We may be in the middle of freeze-your-tits-off country, but I’m sweating my tits off, and it ain’t hormonal. I’ve mowed down music scouts, beaten my way out of shitty deals with shady venue operators, and handled threats from a former band member, but none of that could’ve prepared me for the conversation I’m about to have with Letty Dillinger.

I never expected to ask her to compromise her principles for the band. That’s been my job lately, and as much as it pains me, I’ll keep on keeping on until I expose Lizzie. But this particular bullet du jour is one I can’t take for the team. This bullet has Letty’s name on it.

Letty makes no attempt to hide her disgust—maybe even outright hatred—for me as she flops onto the couch at the front of the bus. Her boots scrape across the floor, kicking up dust motes, reminding me it’s time to mop again. Slouched into the cushions, she crosses her arms. Bright red, newly corn-rowed hair, courtesy of Jinx and Toombs, falls across her eyes. Her refusal to look at me is a belligerent “fuck you” aimed at the sore, swollen target inside my ribs.

“Well?” she grunts. “Let’s get on with lecture number three hundred and twenty-four, Mom.”

And the first arrow flies, landing a direct hit. Under normal circumstances, my chest would puff proudly at her nickname for me, but the hateful way she utters the word this time is a stark reminder of my position of perceived, unwanted authority.

I press my lips together and collect my thoughts. “I’m not gonna coddle you, Letty. You’re a grown woman.”

She flicks her blasé gaze over my head like a booger and huffs a loud sigh.

“I get it,” I continue. “You’re a passionate soul with a lot of strong opinions. Nothing wrong with that. However, you have to learn to control yourself in public.”

She snaps forward, fire burning her eyes. “I wasn’t in public, Jillian. I was here,” she waves a hand around at the windows, the bunks, the empty driver’s seat, “in my own goddamn home.”

Home.

We live on a fucking tour bus with cocks and balls on the wheels. Dirty, post-concert clothes hang from trundle drawers, tainting the air with an awkward cocktail of stale sweat and three mismatched body sprays. A wet towel lies on the floor outside the tiny shower stall, catching random drippings and the occasional leak. We can’t even take a shit in the tiny bathroom, thanks to the ridiculous sanitation expense.

I left a modest house with several acres and a barn on the east side of Athens for this bus.

And it’s the best home I’ve ever had.

I place a palm on the table between us to steady myself. “You’re right. Anna came into your home to interview you because fans want to see what it’s like on the other side. But you were also responding to questions you knew might turn up in public later.”

“That’s beside the fucking point. The video was cut to make me look bad.”

“Yes, it was. But you’d have looked bad regardless for going after the cameraman like you did.”

“Yeah? And what would you have done, Miss Politically Correct Pissy Pants? I’d like to believe if you’d seen Anna badgering Jinx about her personal life, you’d have stood up for her, since that’s what we pay your ass for. Or maybe I’m wrong.”

“Of course, I would’ve taken up for Jinx! The difference is, I wouldn’t have tried to maul the cameraman to do it.”

She glares at me.

“If you want to fuck around, throwing insults at other bands you feel are beneath you professionally, fine. Do that on your own time when no one’s visiting or within earshot. But when you’re under a spotlight, you will behave.”

Her top lip curls. “Yes, Mom. Anything else I should suppress, Mom? My wanton sexuality? My integrity as a musician? Want me to cover up my filthy, seductress ankles while I’m at it? You know they’re begging to be molested by dirty old men who can’t keep it in their pants. I’d hate to tempt any wholesome Puritans into sinning with my outlandish, post-World War I clothing or any form of forbidden truth-talk.”

I shake my head. “All right, enough of that horseshit. You made your point. Fighting about what’s already said and done is futile. Let’s focus on what you need to say for your apology.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m not apologizing for telling the truth and having my words twisted into a fucked-up mutation of my original, honest appraisal of the state of rock music in the new millennium.”

God, she’s infuriating. She’s also right. “Okay, then what do you plan to talk about? The weather in Siberia? I need you to get serious about this, Letty.”

“Didn’t you write me a script? I obviously can’t be trusted to use my own brain, what with its tendency to go off the rails.”

“No script,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Just … tell the truth. Speak from the heart. Show the world you’re better than the person you appeared to be in that video. But do not mention Banging Betties. I guarantee they’ll slap you with a slander suit, and we don’t have the money or wherewithal to fight shit like that.”

“Oh right. Because you and King Dick have some secret deal to shelter Lizzie from the storms she creates. What are they paying you, Jillian?” She squares her shoulders and leans in for the kill. “I’m sure it’s more than the pittance you get from us, but you could at least have the balls to admit it. I don’t know why you stick around. Or why we keep you around.”

Devastating silence bridges the gap between her accusations and my outrage.

“How fucking dare you?” I stand, jaw trembling. I ball my hands into fists to stop their shaking. “You have no idea what I’ve suffered through to help this band. No idea what I’ve done for you.”

“Oh, all that banging you and Lizzie have been doing must’ve been so miserable. How did you ever survive?” she fires off.

I flinch at the slice. She couldn’t have hurt me more if she’d stabbed me in the back with a poison-tipped dagger.

I lower my voice to an icy, deadly timbre. “If you really believe I’m so awful, maybe it’s best Killer Buzz Float and I part ways. I won’t work with a band where the trust only runs one way. If anyone inside these walls fucked you over, it’s you.”

“Maybe, but I certainly had help.” She stares at me, jutting her defiant chin.

“I suggest you pull your shit together, record your statement, and decide where I stand. I can hop the next plane back to Atlanta if you want me out of your life. Just say the fucking word.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Fine. Maybe you can also think about adjusting your asshole attitude while you’re at it.” Bleeding out from the arrow to my heart, I gather my purse and stagger down the stairs before I do something I’ll regret.

The second the cold air and warm sun collide with my face, I realize it’s too late. Despite my best effort to restrain them, the tears have already fallen. At least Letty didn’t have the pleasure of witnessing the demise of my emotional stability.

I slap away the goddamn water streaking my cheek, steal a sip of crisp autumn breeze to cool my overheated jets, and hold my head high as I cross the parking lot. The Banging Betties’ bus taunts me as I thunder past.

It’ll be okay, Jillian. It will. You’ll sneak into Lizzie’s phone, find the evidence to knock her off her perch in the ivory tower, and prove your innocence to Letty. Then we’ll both be free.

Stay frosty.

“Always,” I hiss between my teeth.

* * *

That night, as soon as Killer Buzz Float clears the stage, I check in for a quick round of thumbs-ups and back pats with Rax and Shades. I nod and smile my approval at Jinx and Toombs. For the first time in days, fans swarm Letty. I can’t get close enough to speak to her, and I’m not sure what I’d say anyway. Doesn’t matter. I gotta go before Banging Betties get onstage. Letty follows me to the exit with her eyes.

She posted her statement on YouTube and the band’s Facebook page shortly after our throw down this afternoon. I monitored the video like the concerned “mom” I am and refreshed it at least twenty times to keep an eye on the comments. I gotta say, she did good. I haven’t had a chance to tell her, but … yeah.

In the video, Letty explained how her words were taken out of context, chopped up, and shuffled around. But more importantly, she gave Killer Buzz Float’s fans what they desperately needed: a glimpse into her rock ’n’ roll artist’s soul. She revealed a depth of emotion, a vulnerability I’ve never seen from her. She shared her belief in art and The Rock. She gave her fans hope and inspiration.

Since then, the mood around the band has lightened noticeably. They’ll be partying hard tonight after another humdinger of a show. The crowd fell in love with Killer Buzz Float again, thanks to Letty Dillinger. Our hero.

With this change in the wind, I’m confident the worst is over for her. But vengeance hasn’t yet been served.

That’s where I come in.

The odds are stacked against me, but I’m fresh out of fucks to give. I’m gambling that Lizzie’s phone died as it usually does a couple times a day, thanks to the deluge of notifications she refuses to turn off.

Oh, Lizzie. May your narcissism be your downfall. That would be some sweet-ass humble pie for your voracious ego.

I know she doesn’t bring the phone onstage (she claims it’s too distracting—huh, ya think?), so I’m crossing my fingers that it’s in her bunk where she usually leaves it. Which brings me to the bus I’m heading toward now.

Hans and Franz (not sure what their real names are, but these fit) stand guard at the door to the lipstick tube from hell, chatting and smoking. They wear tuxedos with hot-pink cummerbunds that match the bus and show no signs of shivering despite the freezing temperature.

The parking lot is quiet except for a few laugh-screams in the distance. Probably drunken concertgoers. Scanning the lot, I detect no witnesses close enough to notice what I’m about to do.

I suck in a deep breath, gird my shaking loins, and march right up to the duo. “Hey, guys. I think I left my cigarettes in Lizzie’s bunk. Mind if I look for them?”

Franz, the dark-haired muscleman says, “Go to the store and buy more. No one’s allowed on.”

“Come on, I’ve been here almost every night. You know me. I swear it’ll only take a minute.”

Hans curls his arms into a pretzel over his chest and shakes his head. “We were told specifically to keep you off.”

I laugh. That fucking bitch. “Me? What the hell did I do?”

“Miss Smith said you’re not invited to her parties anymore.” He serves the “Miss Smith” part with a dram of subsurface irritation. I’m happy to light a fire on that shit and blow it out like a birthday wish.

“I just want to grab my smokes and look for my pills. I tossed my purse in the bunk last time I was here, and I haven’t seen my medicine since. Must’ve fallen down the side of the mattress. It’s important. A prescription. I can’t just get it refilled anywhere.”

Franz looks me up and down. “You seem to be doing fine without it. Take a hike.”

I lean in between them and drop my voice to a whisper. “It’s for … herpes.” I glance around nervously. Coast is still clear. “Valtrex. I’m having a breakout. Can you cut a broad a break?” I dredge up my sad-kitten eyes and poke out my bottom lip a tad. “Please? I don’t want my band to know. It’s … embarrassing.”

They exchange glances. Franz defers to Hans, who stares at me stone-faced.

I hold up my hands. “I promise, after this, I won’t bother her or you again.”

Hans’s defenses drop with the purse of his lips. “Okay. You got one minute. Make it fast.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, walking backward up the stairs. He shoos me away, apparently more interested in his cigarette than the annoying herpes machine screwing his boss.

Oh my fucking God, I can’t believe they bought it. I hurry to Lizzie’s bunk and flip through the covers. The pack of cigarettes I left her are here, untouched, but not her phone.

“Fuck.” I stretch across the bed, peering over the sides and corners. No phone. I stand and open her trundle. Rummaging through, I find a dime bag of weed, plenty of dildos, floggers, lube, and lingerie, but the phone isn’t here either.

Where the hell else would she have put it?

Richard. She must’ve pulled her usual bossy shit and told him to plug it in for her. I quickly skim the inner skin of the bus for outlets, zipping down the aisle to the back and returning to the front, just out of sight of Hans and Franz.

“Did you find it?” one of them yells. “Wrap it up, or we’re coming in to remove you.”

They don’t dare set foot on this bus. Lizzie treats them more like slaves than security. She’s made it clear on countless occasions that the “help” isn’t allowed aboard without an escort.

“I’m coming,” I call back, a tingle buzzing the inside of my nose with frustration.

Fuck.

One last scan from the back to the front …

Wait. Upstairs. I fly up there, shoot my gaze around, and it lands on the only phone in the house. A pink one plugged into the wall on a table. I hit the home button, slap 8430 onto the keypad, and go straight for the email app.

Search box. Anna.

Score! My eyes widen as I skim the thread of back-and-forth between Lizzie and Anna. Not even sure what all of it says, but I forward everything to Letty’s email address.

Footsteps charge up the stairs.

Shit! “Go, go, go,” I whisper to the stupid app trying to find the 4G network. “Come on!”

“Time to leave,” Franz says behind me, his voice closing with each step up.

“I think I found it,” I call back.

Sent.

Return to home screen. Hit the button on top of the phone to kill the display. I yank the prescription bottle of blood pressure medicine from my purse and shake it just as Franz tops the steps. “Found it!”

“You gotta go. If they find out we let you on here—”

“No problem. I’m out. Thank you so much for this. And for your … discretion about the medicine.”

Franz grimaces and gestures to the stairs. I head down with him hot on my tail.

“Hey, you might wanna tell Lizzie to get tested,” I toss over my shoulder with subdued glee. “All that sexual contact we had can’t be good for the immune system.”

“I ain’t telling her shit.”

When we get off the bus, Hans says, “Lemme see it.”

Fuck. “See what?”

“The prescription.” He holds out a paw the size of a bear’s.

I shuffle through my purse. “Well, you saw me put it in here. Must’ve fallen to the bottom.” I shove the bottle deeper.

Hans easily wrestles my bag away and plunders it like a TSA marauder. He holds up the bottle, squints in the shitty flood lighting. “This ain’t Valtrex.”

I sigh and play the last card I have in my repertoire. “Can I ask you guys a question?”

They both straighten, arms bulging under their tuxes, and Franz cracks his knuckles.

“You like your bosses?” I say.

Their silence coupled with nervous glances at each other give me the courage to continue picking their scabs. “Do they treat you well?”

“For the most part,” Hans answers.

“How’s the pay?” I ask.

They shrug. Franz ducks his head.

“Worth wearing hot-pink cummerbunds?” I push. When neither answers, I toss the ace of spades on the table. “If one of your bosses happens not to treat you with the respect and dignity you deserve, and her initials are Lizzie Smith, do yourselves a favor and don’t tell a soul you let me on this bus tonight.”

Their eyes widen with understanding. They exchange another round of knowing glances. Franz lowers a hand to cover the pink satin stretched across his belly.

“You should go.” Hans indicates the path to the Killer Buzz Float bus with a meaty arm. “Don’t come back.”

I smile. “I won’t. Promise.”

A stripe of fear zips up my back as I leave them for home. My entire case for proving Letty’s innocence hinges on these two guys keeping mum. Pulling out my phone to text Letty, I look over my shoulder as my flats clap a desperate beat across the blacktop. “Please don’t fuck me over, Hans and Franz.”