Relationships were complicated. And the funny thing was, I honestly couldn’t tell you what the status of mine was with Eddie right now, so thanks for all the doubt, Fen Sarafian. Doubt had pretty much been at the forefront of my mind the last couple of days. That and the tattoo of a dead girl on Fen’s arm. He saidhewas haunted? Well, now I was.
Fen’s dark eyes burning a hole in my brain.
Dad asked Velvet, “When can I expect a call to pick you ladies up from this event?”
“Depends on who’s there,” she said, fixing her lipstick in the mirror, and then remembered I was involved. “Oh, yeah, the whole shebang will be done by early evening. That’s when my part’s over and Jane can go back home. She’ll call you. I may play it by ear, though—might catch a ride with someone else. Don’t worry about me, Leo. I’m resourceful.”
“Text me if you need me,” he told her seriously as he pulled into a packed parking lot at the top of the mountain. “Even if it’s six in the morning. I’ll come. Always.”
“We’ll be fine.” To me, Velvet said, “Let’s judge some bands and eat somebarbacoa!”
We jumped out of the car to join crowds of people meandering through the lot toward Mission Bluff: a beautiful park built high in the foothills, a few miles above town. Spanish missionaries started building a church here in the 1800s, but an earthquake leveled most of it before it could be finished. Now it was justan open-air plaza surrounded by bristlecone pines with sweeping views of the lake.
And a space for outdoor events like the Battle of the Bands.
Woodsmoke and spice filled the air as we approached the gate. Tickets were expensive—money went to the Mission Bluff fund—but Velvet was on the guest list. Even if she weren’t, they knew who she was. That was the advantage of traveling with the Family: doors opened for them, and I followed behind.
“Welcome,” the woman at the gates said, giving us both badges. “Greenroom for the judges is to the left of the stage—see the judges’ stand? That door. Ask for Cindy,” she told me, looking a little anxious. Sometimes people acted that way around the Larsens. “Velvet needs to check in with Cindy to go over, uh, some preshow prep? She radioed me to look out for her.”
I gave her a thumbs-up that I understood. And I had a job now.Greenroom… Cindy.I kept repeating that as we stepped into the plaza, with its white Spanish-facade buildings. The stage was set up in front of the gorgeous view of the sunny sky, and the place was already packed with people roaming, some eating plates of carne asada, some signing up for local political causes at tables. Some waving at Velvet, who was reunion-hugging half the people here.
I’d never been to one of these, only read about it on the Festival Freaks blog. Basically, two regional unsigned bands play, three judges make comments—like a TV musical contest—the crowds cheer or jeer, then the judges decide which band opens the second stage at the festival this year. There’s ringing of the mission bell involved, and it’s all a big Condor tradition.
Last year, Eddie was a judge. He still hadn’t answered my texts. I’d sent eighteen over two days. A cringeworthy amount. Maybe he truly couldn’t answer. When I saw his mother, if I still hadn’t heard back from him, I’d ask her about it. For now, I wasn’t going to think about him. Just wish I could say the same about his brother.
“There’s the judges’ stand,” I told Velvet. “We’re supposed to go check in there.”
“Food first,manita.”
“You have some preshow stuff to do,” I reminded her, wondering if there was a time frame on that. “Maybe we can check in first, and I’ll bring you food?”
“Perfect,” she said, slinging an arm around my neck. “Best assistant ever. Oh my God—Erika Jones! What’s up, party girl?”
Just like that, she was off to the next reunion. How many friends did she have at the lake? More than I realized. I tried to be patient, but others were joining her hug-a-thon. When I touched Velvet’s arm to remind her, she groaned. “Okay, okay. Look, why don’t you go check in for me. It’s that door, right? I’m right behind you. Be there in five minutes, max. Just delay them for me, okay? Thank yo-o-ou!” She turned back to her group. “That’s just Jane. She’s doing assistant work for me. I know, right? Now, one of you hags has to help me out.…”
Frustrated, I headed to the greenroom and showed my badge to a young volunteer. It was disappointing inside, just a small church rec room lined with long tables. Nothing was green. Not sure why they call it that. In fact, for something that was supposedto be a VIP space, there was nothing special about it at all. Just some bottled water and a woman who looked like Norma—not physically but in the way that she was stressed. Cindy.
“Excuse me,” I said to her. “I’m Velvet Larsen’s assistant. She’s outside.”
Cindy wasn’t happy. “She’s late. We told her what time to be here, no exceptions. She’s supposed to go live in fifteen. I have a script to go over with her and the other judges, who have been waiting.” She gestured to the other two. Frowns all around.
Shit. “She said she’d be here in five. I’ll… go get…?” I suggested, unable to finish.
“Now,” she said sternly. “Immediately, please.”
Texting emergency messages to Velvet, I jogged out of the greenroom and headed back into the crowds, toward the last place I’d seen her. But she was no longer there. Or anywhere. Not answering my panicked texts, either. When I swung around, I ran smack into someone’s chest. Pain jolted through my eye socket. I covered my cheek with my hand.
“Fuck! You okay?” a concerned voice said. Warm hands steadied my upper arms.
I lifted my head to see the chest that had slammed into my nose. A black T-shirt that saidMOFIin white script. My gaze flicked upward. Adam’s apple. Tawny skin. And Fen Sarafian’s hawk eyes staring down at me, crackling with electricity.
“No!” I said as if I could turn back time and prevent running into him.
He laughed with dark delight. My face might be fractured,and he was giddy about it? “Thank you, Saint Gregory!” he said to the sky.
Who? I didn’t care. “Not now, Fen,” I told him, pushing his hands away. I didn’t have time for this. Or him.Focus, Jane, focus.
“What a fucking icy glare. Is that an eye injury, or do you really hate me that much?”
