Chapter One

Savannah

December 17

Outside Dublin City, Ireland

The satisfying sounds of last night’s cheering crowd still echo in my ears. My mind’s eye pictures the adoring faces pressed to the edge of the stage, arms outstretched in hopes of some passing touch of my hand. I attempt to oblige them as often as I can, skimming the reaching palms and fingertips as I walk the curved perimeter, noting the expansive sea of faces beyond them that stretch to the far limits of the concert hall.

I know where my bread’s buttered. Even though I sometimes feel as if I’m in a tiny closet with the walls pressing in on me, I’m thankful for each and every fan. Even those I never touch except with the melodies and lyrics of my music.

But that’s enough. It has to be.

The heart beating inside the music is what’s important, not the cursory touch of my flesh or my sparkly couture clothing or my deluge of instruments. I didn’t follow this rough and lonely road to stardom to gain physical admiration, fame, or even money. Artists are a breed apart, infected and driven forward by an insatiable and sometimes unforgiving muse.

We do it for the love of what we create. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The money and fame that follows is both a blessing and a curse, a dichotomy I still struggle with most days. I also struggle with the long hours of traveling between shows. The fishbowl I live in. My every look and gesture dissected in tomorrow’s headlines.

I shake myself from my inner visions and focus on the bleak landscape outside the window of the bus. Christ, is that frozen white shit snow? Being a California girl through and through, I never thought I’d actually see it in real life. I never tour in winter, and if my manager demands it, I keep it close to home. And heat. Although it’s now mid-afternoon, darkness seems to hug this northern climate like a gray blanket, regardless of day or night. How I miss home at times like these, along with my welcome shot of daily Vitamin D via the scorching sun. We’ve been in Ireland almost a week, and I haven’t seen my old friend Sol yet, or many shades of green.

Emerald Isle, my ass.

The Savannah Starr European tour felt ages away when my promoter first scheduled it. At the time, London, Manchester, Lyon, and Munich sounded like fun. Something different and a golden opportunity to expand my reach. I’d never been, and I’m always up for some sightseeing and good times along the way. But somewhere during the planning, he’d thrown in Dublin, Waterford and Glasgow, and changed the dates from November through December in spite of my violent protests. The success of the Waterford show last night aside, it seemed a very bad idea considering the fat flakes of snow that now whipped diagonally across our windshield.

“How much farther, Mel?” I ask my driver, catching his eye through the rearview mirror, checking his limited reflection for any sign of worry or nerves. I hate weather. I hate snow.

I hate fucking bleak Ireland.

Mel Tobin spares me a furtive glance over his shoulder, unwilling to take his eyes off the narrow road that grows even narrower with the drifting snow collecting at its rocky edges. Heavy forest arches over the roadway, creating a tunnel effect. I half expect Stephen King to pop up and tell me he thought he’d write his next horror novel while on his European vacation and ask if he can tag along for the ride and pen something horrific. A shudder runs up my spine. This country is as spooky as shit.

“I thought maybe three hours if I took this alternate route around that bad traffic accident.” He sighs and gives a shrug. “Sorry Savie, didn’t count on weather conditions like these. The radar didn’t pick it up. Hopefully, we can still make the last ferry out of Belfast.”

“Hopefully?” I repeat, trying to sound sarcastic, but really feeling like I’m going to puke all over my new Jimmy Choos. I have no clue where the hell we are, and the only thing that frightens me more than long Trans-Atlantic flights is the prospect of missing my next gig. Singing is like breathing, and not doing it is like having the oxygen burned from my lungs. “And what if we don’t?”

“Relax, Savie. You’ve got everything you need right here on this gypsy caravan that passes for a bus in this country. Your clothes, your makeup, your electronic gadgets. Food and booze in the cooler. So many instruments you could outfit an entire orchestra. Don’t worry. There’s always another ferry.”

“Another ferry?” I gape, itching to slap something, even my own face. “When? Next week? No way. I’m not spending one more night than I have to in Leprechaun Land, thank you very much. There’s no pot ‘o gold at the end of this fucking all-white rainbow. Can’t you go any faster?”

Mel laughs. “Careful. The wee folk might fly into an Irishman’s rage for dissing them like that. And this ain’t the I-5, in case you haven’t noticed. Speed limit’s somewhere between snail and sheep, not to mention this vardo topping out at about sixty.”

“What the hell language are you speaking?” I scoff, trying to lighten the somber mood that I’ve created for myself. It’s like Mel’s just stepped out of a tourist brochure, testing the new lingo. “Maybe we should have hired out a horse and wagon.”

“You’re catching on. A vardo is a gypsy covered wagon that’s pulled by horses.”

“Whatever. Thanks for the history lesson, Mel. Anything as long as it gets us to the ferry terminal on time.”

Mel chuckles and reaches for the radio handset on the dash. “We’d better check in with Freddie on the other bus and let them know we might be late. They were lucky to be ahead of that twelve-car pileup. But ole Mel’s never been late yet, and I’m not about to break the streak now.”

I flop back into my plush leather seat and cross my arms in frustration. No matter how much money and fame I procure, I can’t bribe Mother Nature.

I blow out a breath. “Just step on it, will you?”

The small bus isn’t uncomfortable, but I still can’t get used to the sight of Mel sitting in the right-hand driver’s seat, or driving on the left side of the road. My luxury bus is parked at my estate in the Hollywood Hills, collecting dust. I’d give anything to have my custom Jacuzzi tub to soak in instead of a cracker box of a cold shower. Sadly, roads like this couldn’t accommodate that behemoth of a bus, even if I could have hauled it over the ocean. A road this narrow has no room for anything larger than this. We’re screwed if there’s any oncoming traffic.

Like other superstars before me, I trust the tour organizers to procure the best services available for me while overseas. It isn’t like I can demand the European tour manager fly my private buses in from LA. This isn’t even a full tour. I guess I could have demanded it, but that would put me right up with Julianna Jax’s crazy dressing room demands of black flowers and white furniture. I’m not a diva. Okay, maybe I’m a little bit of a diva, but only because I like things the way I like them, not because I’m a total spoiled asshole. So even though no one would deny a four-time Grammy Award winner her home away from home on wheels, I never even considered pitching a fit about coach transport.

I shift in my seat and draw my coat more tightly around me as the temperature cools. For now, this will have to do, and I vow to make the best of it. With my extensive wardrobe and personal belongings, I always travel in a separate bus from my band and equipment, but at the moment, I’d welcome their company. The forest and flat fading light seem to close in on me, choking out my normal positivity. Mel speaks into the transmitter, trying to reach Freddie, but nothing comes through except the scratching of annoying and useless static.

“Repeat, this is Savannah One, come in Savannah Two. Freddie, you there, man?”

More static, then just an oppressive silence that’s louder than thunder to my sensitive ears. Mel slams the handset down, and my heart gallops in response. Now we’re stuck out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere without communications. I pull out my cell phone and check the bars even though I already know the story.

None. Nada. Zilch.

“Fuck. Radio’s out.”

He slams his hand on the steering wheel for good measure. Since I’m the boss, I suppose I should be the calm one when all I really want to do is start screaming to turn this diesel POS around so I can catch the first flight back to The Golden State. Even though there’s nothing I fear more than flying, I can just pop a tranquilizer and white-knuckle it. Mel isn’t normally the nervous type, which is a good thing. I can panic enough for the both of us. Hell, I can panic enough for my entire backup band and crew.

“Can you fix it?” I ask, peering out the front windshield. A rickety road sign passes through our headlights. I barely make out the white reflective lettering. Wintervale 8 km.

“I’m a driver, not a dot.com techie. Probably just the weather interfering with the radio waves. There’s a town up ahead,” Mel says, pointing at the sign. “Maybe we can call from there.”

“Can’t you just get him on your cell? We pay enough for network service,” I say, praying that some divine entity will bestow the heavenly rays of a cell signal upon him.

Mel shakes his head. “Where’ve you been? No cell service the last two hours. Haven’t seen a tower for miles, either.”

Wracking my brain, I come to the conclusion that the last time I used my phone for a live call was at the hotel in Waterford this morning. Jesus, even the North Pole has cell towers. What kind of country is this? No sooner did the words leave Mel’s lips when a shuddering ‘clunk’ jolts the bus sideways, and me along with it. I shriek as I nearly slip off the padded seat and into the aisle in a tangle of petrified limbs.

“What the fuck?” Mel curses a few other interesting expletives, jerking the wheel to keep us on the road.

I straighten back up and glare at Mel in abject terror. “What was that? I feel like I’ve stumbled into some alternate universe. Kind of like an Irish version of the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Hang on, pretty girl, we’ll get back on the road in no time. Never fear, Mel is here.”

A series of gut-wrenching thuds from deep within the vehicle’s core follow his bright and shiny message, bringing us to a jittery halt. Mel works the gears in an attempt to get us moving again.

“Oh my God,” I say on the breath I’d been holding. “Don’t tell me we hit something. Don’t tell me we killed something.”

“I don’t think so. Engine’s still running. Could be just a flat, I’ll check.” Mel dons a coat and ball cap and opens the doors. A blast of wind and snow rush in, almost knocking me back on my ass again.

A flat? It feels like more than a flat tire. I make my way to the back windows, praying I won’t see a dead animal in our wake. I love all God’s creatures big and small. In fact, I wanted to bring my Yorkshire terrier with me on this trip, but my assistant didn’t procure the appropriate vet paperwork in time, so Daisy’s with my bestie, Anne Lawrence. Luckily, Anne loves the little munchkin like her own. We’ve even Skyped since I left L.A., but seeing my sweet girl go a little doggy cray-cray when she hears my voice breaks my heart, so I’ve kept the check-ins to a minimum.

The red glow of the tail lights reveal nothing but rutted road and swirling snow. I feel Mel kicking the tires as the small bus gives a little shimmy in response to his booted foot. After several thumps and muffled curses, he climbs back into the cab.

“Tires look fine but weren’t made for this kind of weather.” He shakes the snow from the brim of his hat. “This has gotta have an emergency frequency,” he says, reaching for the radio handset again and punching buttons on the dashboard.

I swallow hard. I don’t do emergencies—I have people to take care of them for me so I can keep myself off the Xanax and Zoloft I so richly deserve. People like Mel. But he’s just one man, and I feel sorry that somehow this is all falling on his shoulders just like the soft snowflakes from outside. Still, he’s the calm one. I listen to his systematic, monotone hails into the radio, attempting to raise the emergency network.

As minutes drag on without a response, I stem my growing apprehension by reaching for Helen, my acoustic guitar. She never strays far from my sight. Helen is my anchor, my lighthouse in times of stress, and even more so in times of happiness and creativity. I hold her lightly against me, stroking her neck and strings with a nervous energy I can’t really explain. Even though the situation’s frightening, I’m sure there aren’t any serial killers wandering this stretch of isolated road in a blizzard. But I don’t like it. And I’m not comfortable with my own discomfort. Drawing calm from the old guitar, I just hold it but don’t play as Mel works on the radio.

Finally, a scratchy blip of noise issues from the speaker. I hug Helen’s curvy body in relief. I named her after my mother. Since I can’t hug the pillowy bosom and drown my sorrows against the soft curves of the real thing when I live so far away from her, constantly touring or sequestered in a recording studio, I hug my guitar in her stead, convinced she’ll feel my love and longing through her.

Mom, I could really use your comfort right now.

“Roadside assistance,” crackles the voice over the radio. “Location, please.”

Mel gives our route, destination, and position to the dispatcher, and we look at each other with wrinkled brows as we attempt to decipher the responder’s thick brogue speech. After several minutes of muddling through the conversation, I get the impression there isn’t a rescue vehicle capable of towing a bus our size readily available, and the weather conditions are already triggering a large volume of emergency calls. Just like if you have to call your credit card company, they answer them in the order in which they’re received. The dispatcher’s advice?

“Stay put and keep the frequency open.”

Mel acknowledges her and sits back in his seat. “Fuck. Lot of fucking help they’ll be. I’m starting to like your horse and wagon idea.”

“It was a joke,” I say with a sigh, plucking a random tune softly from Helen’s strings to settle the mounting tension we both feel. Even though Mel hasn’t let on to his internal thoughts, there’s a negative energy crackling between us that isn’t normal.

“This country is a joke,” Mel scoffs. “How can a nation with such a thriving internet industry still have highways the size of one-lane horse trails within a hundred miles from a major city and no cell towers where you need them? Un-fucking-believable.”

I frown and focus on the feel of the guitar strings against my fingertips. If I allow my mind to slip elsewhere, I’ll lose it for sure. Mel will know what to do. He always does. Since I lost my dad to a heart attack, Mel’s stepped in and stepped up as a surrogate of sorts. He’s been with me since I played gigs in dive bars behind chain link. I can trust him.

I feel the air temperature falling even further but concentrate on keeping my fingers moving and my mind from wandering down roads featuring darkness and certain danger. Music always protects me, keeps me sane. As I free my thoughts, a new melody floats from my guitar, enveloping me in a blanket of musical protection. Familiar, yet foreign. I haven’t composed anything like it that I recall, but it repeats over and over again in my head and flows naturally from my instrument as if it’s been placed there by some sort of divine inspiration.

Without warning, Mel bangs his fist on the dashboard. I jump, startled out of my creative trance by his outburst. Oh no. If Mel’s lost his cool, I won’t have a hope in hell of keeping mine.

“What?” I say, worried that something else, something even worse has gone wrong.

“The battery won’t last if we keep the systems running. I have no intention of freezing to death out here or letting the famous rock and roller Savannah Starr miss a gig and disappoint her fans.” He stands and pulls his Rams cap down firmly on his head. “I’m walking into town.”

“Mel!” I cry, setting Helen aside. “You can’t. They say to stay put. The snow’s getting worse.”

“Exactly, it’s going to drift us in and make it impossible to tow us out if we wait for the locals to come to us. So, I’m going to them.”

“You don’t know where you’re going—don’t be crazy. There could be wild animals out there.”

Mel laughs, but it sounds tinny and more like a pathetic cry for help. “On this lump of rock? Any self-respecting predator would have cleared out centuries ago. Besides, it’s only a few kilometers to that next town, Winterston, according to the sign back there.” He gestures out the back window.

“Wintervale.” My lower lip forms a dubious pout. “How far is that in miles?” If it’s only a couple, I’d understand, but kilometers is foreign to me. I have no idea if that’s more or less than a mile, and I can’t even look it up on my phone to avoid looking stupid.

“Oh, seven or eight thousand yards. Less than five miles, no sweat.”

Mel’s a big enough man, hearty and in his mid-forties. Experienced. He can do it. Now isn’t the time to pull the self-absorbed, needy pop star stunt. I have to let him know how much I trust him.

“If you’re sure,” I relent with a sigh, then wag my finger at him. “But if you’re not back in two hours, Tobin, you’re off the payroll.” My threat is weak, and he knows it. Nothing short of a felony could make me cut Mel loose.

“If I’m not back in one hour, you can dock my pay. For now, I’m locking you in, so don’t step outside or you’re screwed.” Mel salutes and hits the controls to open the door once more. “I shall return!” he announces, a la General MacArthur. I return his salute with more confidence than I truly feel inside. The door closes, and I watch him march away from the bus, my heart constricting in fear.

“You damn well better,” I mutter. I’m not about to lose another father, even if it’s only a quasi one.

Just as he disappears from view, I hear a noise, like a distant, haunting moan. Adrenaline shoots through me, spiking in my brain. Fucking hell, is that a wolf? I’d rather take my chances with the Leprechauns and Gypsies. Hell, I’ve watched “My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.” The worst they can do is wrap my body in yards of pink tulle embellished with enough rhinestones and twinkle lights to give Clark Griswold a seizure. With a shiver, I dive flat onto the padded bus seat and close my eyes. I grope for Helen with an outstretched hand and draw her over me like a shield.

Music always protects me, and in this case, I hope that run of good luck continues.