search of truffles, Audrey had opened the note and read a horribly vile wish to see her dead. She stopped Lucas before he bit into a chocolate.
Now the police had come, taking away the box of chocolates to be tested, reading the note, asking her the same questions she’d been asked in New York when she received the last letter. Did she know anyone who would want to harm her? Any problems with the family? The boyfriend? The lover? She hated the questions—hated even worse that they seemed to believe there was a never-ending well of people who hated her. Worse, they didn’t seem to think there was much they could do about it. “These things are almost impossible to trace,” one officer said.
And to add insult to injury, one of the policemen had left a newspaper on her table. She’d made the mistake of opening it while they waited for someone to make some calls—she’d forgotten who or where—and had happened upon the review of her show.
Unfortunately, the reviewer was perhaps the one person in the arena who hadn’t enjoyed the show last night. He said her music was derivative of Mariah and Kelly, that the lighting was intentionally dark to cover up the fact that she was a little too old to be embarking on a career in pop, and that the only song that had stood out was the ballad she sang and played on acoustical guitar, backed only by a violin.
That was an old song of hers, the only one Lucas and her label had allowed her to keep on the new album.
“I’m only twenty-eight!” she said when she read the paper and tossed it across the table. “They make it sound like I’m forty -eight.”
“It’s Omaha,” Lucas said absently. “Who cares what Omaha thinks?”
Well . . . she did. And so did the cop standing next to Lucas, judging by the way he was looking at Lucas. The review wouldn’t have stung quite so bad if Audrey didn’t believe she’d done really well last night.
She groaned, paused in the autographing to push her hands through her hair. She just wanted to leave Omaha for Minneapolis, just get the hell out of here and move on, move forward. With a sigh, she began to autograph again as Lucas, wearing his distressed jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that said ROLLING STONES FORTY LICKS on it, ranted to one of the officers in the room.
Audrey glanced out the window—it looked like a blistering morning, and reminded her of a gig she’d had in Austin once, at The Backyard, an outdoor music venue. It had been blistering that day, too, but it was one of the best sets of her life. It was all acoustic, just her and a guitar—no pop—just the ballads she loved to write in alternative folk style and then transform into alternative rock when she got bored with them. Those were the songs she loved creating, the songs that made her want to get out of bed every morning.
Sometimes she felt like she wasn’t supposed to be where she was now, like she was living someone else’s life. If it hadn’t been for Lucas’s idea to turn her into a star, she might have stayed in the safety zone of her old music the rest of her life. Left to her own devices, she probably never would have jumped out to experience all that life had to offer.
Oh, but she would have missed so much—she would have missed the taste of fame and the chance to sing to twelve thousand people. Her new release was sitting at number 4 on the charts, right behind Kelly Clarkson and just ahead of Pink. Wasn’t that what every musician dreamed of happening?
But then again, if she’d stayed in Austin, she probably wouldn’t have some freak scaring the shit out of her.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts; Lucas, still talking, opened the door, and without speaking, without even a gesture, turned around and walked back into the room, his mind on his conversation with the officer.
From across the room, Audrey’s eyes met Jack’s. He was standing at the threshold, his arm up and braced against the door jamb, the other hand on his waist.
Now the police had come, taking away the box of chocolates to be tested, reading the note, asking her the same questions she’d been asked in New York when she received the last letter. Did she know anyone who would want to harm her? Any problems with the family? The boyfriend? The lover? She hated the questions—hated even worse that they seemed to believe there was a never-ending well of people who hated her. Worse, they didn’t seem to think there was much they could do about it. “These things are almost impossible to trace,” one officer said.
And to add insult to injury, one of the policemen had left a newspaper on her table. She’d made the mistake of opening it while they waited for someone to make some calls—she’d forgotten who or where—and had happened upon the review of her show.
Unfortunately, the reviewer was perhaps the one person in the arena who hadn’t enjoyed the show last night. He said her music was derivative of Mariah and Kelly, that the lighting was intentionally dark to cover up the fact that she was a little too old to be embarking on a career in pop, and that the only song that had stood out was the ballad she sang and played on acoustical guitar, backed only by a violin.
That was an old song of hers, the only one Lucas and her label had allowed her to keep on the new album.
“I’m only twenty-eight!” she said when she read the paper and tossed it across the table. “They make it sound like I’m forty -eight.”
“It’s Omaha,” Lucas said absently. “Who cares what Omaha thinks?”
Well . . . she did. And so did the cop standing next to Lucas, judging by the way he was looking at Lucas. The review wouldn’t have stung quite so bad if Audrey didn’t believe she’d done really well last night.
She groaned, paused in the autographing to push her hands through her hair. She just wanted to leave Omaha for Minneapolis, just get the hell out of here and move on, move forward. With a sigh, she began to autograph again as Lucas, wearing his distressed jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that said ROLLING STONES FORTY LICKS on it, ranted to one of the officers in the room.
Audrey glanced out the window—it looked like a blistering morning, and reminded her of a gig she’d had in Austin once, at The Backyard, an outdoor music venue. It had been blistering that day, too, but it was one of the best sets of her life. It was all acoustic, just her and a guitar—no pop—just the ballads she loved to write in alternative folk style and then transform into alternative rock when she got bored with them. Those were the songs she loved creating, the songs that made her want to get out of bed every morning.
Sometimes she felt like she wasn’t supposed to be where she was now, like she was living someone else’s life. If it hadn’t been for Lucas’s idea to turn her into a star, she might have stayed in the safety zone of her old music the rest of her life. Left to her own devices, she probably never would have jumped out to experience all that life had to offer.
Oh, but she would have missed so much—she would have missed the taste of fame and the chance to sing to twelve thousand people. Her new release was sitting at number 4 on the charts, right behind Kelly Clarkson and just ahead of Pink. Wasn’t that what every musician dreamed of happening?
But then again, if she’d stayed in Austin, she probably wouldn’t have some freak scaring the shit out of her.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts; Lucas, still talking, opened the door, and without speaking, without even a gesture, turned around and walked back into the room, his mind on his conversation with the officer.
From across the room, Audrey’s eyes met Jack’s. He was standing at the threshold, his arm up and braced against the door jamb, the other hand on his waist.
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