "Do you mean the singer? What do you want with him?"

"He's got a little c.o.ke problem, right?" Nine Lives asked. "OD'd recently in Thailand? If you've been on his a.s.s, he hasn't done it since. I'll bet he's really bluesing for some c.o.ke. It just so happens that I have some c.o.ke. I thought I'd get him good and hopped up. And then I'll let him watch while I show you what really happens in a Brazilian prison."

Sarah looked at Goonie. Goonie smiled at her.

She watched trees and buildings and signs spin by out the windows of the limo for a few moments while it sank in.

She said quietly, "The thing is, Bill, he's not really on c.o.ke. You know how you'd collapse at nightclubs in Rio and I'd start a rumor in the press that you had diabetes? Well, the Cheatin' Hearts are the opposite. Quentin has asthma and allergies. He doesn't do c.o.ke."

"Wow, you can lie with a straight face," said Nine Lives.

"Bill, you have to believe me. Quentin's never done drugs. He was in the ICU in Thailand because of an allergy. If you c.o.ke him up like he's an addict, he really will OD. You'll kill him."

"Sarah," Nine Lives said condescendingly, "if we don't give him enough, he won't get off." He pointed to the TV. The camera focused on Martin's hands as he played the intricate guitar solo in "Heavily Sedated." Black track marks marred both arms. Nine Lives said, "The Cheatin' Hearts don't do drugs. Right!"

"Allergies," Goonie said, shaking his head and laughing.

Sarah recalled what Quentin had told her: Be careful what you say to the press. It might come back to sting you. She'd better keep her mouth shut. Nine Lives had become an avid news reader of late. Cocaine was bad enough, but if she wasn't careful, she'd persuade Nine Lives to feed Quentin an almond.

It was difficult to act alluring to a greasy rock icon while she was having an allergic reaction, but she gave it a go. She leaned over to him and whispered in his ear, "We don't have to do it like this. It's no fun if we're angry with each other. Do you have your plane here?"

He nodded.

"You and I can ditch Goonie and Fred and fly to Monte Carlo. Or Cannes. Monaco." Sarah tried to think of more resort towns where French was spoken. She was fluent in French, and she didn't want to get stuck in another Portuguese situation.

"No dice," he hissed. "You'd just be trying to get away from me the whole time. No, I think I'd rather get revenge."

"Me, too," said Goonie.

Fred leaned through the window between the front and back seats. "Me, too,"