“That’s, like, two whole blocks.” She looked impressed.
When I glanced down, I got why. She was balancing on four-inch heels. There were no telltale red bottoms, but they were probably made by some trendy designer nonetheless. One who didn’t have a marketing genius behind him like Mr. Louboutin. “It’s not that bad in flats,” I said.
“I don’t own any.”
I believed her. Desiree had been like that too. Their lifestyle was one that didn’t require a pair of sneakers. You didn’t need them for Pilates and yoga—or a trip to the plastic surgeon.
“We can get a cab, I’m sure,” I said.
But Erin already had her phone out. “I’ll take care of it.”
Five minutes later we were in the back of a black SUV with a guy named Arjun pointing out USB ports and the bottles of water he’d thoughtfully left in the cup holders. Ten minutes later we were stuck in traffic on Eighth Avenue while Erin and Arjun swapped life stories. They’d both spent time in India. Only one of them was actually from there. Twenty minutes later we were finally at our destination.
As a proud Jersey girl, I’ve spent a lot of time in Penn Station, but I can’t begin to tell you how to get into Madison Square Garden. I don’t think out-of-towners realize the Garden and Penn Station are one and the same. Most commuters probably forget themselves, the onslaught of jersey-clad Knicks and Rangers fans so common they might as well be part of the architecture. A true case of Upstairs, Downstairs. Fans crowded into one space. Tired commuters heading to New Jersey and Long Island into the other. Both paying far too much, whether they’re staring at Billy Joel or a departure board.
There is a reason why every movie set in New York City has a scene in Grand Central and why, in Hollywood, Penn Station doesn’t exist. It has all the bullshit and none of the ornate architecture. No arched windows. No ceiling murals. No artwork. Instead it has chain restaurants, endless construction, and the occasional lost bird. The only thing it has going for it is Krispy Kreme, and that’s only if you like donuts. It’s not the first time New York has decided to shit on New Jersey. And it won’t be the last.
When we got out of the car, I felt more lost than Gretel after she let Hansel convince her bread crumbs were a foolproof plan. Luckily, I had both Erin and an All Access pass. She’d wanted to come, and I’d realized having someone fluent in “rich and famous” would be a good thing. Once our credentials were picked up and placed around our necks, I followed her up and around and up again until we were gliding toward a Black woman security guard.
I double-fisted the pass, ready to present it like an ID to a bouncer. But she didn’t stop us, barely even glancing our way as Erin glided by. I took more tentative steps until we were through a set of black curtains and into the “back of the house.” It felt like more people were backstage than in the arena proper, and it was way more diverse than I’d expected. Gruff white guys in dirty jeans hauling instruments like furniture. Cute young blondes clutching walkie-talkies like pearls. Overdressed couples, the women in too-high heels and the men in too much cologne.
A music caste system, and I didn’t fit in anywhere. Too female for the roadies. Too brown for the event staff. Too broke for the VIPs. Erin didn’t have that problem. We could barely get two feet without someone stopping her to trade air kisses and promises to meet up in LA. Unfortunately, none were Free.
I’d been fine until we’d gone through the curtains. But then my nervousness kicked in. The plan had seemed foolproof. If you’re going to ask one of the most powerful men in music if he had anything to do with your sister’s premature death, a public place seemed the spot to do it. Now that I was here, however, backstage just felt full of secrets. Doors and curtains and people so self-involved they wouldn’t notice someone getting shot right in front of their eyes. But I’d come this far. I needed to talk to Free, and I was going to talk to Free. Even if I had no clue where he was.
I had too many options. There were posters plastered on the walls with arrows pointing a million ways. PRODUCTION. DRESSING ROOM. BROADCAST ROOM. STAGE. Free could be in any of them. We kept walking, destination unknown, while a redhead as thin and pink as a Pocky stick blocked our path. “Erin, baby, I’m sorry to hear about Desiree. Feels like we just had drinks last week to discuss that club you two wanted to start. What was she doing up there?”
Erin didn’t glance at her. She glanced at me. “Cassie, this is Lena.” Cassie shook my hand, her fingers as limp as a male body part, eyes already searching for someone more exciting. “Lena is Desiree’s sister.”
Cassie turned back to me so fast you would have sworn she’d been slapped. “Oh, you poor thing.” I noticed she didn’t ask me what Desiree was doing up there. “You’re so brave to be out and about so soon. You know Desiree was one of my favorite people.”
To gossip about. I threw Erin a look. Even she rolled her eyes.
“Let me know if I can do anything to help,” Cassie said. I could see her mentally composing the text she’d send to her yoga group chat. How I was at a concert instead of mourning. How we were both the same, loving to party too much.
“You can tell me where Free is,” I said.
That stopped her. “Does this have to do with Desiree?”
“No, he’s a family friend.”
“Oh. Free Money. That’s right. He’s performing after one of the ASAPs so I doubt he’s here yet.”
“You know if he’s doing press?” Erin said.
“Doubt it. It’s not a coincidence his new artist is on the bill. It was the only way he’d agree to do the show. I’d try his dressing room.” She took out her card, handed it to me. “Please let me know about the funeral.”
With that she was off, leaving me glad she was gone.
“Okay, so we need to find the dressing rooms,” I said more to myself than Erin.
Luckily, an arrow pointed to dressing rooms to our right. I took off, power walking like I was in Rockefeller Center the day the Christmas tree went up. The only indication Erin was following was the people calling her name as we passed. The hall curved past a table chock-full of snacks before hitting a dead end that would have forced us to go right. And I would have, except for the guard.
He stood smack-dab at the wall, about ten feet from an open area. Now that I had a plan, I had no fear. No nerves. An All Access pass was good for any impending anxiety.
“Lena.” Erin was still behind me, but I ignored her. Too focused.
We’d run out of arrows, which meant this had to be Free’s dressing room. I was all ready to breeze past the guard when he put up his hand. “I’m sorry, ladies, but this area is restricted.”
I forced a smile and held up my pass. “We’re credentialed.”
“Lena.” Erin again. I still paid her no mind.
The guard was white and old, with more hair on his chin than the top of his head. He made no bones about glancing at my chest, for once not checking out my boobs. I raised my credential higher. “Doesn’t all access mean…all access?” I tried to hold my sarcasm in.
Security Santa smiled. “No, ma’am.”