“I have a muse,” was all I said.
“Is it cocaine?” Milo asked. “Your muse sounds like cocaine.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Violet scolded. “No hard drugs. You know the rules.”
“Hey, relax! It was a joke.”
“A bad one,” she muttered.
An idea came to me. A crazy one. And the more I reread the lyrics on the page, the more certain I became.
I poked my head out the dressing room door and found a security guard at his post. “Excuse me. I need a favor.”
“Not supposed to leave this spot,” he replied, sounding bored.
I ignored him and said, “There was a woman in the front row. Blonde, low-cut black top, and a tattoo of an artist’s brush on her wrist. If you find her and bring her to me, I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”
I now had his full attention. “Damn, son. You got it bad for this girl?”
“You have no idea.”
3
Roxie
“Right now?” I asked the security guard. “But Rainknife is going to start soon. What do they want?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
I wasn’t naive; I had an idea of what they wanted. It was what every band wanted when they invited a fan backstage.
They wanted to have sex with me.
I’d always heard stories about women being invited backstage to sleep with Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. I never thought I would be one of them, though.
For a moment, a tingle of excitement ran up my spine. I was single. I was an adult woman who could do whatever she wanted. And the lead singer, Riot, wasso incredibly hot.
Whyshouldn’tI go backstage?
But even though the idea gave me goosebumps, I was too nervous. I could never do something as exciting as sleeping with a band after a concert.
“Sorry,” I told him, “But I’m going to stay here and wait for my friend.”
The security guard scratched his jaw and looked around. “Listen. The lead singer offered me a nice bonus to find you, and I need the money. You don’t even have to do anything—just come back and meet them. If you do, I’ll get you a drum stick from the equipment box.”
The negotiator in me immediately perked up. “I don’t want a drum stick. How about a guitar?”
He grimaced. “Can’t do a guitar. They’re signed and auctioned off after every show. But I might be able to sneak away with the lead singer’s leather jacket.”
“Deal!” I said.
The security guard beamed. “Right this way, ma’am.”
I followed him down to the end of the barrier and around the side of the stage. Another guard nodded at us, and then we were walking among thick equipment cables and black-clad roadies who were setting up for the next band.
While following him, I quickly texted Meghan.
Me: Don’t freak out, but I was just invited backstage. And I’m not joking.
