Fractured Beat (Meltdown Book 1) (6 page)

He glanced back at me and smiled. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize Grant was going to act like such a juvenile.”

His words stoked my smoldering anger to a full on blaze. “Are you kidding me? Of course he acted defensively. You ambushed him!”

Surprise quickly morphed into contempt. “I would hardly call that an ambush.”

“I certainly would. You told me we were going to a short meeting so you could introduce me to the band, did you not?”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic, don’t you?” His dismissive tone infuriated me.

“Dramatic? You just told that man back there that I was judge, jury and possible executioner of his career, Mr. Hamilton. In doing that you guaranteed that he will never trust me. This,” I pointed at my face, “is not drama, it is anger. You and your so-called management team may have just tanked this job for me.” I knew if I stayed one second longer I would say something I’d really regret, so without another word I turned on my heel and started the opposite direction down the hall.

“Where are you going?” he called after me.

As far away from you as I can get,
I thought. Directly past the conference room was a set of double doors. I pushed through them and discovered I was on the mezzanine level. Floor to ceiling windows opened onto a large balcony with outdoor seating. I tested the door to see if it would open and was relieved when it did. Anger and disgust rolled through me as I stormed over to a comfortable looking chair and plopped down on it.
What do I do now?
First I needed to calm down and get a grip. For the next fifteen minutes I stared out at the Houston skyline and reflected on what just happened. Blane was right, Grant didn’t want me there and I didn’t blame him one bit. I couldn’t get his words out of my head.

“I’ve told you a thousand times I didn’t take the Oxy. Did you look at my medical records? Did you check with security to see who was in my hotel room that night? Did you investigate who spiked my fucking drink? You’re supposed to be on my side and yet not a single one of you believes me.”

What if Grant was telling the truth? Did someone try to kill him? If so, why?
Realizing I wasn’t going to get answers sitting here fuming about it, I focused on how to get Grant Hardy to trust me enough to talk to me. My job had just become exponentially more difficult thanks to Blane Kirkland and his big mouth.

“Miss Scott?” someone called out. I turned and noticed a large African American man walking toward me. Based on the earpiece and gun I assumed he was security. As he approached me he placed his fingers on the earpiece and said, “We found her.”

“I wasn’t aware I was missing,” I nervously joked. His stern expression made me swallow my smile.

“My name is Marcel. I am part of Meltdown’s security team,” he announced.

I stood and held out my hand. “Hi, Marcel, I’m Mallory Scott. It’s nice to meet you.”

He gave my hand a quick squeeze and then released it. “I’ve been instructed to drive you over to the practice venue. Would you like to stop by your room, first?” His stiff demeanor was slightly disconcerting. Suddenly I felt bad for running. I’m sure the last thing this guy wanted to do was to chase me down.

“I’m sorry, Marcel. My intention was not to make your job more difficult,” I explained.

His expression slightly softened. “Would you like to visit your room?” he repeated.

“I can just go back to my room and skip practice, if that’s easier,” I offered.

“I’m sorry but that’s not an option,” he cut in.

“Oh, well then, yes, I should probably grab my purse.” I started for the door and he placed a hand on my arm to stop me. I glanced down at his hand and he quickly removed it.

“We run a tight ship here, Miss Scott. Security for an individual is vastly different than it is for a musical group. There are a lot of moving parts to keep up with which means there are rules and protocol we will need you to follow.”

Lifting my eyes to his, I smiled. I wanted him to know I was a team player. “Okay, hit me with it,” I told him. His lip twitched with humor and I felt marginally better.

“First of all, I lead and you follow. Second, you go nowhere without me or another member of the security team with you. Third, never, and I mean never, leave your room without letting someone know where you’re going.”

“Wow, you do realize I’m not that important?” I half joked.

“As long as you’re with us you are. You have no idea how many crazies are out there. For the next five months you are traveling with Meltdown. This makes you a part of the team. As a part of the team you will most likely be photographed and picked apart by the press and fans. This makes you a target. My job is to protect you and prevent anything bad from happening to you. I need you one hundred percent on board with this. Now, if you don’t mind, we should grab your things and be on our way. They’re expecting us. We won’t have a chance to return to the rooms until after the concert, so make sure you bring everything you need with you,” he warned.

I mulled over his words as we stepped onto the elevator and wondered what else Blane had failed to mention. Marcel let me into my suite and waited outside the door. On the way to the bathroom I pulled out my ponytail and whipped off my shirt. In warp speed, I put on makeup and brushed out my hair. Then I raced to the closet where my jeans and sleeveless blouse were hanging. After changing, I returned to the bathroom where I spritzed with perfume and put on lip gloss. All I had with me were my white Converse, a pair of running shoes and my suede peep toe ankle boots. Settling on the boots, I slid them on, grabbed my phone and purse and headed out the door.

Marcel briefed me further about security measures on the drive over to the venue. I’d had a small taste of fame once upon a time but it was nothing compared to this. This was a whole different level of crazy. My pulse spiked with excitement as we turned into the arena parking lot and pulled around back to the loading dock.

“Hold”, he said, and began speaking into his earpiece. A few seconds later he said, “Clear,” and unlocked the car doors. A door to the right of the leading dock swung open and Hank appeared. “Wait for me to exit first and come around to get you,” Marcel instructed. I surveyed the parking lot for anything out of the ordinary but all I could see besides three identical black security vehicles was a mostly empty lot.

As Marcel opened the passenger door and helped me out of the car, I asked, “Is this really necessary?”

“Right now, no, but it will be. My job is to get you used to it,” he explained.

“Right this way,” Hank said, as we neared the open doorway. With Hank in front and Marcel in back, we walked in a single file line down a long, wide hallway and up a small flight of stairs to a second hallway. This one was even wider than the first. Laughter spilled from a room full of people and I wondered if they were with the band. Hank paused in front of a door with dressing room #1 stenciled across it and pulled out his keys. “The band locker is located in the far left corner behind the potted plant. The security code is 2622. If you don’t want to carry your belongings you can leave them there and they will be safe for the night,” he instructed. After dropping off my purse we continued down the hall to another flight of stairs. Marcel stopped at the bottom while Hank and I continued on. When we reached the top of the stairs all eyes turned to us, and it suddenly it hit me that I was on stage. “The building is secure. If you need to leave, please tell security and one of us will escort you,” Hank spoke in my ear. I gave him a nod of understanding and he returned it with a smile before walking away.

Grant and Nash stood directly in front of me on the stage. Both had guitars in their arms and smiles on their faces. After this morning’s meeting the low key, relaxed atmosphere surprised me. A woman to my left was shooting pictures of them and I wished I’d thought to grab my phone.

“Testing, testing,” Nash said into the microphone. My head snapped back to the stage and I let out a silent cheer. Someone seriously needed to pinch me.
This is Meltdown.
This morning was business but this was one hundred percent pleasure.
If only CiCilia could see me now.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot this morning,” a voice spoke loudly in my ear.

With an unladylike squeak of surprise I teetered sideways on my heels and a pair of hands reached out to steady me. “Sorry,” Blane murmured. The overwhelming smell of booze and cigarettes wafted from his mouth and I tried to pull away, only to have him tighten his grip on my arm. “My intention was to more or less lay down rules, not to ambush. I can see how it might have been misconstrued.” I didn’t want to hear his lame attempt at explaining away what happened earlier. I wanted to watch the practice, but this was my boss and I couldn’t lose sight of why I was here. Blane Hamilton was a slippery fellow and if I didn’t watch myself I would end up out of a job. Slowly I pulled away from his grasp and turned to face him with a smile on my face. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Hamilton.”

He returned my smile with one of his own and I couldn’t help but notice how white his teeth were. Up close his face looked more orange than tan and I noticed he’d missed a few spots when applying the self-tanner. “Please, call me Blane,” he said. Blane Hamilton was plenty attractive if you liked pretty boys who spent way too much time caring about their looks. His problem was that he was insincere, and that alone made him quite repugnant.

Not wanting to be overheard, I leaned in and said, “I would have liked to have been introduced in a less hostile environment.”

“You’re right. Again, I’m sorry,” he repeated, “How can I make it up to you?” A loud bang from the stage interrupted the conversation and we both turned to see what caused it. Amber eyes glared at us from across the stage.

“Not to interrupt or anything but could you two fraternize somewhere else?” Grant asked. It took me a second to realize he was talking to us.

Behind me Blane let out a disgusted huff. I knew I should look away but I couldn’t. I opened my mouth to apologize, but clamped it shut when Grant lifted his guitar and began playing the opening chords to
Petty Little Princess
. This was probably my least favorite Meltdown song, and with good reason. The lyrics were harsh and mean. Just because I disliked the lyrics, however, didn’t mean I disliked the music. Nor did it mean I was immune to the man standing in front of me singing the song. Never had ripped jeans and a plain black t-shirt looked so good. From the television set and tabloids Grant Hardy seemed shorter, smaller…less intimidating. I was surprised at how much bigger he was in person. Then again, compared to my five foot three inch frame, everyone seemed big. Still, my dad was five ten and, from the looks of it, Grant had at least three inches on him. His height wasn’t the only surprising thing, though. Most addicts were lean and some even emaciated. The man on that stage was far from emaciated. I watched the cords of muscle dance across his arms as he played his guitar. If you asked me Grant Hardy looked down right fit as a fiddle. My eyes lifted from his muscles to his face and my pulse leapt into my throat when I caught him staring straight at me. His gaze seared through me as he sang the chorus,

You think you have me wrapped.

You think I won’t split.

You think you fucking know me but

You don’t know shit…

“How about we step off the stage so we can hear each other better,” Blane suggested. I’d been so lost in the song I’d forgotten Blane was standing there.

“Oh, uh, sure,” I said. I took one more glance back at Grant before following Blane off the stage and down the stairs. Blane led me back down the hall and into a large and very comfortable looking dressing room. He settled into a chair and motioned for me to sit across from him. Once seated, I addressed one of my many concerns.

“You may not know this but rehabilitation takes trust. Trust has to be earned. The last thing I need is to be seen as the enemy. Today you made me public enemy number one.”

“And I repeat that was not my intention. Today’s meeting didn’t go quite as I’d planned. I think, however, the point was made clear and Grant will now cooperate with you.”

I gritted my teeth to keep from snapping at him. “Yes, but only because he feels he has no choice.”

“He doesn’t have a choice, Mallory, and neither do you or I.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by this.

“Mr. Hamilton, I feel like I’m missing something here.”

His brow shot up in question. “Such as?”

“Was Mr. Hardy telling the truth this morning? Did someone try to kill him?”

After a long pause, he answered, “You’re job is to rehab Grant Hardy, no more, no less. If you find you are unable to do your job then you are free to walk out that door right this minute with no questions asked.” Leaning forward he pierced me with his pretty boy stare. “You and I both know what a foolish mistake that would be, don’t we?”

Ignoring his question I addressed my other concern. “You mentioned wanting to keep the press from discovering the truth about what really happened that night. Did you take into consideration when you hired me that I’m not a complete unknown?”

He waved his hand dismissively through the air. “That was over ten years ago. Since then you’ve changed your name and…er…grown up quite a bit.” He was right on both accounts. Mallory Stephens no longer existed and Mallory Scott looked nothing like the girl I once was.

“But
you
found out and so can the press. What happens when they link the Mallory Stephens tragedy to Mallory Scott the drug and alcohol counselor?” I challenged.

“First off, CiCilia told me who you were. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known. Second, the press is good but not that good. If, and I mean it’s a big if, they were to discover who you are, we will do what we’ve always done.” His cocky smile worried me.

“Which is?” I asked.

“We spin it.”

I had no clue what he meant and was too much of a chicken to ask.

A Change Is Gonna Come