Apparently, Hans and Franz stood to gain something by keeping quiet. I left a message on Richard’s cell requesting the pleasure of his and Banging Betties’ company at nine o’clock this morning on our bus. Oh, and he might want to bring a lawyer. His response: “What the hell is this about?” I didn’t reply.

I check my watch. Eight forty-five. Enough time for one last refill.

“More?” I hold up my coffee mug. Toombs shakes his head.

I swagger to the coffeepot and pour another cup of joe.

“Is it time yet?” Letty hasn’t stopped bouncing since I got home last night.

“Fifteen more minutes.”

“Jillian. My bitch. My woman. My Queen of Clubs who’s gonna put the smackdown on Lizzie and King Dick. What’s the plan?” She drops her hands to her hips, shifts weight between her feet, and squares her shoulders.

“The plan is, let me do the talking.” I push her out of the way as I return to the back couches where the rest of the band members sit.

Letty follows, giving my shoe a flat tire. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I still can’t believe you got the goods on that bitch. I can’t believe you stood up for me.”

I whirl on her. “I will never not stand up for you, Letty.” And not because she pays me. “I may not do it in the way you expect or at the demanding pace you set, but I will always back you up.” Everyone looks up from their breakfasts and phones. “That goes for all of you.”

Mumbles of approval and nods follow.

“When they get here, I want you children to behave. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Let Mom do the talking. Got it?”

“Yes, Mom,” they say like a class full of obedient student drones.

I smile. “Excellent. And when we finish, if you’re all good little boys and girls, I’ll take you out for Thanksgiving buffet at the sleaziest, grittiest, all-you-can-eat dive we can find in—where are we again?”

“Boise,” Jinx pipes up.

“Boise.”

“I’m all about some turkey scrotums,” Shades says. Letty musses his hair.

Rax shakes his head. “You’re one sick motherfucker.”

Wearing an I-didn’t-do-it expression, Shades points at Letty.

A knock on the door interrupts our reverie. My silence must’ve been killing Richard. He couldn’t wait those last fifteen minutes. This is even better than expected.

I wave him, Eliza, Beth, Lizzie, and Anna DeVille up the stairs. Two more guys appear a few seconds later.

“Ah, Mr. Salinger. Mr. Henke. Thank you for joining us.” I step aside and make room for Megamusic’s managing editor of the news division and the Socket Energy Drinks representative, respectively, to come aboard.

Eliza shoots a knowing smile to Shades and Letty. She must know what’s going on. Beth glances to Lizzie, who stares out the window as if bored, but I know better. Her fingers squirm nervously in her lap. Anna sits beside her, tugging on a stray thread hanging from the bottom hem of her shirt. Letty, Shades, Rax, Eve, Toombs, and Jinx march up the aisle and take their places on the opposite side. They remain standing. Commanding.

We outnumber them. We’re better than them. We’re gonna put Lizzie in the ground for everything she did to this band, to Letty, and to me.

“You got my message, Richard, so I’m gonna cut to the chase.” I fold my arms over my chest and fix my gaze on Mr. Manager, sitting before me in just the submissive position I want him in. Lizzie drops her foot from the opposite leg with a stomp. She’s careful not to make eye contact with me, but that’s going to change shortly.

“Point number one.” I hold up a thumb. “Letty received an email containing the raw footage of her interview with Anna, forwarded from Lizzie’s phone.”

Lizzie sits up and slaps the tabletop. “Whatever you think you have is stolen. I never sent her any emails.”

I meet her gaze and hold it. “Prove it.”

She stares back, and we stand off for longer than is comfortable. When she breaks contact without a defense, I continue. First challenge: unlocked and soundly beaten.

I add an index finger to the count initiated by my thumb and face Salinger. “Point two: Based on the content of the email, Megamusic appears to have lied about having said footage, claiming it was ‘corrupted’ when it wasn’t.”

Salinger’s cheeks heat to bright red. He runs a hand over his mouth, rubbing the bristles above his lip.

I add my bird finger to the count. “Point three: We have evidence from the email conversation between Anna and Lizzie showing the two colluded to, at the very least, make Letty look bad. It also proves Lizzie was the one who told Anna to edit and overdub the footage.”

Neither of the accused looks up.

Ring finger. I turn to Henke. “Point four: Socket has declared they’re dropping their support after the faked video created by Anna and Lizzie—”

In a mad huff, Lizzie struggles to sit upright. “I didn’t hold a gun to her head. Anna could’ve said no.”

I snap my gaze to Lizzie and impress my displeasure over her interruption with the coldest, meanest stare I have in my repertoire: the voodoo eyes. She sinks into the couch.

My restitution gun fires off the first three rounds of nails into her coffin. “I’m. Not. Finished.”

Richard glances to Lizzie, who impudently returns her attention to the window. Don’t worry, bitch. I have plenty more nails for you. It’s hard not to gloat.

“Point five: It’s doubtful anything Letty said in the original footage would’ve caused such an uproar if her words hadn’t been taken out of context, chopped all to hell, and served up as piecemeal truth to the public.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Richard says.

“No, I don’t. But it’s a reasonable conclusion based on the facts.” I step closer, brace myself on the table with my fingers, and look him straight in the eyes as I continue. “So, given the evidence, it seems to me we have two options for how to proceed—the easy way, or the hard way. The easy way would be for the guilty parties to admit their mistake publicly and apologize. The hard way would involve defamation lawsuits and a great deal of unpleasantness.”

“You got your evidence illegally,” Richard replies. Beads of sweat pop up on the red skin above his tie. “It won’t be admissible in court.”

“You can’t prove it was obtained illegally, but even if it’s inadmissible, there are ways around it.” This is the only part of my argument anyone can poke holes in. If Hans and Franz decide to spill, I’m fucked. But if they haven’t fessed up yet, they probably won’t. “In my job as a paralegal, I met some amazing computer forensics guys who kick ass at retrieving deleted data and preserving digital evidence. I’m confident we could hire someone to track down legal, admissible evidence, should the email trail suddenly go missing. All those messages are stored on servers somewhere. And since we have a dozen witnesses here, it might be wise for Anna to turn over her phone to Mr. Salinger, especially if his company’s paying for its service. Might need it for evidence.”

The droplet of sweat poised at Richard’s temple tips its carrying capacity and sails downward. Anna sits up and glares at Lizzie, who, for the first time, shuffles her gaze back and forth between me and Richard as if she’s—gasp!—worried. It’s about damn time she demonstrated some form of guilt, though I’m sure it’s more regret over getting caught than remorse for her actions.

Salinger says nothing with his mouth, but his white knuckles and balled fists speak clearly on his behalf. After a long, tense moment, he caves. “I’ll need your phone, Anna.”

Anna’s face pales as she digs her phone out of her purse and passes it to him.

Busted.

He looks at me, head lowered like a naughty dog about to get his butt smacked with a rolled-up newspaper. “Are we done? I’ve got some … personnel issues to deal with.”

“I understand.” I can barely contain my glee. As he motions Anna toward the door, I say, “Hang on. Don’t you both have something you wanted to say to Ms. Dillinger?” I indicate Letty with a respectful flourish.

Salinger exhales heavily. This must be killing him. “I apologize for the inconvenience and the trouble you’ve gone through this week, Ms. Dillinger. If there’s anything we at Megamusic can do to make amends, please let me know.”

To my surprise, Letty keeps her tone even. “Thanks.”

Aww, my baby’s growing up. I mentally chuckle.

Red-cheeked Anna reluctantly steps forward. “Sorry for misleading you, Letty. My behavior was unethical and unbecoming of a journalist.”

Letty seems to think for a moment, and then she nods.

When Anna and Salinger exit the bus, Eliza speaks up. “Can I make a suggestion?” She turns to Lizzie. “I don’t know what your beef is with Letty, but I think we’ve put on enough of a production for this tour. The last thing I want is to be dragged into your high school alpha-girl drama. If you’re pissed at her, duke it out in private with words, not veiled chess moves on the internet’s game board. At the very least, be woman enough to admit you fucked up.

“I’ll give it to you straight. I got a baby to take care of. My primary job is being a mom. Todd is my kid’s dad. If you’re gonna keep up this tug-of-war, it’s going to ruin a lot more than your reputation. It’s already damaging my child’s environment, which is unconventional to begin with. So, I’m asking you to end this. Here and now. For Gabrielle’s, Beth’s, and my sake, if not your own.”

Lizzie’s only answer is a scowl. Ooh, there’s gonna be some friction onstage tonight. I tamp down the squeal of delight building in the back of my throat.

Henke, the Socket rep, studies his folded hands for a moment and shakes his head with disgust. Then he addresses Lizzie. “Given the circumstances and the evidence, I must say I’m dismayed about what’s come to pass. Here we have a prominent member of the music community conspiring against another, bullying her to the point of defamation … I can’t understand why you’d do such a thing, Lizzie. You’ve got a headlining gig on one of the most popular tours in the US. What possessed you?”

Lizzie’s itching to respond, but a sideways cut from Richard’s eyes stops her.

“Okay, I hate to do this, but as a company, Socket prides itself on values and ethics. We won’t condone this kind of behavior through sponsorship. When word gets out about what you did, you’ll make everyone—including me—look bad.” Henke turns to Richard. “It’s Banging Betties or us. If you choose to remain on the tour, good luck finding another sponsor.” Then he returns to Lizzie. “You have to take responsibility for your actions, young lady. The world owes you exactly nothing.”

“You can’t do this,” Richard says. The tension on his lifeline to control seems to have reached its limit.

Letty intervenes. “Hold on a second. Mr. Henke, I was the one who got hurt in this debacle. I understand and respect your position, but Killer Buzz Float needs your financial support as much as Banging Betties do. And we need them.” She looks at Eliza for a second and offers a small smile.

What the hell?

“Can’t we work something out? All I want is my name cleared and maybe an apology,” she continues. “I’m willing to lay this incident to rest if Lizzie is. I just want to make people happy with my music. I don’t care about anything else.”

Henke seems to consider her words as he scans the faces of our band, ending with Letty, where his gaze lingers the longest. He looks at Richard. “You’ve got three days to clean up this mess. If there’s so much as a speck of dirt left behind, you’re out. Understand?”

Richard’s sigh shatters the silence of held breaths that follows. “Yes, sir.” He shakes Henke’s outstretched hand and watches the man leave.

Richard stands and buttons his suit jacket. Behind him, Lizzie’s nostrils flare. She looks like a bull stung by an entire hornet’s nest.

“Thanks for your discretion, Letty,” Richard says. “Sorry for the trouble caused. The band will issue a statement immediately.”

Shocked by how calm and controlled my petulant kid has been through all this, I wriggle between them and say, “I think it’s best we keep our distance for the rest of the tour and go our separate ways when it’s over.”

“Agreed.” Richard says. “Lizzie?” He tips his head toward Letty and lifts his brows.

Lizzie hammers her pink platforms to the bus’s deck and pushes up to stand. She ambles toward us like she owns the world and slings “Sorry” like a sharp rock in Letty’s direction.

“Wow.” Letty watches her leave. I don’t care enough to bother.

Richard’s lips clench together as he heads for the door too. I touch his sleeve and drop my voice for his ears only. “You keep your bitch away from my band, or I will sue her. We both know you’re nothing without her, so you’d better work hard at honing those manny skills, buddy. You’re gonna need ’em. Now get the fuck out of here.”

He tenses. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he says, and then he trudges off the bus.

Good riddance.

* * *

Late that night, after the Killer Buzz Float crew, Eliza, and Gabrielle enjoy Thanksgiving dinner as promised and we learn the truth about Shades’s paternity (according to the online lab results, he’s not Gabrielle’s dad, thank Christ), the mood on the bus is reserved but content.

Letty comforts a disappointed Shades in their bunk with soft words interspersed with kisses and her characteristic raspy laughter. Toombs and Rax sit on the back couches, playing games on their phones, asking each other for occasional tips on how to defeat such-and-such monster on level three or whatever that shit is they do. Eve practices some new dance moves on the upgraded pole I had installed. Jinx curls up on the front couch with her e-reader. Freddie drives.

The wheels on the bus go round and round

Round and round

Round and round

The wheels on the bus go round and round

All through the town

Which town is it tomorrow? I open the calendar on my phone. Salt Lake City, apparently.

It seems like we joined this tour only yesterday. When did we get so far away from home?

We didn’t. This is our home, remember?

I smile, climb into my bunk, and settle under my covers. My bunk. My home. My band.

The sheets are cold, but I welcome the chill. It’s better than what I had with Lizzie. At least toward the end.

The bus reeks of smelly rock star clothes. I’ll do laundry tomorrow. And the floor could use another mopping after Rax spilled his wheat grass shot this morning. Actually, it might be time for a thorough, top-to-bottom cleaning of the entire bus. Wonder if I can talk the children into helping. Maybe if I offer them a bonus to their allowances? I smile again.

I whip out my mental to-do list and imaginary pen and scribble down toilet scrub refills, more paper towels, restock on the spray cleaner, a fresh duster. Oh, and Jinx’s light bulb replacement.

What I really need is an assistant. Someone who can take some of these less important but necessary tasks off my hands. Like looking into a sanitation upgrade on the toilet so we can shit in there instead of having to sphincter-pinch turtle heads until our usual ten o’clock pit stop at the nearest gas station.

My phone buzzes with an incoming call. It’s Lizzie. Surprised it took her this long to begin the hounding. I expected it right after she left this morning.

I toss the stupid device aside. A minute later, a voicemail pops up. Curiosity gets the better of me. I hit the button and hold the phone to my ear.

“I can’t believe you fucking ratted me out, Jillian. You betrayed my trust, broke into my shit, and made me look bad. And worse, you forced me to apologize to your little bitch Letty when she should have apologized to me.” A quiet choke shakes her voice.

“What is it about her? Are you in love with her? Why? After everything I did for you, everything I sacrificed.”

I snort at that line.

“After I brought you into the lifestyle and showed you things you never experienced before. I gave myself to you, and you shit all over me. If you call me and apologize, I’ll forgive you. Not her—never her—but you.”

She sniffles. “I need you, Jillian. Come home. Call me—” The message cuts off.

“I am home,” I say to myself. I open Lizzie’s contact information page. Push the “edit” button. Hover my thumb over “delete contact.”

I hit the button. “Delete contact” changes to red.

Last chance to save her.

Except she can’t be saved. It wasn’t for lack of trying. The only person I can save is myself. And I’m doing it right now.

I stab the red button. I erase her contact info from my mental Rolodex. I click on the voicemail she left and select “block caller.”

Yeah, I’ll still see her on the parking lot blacktop or backstage after our remaining shows or with the documentary crew, but my obligation to her is over.

I’m free.

I smile at the phone and turn it off. “Bye, Felicia.”