Killer Riff by Sheryl J. Anderson

Jordan who stood just inside the door from the stage, his guitar up on his shoulder as if he were a baseball player leaving the field. Bonnie ran up to him, hand to her throat, eyes wide, as though she were worried an explosion was imminent. She stroked her son’s arm, but he didn’t react. Claire stood near them, swaying slightly as though vacillating between standing with Jordan and following Adam.
    “Adam!”
    I couldn’t pinpoint the difference in Jordan’s tone, but it made Adam stop and turn around. “Good night, Jordan.”
    Jordan grimaced in disbelief. “You diss me in front of my fans and that’s all you’ve got to say?”
    Adam took a deep breath before replying, “Yes.”
    I admired his restraint. Olivia took a different approach. Bracing herself on Adam, she leaned forward in fury. “You’re a soul-sucking pig, Jordan Crowley!”
    “You watch your mouth, young lady,” Bonnie said sharply.
    “I was paying my respects!” Jordan protested.
    “You don’t respect anything,” Adam said, turning his back on Jordan again and escorting Olivia and me out the stage door.
    Security, paparazzi, and fans choked the alley. Screams went up and flashes went off as people recognized Adam. Some yelled for Olivia, too. I just hoped I’d make it down the metal steps to the street without falling, given the height of my heels and the urgency with which Adam was moving us along.
    Olivia descended first, and I was about to follow her when the stage door banged open and Jordan flew out. The crowd screamed even louder, but Jordan didn’t react to them at all. He lunged straight at Adam, who was still holding my arm, so we both got tangled up as Jordan grabbed Adam by the lapels and shoved him back against the platform railing. I tripped over Adam’s feet—or Jordan tripped over mine or some other painful combination—so the three of us crashed into the railing, me between the two of them, Adam behind me. They grappled with each other like Olympic wrestlers, oblivious to the crowd and cameras. Though I struggled mightily to force them apart and escape, I was no match for their fury-fueled adrenaline. Adam grabbed Jordan’s shoulders and spun us all around, slamming Jordan into the railing now.
    The noise of all the camera shutters firing repeatedly was like all the wings flapping when the birds descend on Tippi Hedren and her friends, and it took every ounce of concentration I had not to scream. What the photographers missed was Adam’s question to Jordan as he tried to shove him over the balcony:
    “You want to be the next one to go? I can take care of that, too.”

5
    “Write the story. Don’t be the story.”
    Somehow, the only response I could come up with was, “Yes, ma’am.” It was early, I was undercaffeinated, and I had a pretty impressive bruise on my rib cage from one of the bounces against the railing. Fresh out of the shower, I was studying the damage in my dresser mirror when I answered the phone, so I was distracted and not fully prepared for the venom at the other end.
    “You’re supposed to be interviewing Olivia Elliott. Why are you in the Post , sandwiched between the Crowley sons?” Eileen exclaimed.
    I sighed, partly because of the bruise and partly because, until that moment, I had no idea anyone had actually published a picture.
    “Research,” I attempted.
    “Do you have any idea how this makes the magazine look?”
    There had to be a way to spin this that Eileen would approve of, especially since, having already taken a literal hit for the situation, I wasn’t interested in taking a figurative one, too. “Like a cool publication whose reporters get invited to all the best parties?”
    Eileen made an angry noise in her throat that sounded like a garbage disposal with too much pasta in it. “Come see me when you drag your overexposed backside into the office. Which better be soon.”
    “I’m meeting Olivia for breakfast. For the article,” I said, knowing that wouldn’t make