He sounded like he’d never been so happy to say two words in his life. I wanted to yank him by his beard.
Erin stepped forward. “I tried to tell you. We need a sticker.”
She motioned to the wall at our left. Yet another poster. This one listing the types of credentials. There were at least ten in total, from “Working” to “Press” to “AAA.” Erin pointed at the one that kept sending me invites to join their motor club, then spoke to the guard. “That’s the God pass?”
He nodded.
She turned to me. “It’s the only one that’s truly all access.”
Shitnuts. “What are we gonna do?”
I was talking to Erin, but Security Santa spoke. “Not wait here.”
I really could do without the extra helping of attitude, even if I was the one who’d served it up first. My frustration was back full force.
Erin came to my rescue. Again. She gave Security Santa a smile that could melt margarine, which made sense since she was trying to butter him up. “We only need to get back there for a second. You can even come with us.”
He looked dead at me while answering her. “Can’t.” He’d obviously heard that one before, from cuter girls than us.
“Can you at least tell us if Free’s here?” I said, though I was sure he’d heard that one too.
“No.”
He didn’t bother to elaborate, and my pride refused to ask him to clarify. Instead, I gave him another smile. It was looking like the only chance I’d have to chat with Free would be if I jumped up onstage.
Erin and I retraced our steps. Me glowering. Her texting all the people she’d spoken to backstage, asking them to let us know when they saw him. We walked past a bathroom, and she stopped. “I gotta tinkle.”
She left me standing by the snack table, scratching the inside of my wrist like I’d just taken off a set of too-tight cuffs. Things were not going how I’d envisioned. Maybe it was God’s way of telling me this was not a good idea. I was about to go in to tell Erin we could leave when I saw the mass.
The energy is different when there’s a celebrity in the room. There’s this crackling undercurrent everyone feels even if they don’t acknowledge it. Even if no one is looking directly at the star—and at events like these, they never are—everyone is aware of their presence. The air surrounding me suddenly felt rich. I was in the presence of fame and fortune.
The mass came toward me, a headsetted blonde up front playing Pied Piper to a group of Black men of all shapes and sizes. The tall, beefy one in the lead was constantly looking around—the bodyguard. The others weren’t nearly as tall or as anxious, their energy directed not out but in, at a lone person I couldn’t make out.
But I didn’t have to. I knew who it was.
A skinny white kid confirmed it when he jumped in front of me, cell phone extended like a gun. “Can I get a selfie?”
The only indication anyone had heard him was the bodyguard. He tensed but didn’t stop. Neither did the rest of the mass. The kid came forward anyway. The bodyguard stuck his hand out, but a voice stopped him.
“You’re good, little man.”
The seas parted, and there he was. I’d figured Desiree had screwed Free as payback. But now, up close and in person, I wasn’t so sure. Free was one of those men who got better-looking as they aged. The type so pretty in their twenties that the gradual appearance of fine lines and gray hairs made them more accessible. It helped that Billy’s workout sessions were paying off.
I’d caught snippets of his new album when I’d scrolled my favorite IG pages. Watched my YouTube tutorials. Put on Jimmy Kimmel to help me get to sleep. Despite his new, mature look, his lyrics were still the exact same. Still hit you so hard you got a concussion and needed to stay up all night listening on repeat.
I stared. It’d been twenty-five years since I’d seen him. I doubted he would recognize me, so I played out how I would introduce myself as he chatted the kid up and let him snap a smile-free selfie. Saying “Lena Scott” would get me ignored. Saying “Mel’s daughter” or “Desiree’s sister” would get me escorted out.
I was still deciding when he looked right at me. And I knew he’d seen me all along. I flashed on the man who’d bowled with me in the studio and listened to my three-year-old day. Then I smiled.
“Melina.”
He moved toward me, so the mass did too. He pulled me in for a hug so hard he lifted me off my feet. He smelled like expensive cologne and good weed. I resisted the urge to tell him how I still hated that little girl who’d pushed me on the playground. I hadn’t thought of her in years.
He was good memories. He was also the man who’d been fucking my sister behind his wife’s back. Maybe got her pregnant. Maybe did much, much worse, even though it was hard to believe that now, seeing him in person. I had to remind myself that’s what they always say about killers. I took a big step back. “We need to talk.”
“I know.”
I was immediately swept up in Team Free. Even with the cadre of men surrounding me, I could still feel people noticing us or pretending not to. That current.
We moved past the roadies, past the women in headsets, past Security Santa, into a hallway. The only inkling it was celeb central was the occasional big, bulky bodyguard posted outside a door. We didn’t stop until we got to one with Free’s name on it. It was only when we entered that I realized I’d left Erin behind.
Twelve
It was a half hour before I actually got to speak to Free. There was a line. The blond escort from the station. His manager. Even his barber. Everyone wanted five minutes. To go over the schedule. To discuss logistics. To cut his hair. And we were all crowded into a space about the size of a bedroom with a couple of couches, a battered coffee table, and a credenza decked out with such an odd collection of things that they had to be straight off his rider. His boys had descended on the sofa, one rolling up a blunt with the utmost concentration.
I leaned against a wall, ignoring them ignoring me, reading the latest pep talk from Erin on my phone. Security Santa hadn’t let her pass, and I was afraid if I left to get her, I’d never get back in. So I stayed, using the time to reevaluate how to bring Desiree up. This wasn’t a pool. I wasn’t going to jump right in. I’d start with the shallow stuff—baseball, kids, how great his new song was—before finally getting deeper. The plan still needed to be the same. Fact-finding mission. Not confrontation. Especially not here with his whole crew of lackeys.
They’d re-created a barbershop in the far corner. Clipper, brush, guy named Ralph making Free’s hairline as crisp as a new dollar bill. Free nodded his satisfaction, and Ralph began to pack his stuff.
I was up.
The barber didn’t so much as look at me, getting paid as much for keeping his mouth shut as for cutting hair. I wondered who he thought I was. What he thought I was. And if he’d seen Desiree and thought the same exact thing.
Free was ready and waiting. He sat back in his chair. I’d spent enough time in hair salons to know the seat wasn’t comfortable, yet he looked at home. And he probably was. Backstage second only to the studio for him.
He smiled, maybe at my nervousness, maybe just at me. I stopped a full three feet away, scared to come any closer. Not even looking at him directly but via the mirror. Him in spotlight, me in shadow.