Over the Line (7 page)
"Snooks?" Max rose and walked up behind her. He moved a little slower lately. It was one of the few giveaways that he'd turned sixty-two last month.
"Truth now," he pushed when she remained silent. "What's bothering you? You've been as jumpy as a Jack Russell pup since sound check."
She flinched when she felt his hands settle on her bare shoulders; her muscles tightened at his paternal touch when normally they would have relaxed.
"Whoa, whoa. You're shaking." His bushy brown eyebrows drew into a scowl. "Okay. What'd that little bastard Derek do this time?"
"Derek has nothing to do with this." For once, that was actually true.
"If it's not Derek then ... oh, hell—you're not letting that Bible-thumper get to you."
Six months or so ago, popular hellfire and brimstone TV evangelist Samuel Black had begun referencing Janey and her "ilk" and her music as the downfall of American morality in his sermons. His wife, Tonya, a Tammy Faye Baker wannabe—although only God knew why—had even organized a handful of his followers to show up at Janey's concerts recently, demonstrating against moral decay and rock and roll, and selling cookies to support their summer youth camp. Had to love it.
Or not.
Okay, yeah, it bothered her that Black's group had singled her out, but then so did the paparazzi who wouldn't give her a moment's peace. But neither the news media nor the fundamentalist Holy Roller was at the top of her list tonight.
"Janey?"
"No." She shook her head. "No, it's not Black."
Hands on her shoulders, Max turned her around to face him. "You're okay with Wilson and the new security setup, right? He came highly recommended, kiddo."
Actually, she had made peace with that. She'd been wrong to judge Wilson on looks alone. And he'd impressed the hell out of her when he'd made his case the night before last. And she'd been glad he'd been here for her today. Besides, it wasn't his fault that when she looked at him the emphasis was on "body," not "guard." "I'm fine with it. Max.... Look. It's nothing," she lied. "Just let it go."
"I would, but your drawl is thicker than syrup and I only hear it these days when you're upset."
The absolute bafflement and open concern in Max's voice finally did it.
She hadn't wanted him to find out about this tonight.
Not before the concert. She wanted to be strong. She wanted to be tough.
So much for what she wanted. She was about to wimp out. And she hated that. Really, really hated it.
"The police were here earlier. While you were talking to the suits at the label."
"Police?" The concern in Max's tone switched to alarm.
"She's ... she's dead, Max." Finally, Janey met his eyes. "My mom. She's dead."
Shocked silence swelled into the room. Outside, the muffled rumble of the partying crowd reverberated off the walls.
"Oh ... oh, sweetheart." Max folded her into his arms when he'd fully absorbed the news. "I don't know what to say. Lord. What. . . what happened?"
She soaked in the familiar comforting scent of him. Leather and spice and smoke. She shook her head, needing his familiar support more than she should. "There was an accident. Hit-and-run. It... it happened last night. It took them this long to identify the body and to locate me."
A chill ran through her as she thought about it—and about that indefinable something that had compelled her to call her mother the night before she died. A phone call Janey had been putting off for over a year.
Max let out a slow, deep breath. "I am so, so sorry, kid."
"Yeah. Hey. Look." She pulled abruptly away, knowing that if she let herself lean into all that caring and concern much longer, she'd fold. Worse, she'd cry. She couldn't cry now. She had a show to do. "It's ... it's okay, you know. It's not like we were close or anything.
"It's okay," Janey repeated, working her damnedest to convince both of them that she was tough. She blew it by jumping like a rabbit when a knuckle rap on her door and the anticipated cue of, "Five minutes, Ms. Perkins," told her she was due onstage.
"We're canceling tonight," Max said without hesitation. "You don't need to do the show. Not now. Not after this news."
He was not your typical manager, Max Cogan. With Max, Janey came first, not the money.
She kissed his cheek, then used her fingertips to wipe off the lipstick she had left behind. "I do. I do need to do it."
She pulled herself together and left her dressing room despite Max's worried frown. Baby Blue was there waiting outside the door. Gorgeous and vigilant in full bodyguard mode with his scowl fierce and eyes watchful. Until he saw her face and watchfulness transitioned to concern.
He took her arm. Held her gaze. "You doing okay, Ms. Perkins?"
He really was concerned. She felt as well as saw it. Was as touched by it as she was surprised again that he would be so sensitive.
For some reason she found herself wanting to reassure him. It was that beautiful baby face, she supposed. And maybe some deeply buried mothering instinct coming into play—which actually made her smile, because mothering was the last thought that usually came to mind when she thought about Jason Wilson.
"Right as rain," she assured him, and flashed him her brightest smile.
"Glad to hear that, ma'am. How about you go on out there and knock their socks off?"
Her mood suddenly brightened. "How about I kick a little ass instead?"
He grinned. "That'll work."
He took her arm and, along with two additional rent-a-muscle-men plus three members of the Amphitheater's security staff, escorted her to the stage, where her band had already launched into her opening number.
The sky was midnight dark; the crowd was on its feet, chanting her name. Electricity crackled in the air.
It was showtime.
And Sweet Baby Jane never missed a show.
Later that night, after the concert
"Do you think she liked me?"
Derek McCoy drew deep on a hit of prime Colombian, held it in his lungs, then passed the joint to the girl. He made quick work of stripping off his clothes and lay back on the king-sized bed of the suite Her Highness, Miss Cock Tease Perkins, had sprung for.
"Quit worrying about impressing her and start impressing me, darlin'," he drawled, working to curb his temper as she passed the joint back to him. "Lose the threads. I promised you I'd get you backstage to meet her and I did. Now it's time to pay up. Show me those big tits you're so proud of. And then I want to see your head in my lap."
Tammy, or Tansy or Tara or whatever the hell her name was, whipped her crop top over her head, unselfconsciously displaying her firm, full teenage breasts. God, he loved his life. All the pussy and weed he wanted. All the head he could handle.
Yeah,
he thought as she went down on her knees between his thighs and took him in her mouth.
He fuckin' loved his life.
He jerked to a sitting position when she started working him over, cupped her head in his hands, and guided her in a fast and frenzied rhythm, pretending it was Janey kneeling and supplicant and kowtowing to him.
Yeah, he loved his life. But he hated Janey Perkins with a passion.
The bitch. She shut him down. Over and over again, she fuckin' shut him down. Women didn't turn Derek McCoy away. Women fought to get into his pants.
But not Janey Perkins. Hell no. To her, he was nothing but a lapdog. Licking her feet. Scrambling for the scraps she tossed him. Begging her to throw him a bone.
"Harder," he growled, knotting his hands in the hair of the girl who was a poor substitute for the woman he wanted to bring to her knees.
More. He wanted her more than on her knees. He wanted to make sure she got what she really deserved.
As the girl finished him off, he clenched his teeth, came with a groan, and fell back on the bed.
Yeah. He wanted Janey Perkins to get everything she deserved. And someday, someday soon, he'd be dancing on her grave when she got it.
Thursday, July 13th, Tupelo
"You doing all right, snooks?"
Janey pinched out a smile to reassure Max that she was holding up, thankful as always, for his support. As of three days ago, he was the only parental figure left in her life—even if on a surrogate basis. Not that her mother had ever been stellar in the role.
Guilt—for the bitterness she felt—settled heavy and deep. Alice Perkins was dead. She hadn't been much of a mother, but she deserved someone to grieve for her. Janey appeared to be the only candidate. And yet her eyes were dry. Partly due to shock. Partly due to fatigue. Mostly because she'd lost her mother a long, long time ago.
Baby Blue sat stoic and watchful in the front seat of the Lincoln Town Car that drove them from the cemetery back to the funeral home. Outside, through the Lincoln's tinted windows, Janey caught glimpses of the press with their zoom lenses aimed at the vehicle. The Lincoln actually had to stop in the middle of the highway when a slew of photographers blocked their way.
"Damn jackals," Max sputtered. "Bastards can't even let you bury your mother in private."
It was the cost of being who she was.
One of the costs, anyway.
Fanatics like Edwin Grimm were another.
And now this. The news of her mother's death had compounded the feeling that someone was watching her. And not just the paparazzi who dogged her like a bad aftertaste. Just knowing that Grimm was on the loose had her constantly fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. The feeling had intensified since her Gulfstream had landed last night.
Or, she thought pragmatically, maybe it was the questions that had surfaced and lingered since the hit-and-run. Neither a car nor a driver had been found. No one had confessed. No one had seen anything. Aside from the obvious horror of knowing her mother had died that way, something didn't feel right about it.
Janey had plucked a single red rose from her mother's funeral spray. Or maybe, she thought, inhaling the bud's subtle, clean fragrance, it was more of a sense of being out of sync, out of place. She was back in Mississippi. Back in Tupelo, one of the many Mississippi towns where she'd spent her childhood. And where she'd never wanted to return.
"I called her," she said quietly, then lifted her head when she felt Max's concerned gaze on her face. "The night before she died ... I... I don't know why I did it. She was just... on my mind, you know?"
Max squeezed her hand. "It's good. It's good you got to talk to her."
Yeah. Good to hear her mother grumble about being woken up and dress her down about her makeup and clothes.
And now she was gone. Janey lifted a hand to finger the Celtic cross she'd found among her mother's things that morning.
"I've never seen you wear that before," Max said.
Janey looked down at the cross. "I gave it to her. I was thirteen or something. Saw it in Wal-Mart or Kmart or someplace like that. Fell in love with it. Just a piece of cheap discount-store jewelry, but I thought it was beautiful. I bought it for her with my babysitting money one Christmas."
She let go of the necklace and stared without seeing out the window. "I never saw her wear it." The cross felt heavy and cool yet, for some reason she didn't understand, comforting lying against her skin. "Wouldn't have dreamed she'd kept it all these years."