Double Down Page 6

  “You’re easy company,” he said, glancing over at her. “What do you think of our new house and home, then?”

  “For such a swanky place, security sucks.”

  He puffed a laugh out through his nose. “There’ll be a guard out by the lobby. Fans don’t tend to come around back.”

  “And the paparazzi?”

  “Oh, they know the tricks. But nobody sells shots of the crew to the papers, do they?”

  “Will the back at least get locked up after load in?”

  “Sure. The equipment’s worth a fortune. Nico would shitcan someone if so much as a synthesizer walked off.”

  Maji let that sink in. “So the equipment’s worth keeping safe. Just not the talent.”

  “Not my department, love. Believe me, I’m as fussed by yesterday’s dustup as the next bloke, but…” He paused, recognition lifting his tweezed brows. “You’re her, aren’t you? The flying wonder.”

  Maji quirked a smile. “I prefer leaping lizard.”

  * * *

  A bright stream of daylight hit Erlea and she cursed. Must have left the blackout curtains open. Oh, fuck—morning call. Nico would shred her in front of her crew if she arrived late to call on the very first day. And he’d be right for once. A prick you couldn’t argue with was the worst kind.

  The bathroom door opened and a tall, stout guy with a beard walked out, buttoning his fly. “Oh, hey. Good morning.” The eyes she must have found attractive last night smiled at her.

  Great. She’d brought him back. Perfect. Name? Her memory search came up empty. “Morning. Uh-oh.”

  Erlea stumble-ran into the bathroom, slamming the door and making loud retching noises. That usually got rid of them. Except for the sweet ones. They were the worst.

  He knocked on the door. “You okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t wait for me.”

  The pause was long enough to worry her. Finally he said, “Okay. Can I call you?”

  “Sure.” No. Of course not.

  “What’s your number?”

  Oh, thank God. At least she hadn’t given him that last night. She called out her usual made-up string of digits.

  “Thanks. Ciao.”

  Erlea stood, pulled her jeans up, and sighed with relief. If she was fully clothed, maybe she hadn’t given him anything else last night, either. Probably a hand job, a few hours’ sleep, and as many stories as he wanted to fabricate for his friends. Could be worse.

  * * *

  Fauxhawk circled around Maji, studying her head and face from multiple angles.

  “What?” Maji asked.

  “I could make you twins in ten minutes. You and herself.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Fancy a wager?”

  No harm there. “Dinner for two at Cuina Mallorquina.”

  “Can I bring anyone I want, or are you angling for a date with me?”

  Maji wiped her hands on her jeans and set the plate on the counter behind her. “In your dreams, fauxhawk.”

  He looked at her uncertainly.

  “No offense, you’re just not my type. And you’re fauxhawk until you tell me your name.”

  He laughed. “Right then. I’m Roger. And you, leaping lizard?”

  “Maji.”

  He pulled up a work stool and stared intensely at her features. “Plate,” he said, waving his hand without taking his eyes off her face.

  Maji reached behind her, making sure to not let the remaining croissants slide off. “Tick-tock.”

  “Shh,” he said and bit into the almond one. “Hmm.”

  And then Roger got down to work, wielding sponges and eyeliner, mascara, and finally lipstick in a surprisingly rapid succession. He leaned back and looked at Maji, a slow smile spreading across his face, and turned her chair to face the mirror. “Ha. Now all I need is a date.”

  Maji studied herself in the mirror. It was a subtle transformation, less than she’d undergone for some missions where her cover required heavy makeup. She looked at his smug reflection. “That’s it? I’ve never seen this face in the tabloids.”

  “They like the glam shots, love. Anyone can put on a costume and do an Erlea send-up, but this—”

  The door swung open. “Rog, have you seen…” A fortyish man with a sprinkle of gray in his wavy black hair looked at Maji’s reflection and paused, clearly surprised. “Oh, good. Why are you dressed like a grunge puppy? Well, it’s just blocking. And at least your shoes are sensible. Now stop stuffing your face and get your ample ass out on stage, Erlita.” He snapped and pointed down the hall while pivoting away.

  “Nice move,” Maji muttered. “He’s really, really not my type.”

  Roger smiled as the door swung shut. “Just one more thing you and Erlea have in common. Nico’s always charming like that. You can guess how well they get on.”

  Maji sighed. “You’re an expensive fellow to underestimate.”

  * * *

  On her way to the stage, Maji passed two of the roadies and made a point to make eye contact before nodding at them. They simply nodded back. Did only Nico see the resemblance? Or was the big rock star no big deal backstage? All dressed up and nobody to impress.

  Usually Maji took pains to not be noticed while using a cover identity, but today she had thought it might actually be fun. If not, why be a rock star? Maji paused by the coffee table. Nico didn’t notice her arrival, busy pointing up into the rafters, heatedly discussing lighting options with someone on the other end of his headset, presumably up in the control booth.

  Maji was about to give up and head back to the do shop when she spotted a woman emerge from the far wings and saunter toward the coffee. She was Maji’s height, similarly dressed except for the flip-flops, and damned if she didn’t look just like her. Or did she look like Erlea?

  The star paused and stared back at Maji, looking puzzled. A mild reaction. But maybe people impersonated her all the time and she was just deciding whether to call the police or write an autograph. Either way, Maji put one finger to her lips and gestured for Erlea to sneak over to her.

  Up close Erlea muttered in Spanish, “What the fuck?”

  “I’m your stand-in,” Maji whispered back. “You know, a double. Roger did my face.”

  Erlea scrutinized his work. “Sorry he couldn’t make you prettier than me. Is this another one of Nigel’s bright ideas?”

  Maji rolled with it, nodding and pouring Erlea a cup of coffee. “But could I really fool the paparazzi?”

  “You don’t sound like me.” Erlea gestured toward Nico. “Does he know yet?”

  Maji shook her head. “Called me Erlita and told me to get my ass out here.” She left the face-stuffing and ample digs out, but mimed the snap-and-point move.

  Erlea rolled her eyes. “Prick. I say we fuck with him. Go out and show some attitude.”

  Maji smiled and strode quietly out to center stage as if she had every right to be there. Erlea stepped a little deeper into the wings, into shadow. “Pick on someone your own size, Nico.”

  Nico turned and spotted Maji, who waved at him. He frowned and pointed Maji to a mark on the marley. “Stand there.” Then into his headset he said, “Spot.”

  Maji flinched at the sudden glare and turned her head away.

  “Christ, how late did you stay out?”

  Maji just shrugged, her face still averted from the full force of the light.

  “I will put a minder on you if I have to,” Nico warned. “Take three steps back and strike a pose.”

  Pose? Maji walked backward three steps, one arm over her eyes, and thrust the other fist into the air.

  “Don’t take your hangover out on me, princess.” Nico grabbed the pen from his shirt pocket and tossed it at Maji. It bounced off her chest and plunked onto the stage floor. “Strike a goddamn Erlea pose.”

  Maji lowered both arms and glared at him. Then she gave him the pose his behavior warranted: one fist thrust up like an uppercut, the other fist over that arm’s elbow. So much more sati
sfying than just flipping a middle finger.

  Erlea’s laugh rang out from the wings, followed by a slow clap. She strolled out and slapped Maji on the shoulder. “You can be me every day before noon—then I will take over.”

  Nico looked at Maji and back at Erlea. “Who the fuck is that?”

  “The stand-in,” Erlea answered. “More me than me, eh? Not Nigel’s worst idea.”

  Nico looked between the two Erleas, even less pleased with two than one. “Well, he didn’t clear it with me. Just another distraction.” He squinted at Maji. “Where did he even find you?”

  “I fell out of the sky,” Maji said. “Onto an idiot with a paintball gun and a stupid hat.”

  “You,” Erlea said, lighting up. “That’s almost as good as saving myself.”

  Nico snorted. “Now if she could just save you from yourself. At least she shows up on time. Can she sing and dance, too?”

  Erlea looked expectantly at Maji. “Can you?”

  “Lead or follow?” Maji joked, holding her arms in partner frame.

  Erlea stepped in. “You lead.”

  Maji swayed in time to the first salsa tune that popped into her head, humming “Vivir Mi Vida.” When she started singing the refrain as they danced, Erlea laughed and jumped in.

  “Stop,” Nico yelled. “Worst duet ever. Do not ever sing in public, no matter what Nigel tells you.”

  “Harsh,” Erlea commented, dropping her hands to her hips.

  “But fair,” Maji said. “I’d ruin your reputation.”

  “Very funny,” Nico said with no sign of amusement. “Now get out.” He pointed with a snap toward the loading dock.

  “Gladly,” Maji said. “But don’t you want all this back first?” She gestured to Roger’s Vivir Mi Vida makeup job.

  Erlea snorted. “Yeah. Otherwise she might be nice to the press and ruin my reputation as Queen Bitch.”

  “Fine,” Nico said. “Just get out of my sight.” He looked at Erlea’s flip-flops with distaste. “And you, put on some sensible shoes before you trip and delay rehearsals.”

  * * *

  An hour later and barefoot, Erlea eyed the table’s offerings. She should stick with black coffee and a little fruit. But dammit, she deserved a reward for managing to not cry, yell, or give in to the urge to hit Nico. She piled both fruit and pastry on the plate, poured coffee from the carafe, and added cream. Fuck his snide comments. If Nico wanted someone to lose weight, he could start with himself. She added another croissant to the plate, looked at it, put it back.

  Erlea carried the full plate down the back hall to the do shop. Maybe Roger would share. If not, he’d at least appreciate the thought. You could never be too good to the person in charge of making you look great. And that man could work magic. She’d met impersonators at events and on the street but never before had that weird sensation of meeting herself. Maybe Maji would still be there. Erlea sped up.

  “Ack.” She dodged the swinging door but couldn’t stop the coffee sloshing or a pastry falling onto the corridor floor.

  Roger gaped at her, then the fallen treat. He picked it up, took a bite, and began talking around it. “Thanks. I prefer my coffee in a cup, though. Come in, love.”

  “I should clean this up. Don’t you have towels?”

  “I do. But don’t you have an assistant fawning around somewhere? Let her do it.”

  Erlea scowled at him. She would never be like that, no matter who Nigel threw at her. “No. She quit, I think.”

  “Nico got to her that fast? Maybe she wasn’t cut out for the industry.”

  Erlea sighed. “Putting up with abuse shouldn’t come with the job. Speaking of which”—she peeked around the empty shop—“is she gone already?”

  “Back to her old self and out the door in two winks. Couldn’t get a word out of her, either. How bad did I bodge things this time?”

  “You? Never. If Nico gives you trouble, tell him to go fuck himself.”

  Roger snorted. “Wouldn’t it be nice for all of us if he could? Specially…never mind.”

  “Who? Someone here, already?” Please not one of the crew. “I suppose I’ll find out who it is when they quit. Such a waste.” Roger’s pointed look and deliberate silence called out her hypocrisy better than any comeback could have. “Fine. But he wasn’t working out, musically. He didn’t mesh with the band as a drummer must.”

  “Hard to relax with your mates when you’re worried they’ll poach your woman.”

  “I was not his woman,” Erlea snapped. “He knew the rules.”

  “They all say that, love. But even the macho ones have hearts. Especially the macho ones. And you know hearts don’t listen to rules.”

  “Oh, please. It wasn’t his heart I bruised—it was his ego. First they just want to fuck, then they want to sleep over. Then, bam, they think they own you.”

  “Okay, he was a bit of a wanker. But pretty. Very pretty. What makes you think the replacement will be better?”

  She shook her head. “Alvaro, Roger. He has a name and it is safe to learn it—I promise. He’s got excellent rhythm, plus actual social skills. Oh, and he’s gay.”

  The look on Roger’s face was so satisfying. “Should have led with that tidbit. When do I get to meet him?”

  “A couple days. And if you like him, Roger, be nice.”

  “Me? I’m the sweetest bloke on this crew. A regular gentleman. Is he single?”

  Now it was her turn to make him squirm with a look. “It matters to you, doesn’t it? You’re adorable.”

  “Don’t you dare ruin my reputation.”

  Erlea laughed, letting the last of the darkness dissipate. If only they all got along so well. The band, the crew, the dancers—on the road they were the only family available. Sometimes dysfunctional and never without some drama, but she really did want all of them to be happy. They gave up time at home and other opportunities to help her chase her own success. Roger could work for anyone he wanted to, and his choosing to be here meant more than she could put into words. “Your secret is safe with me. And if Alvaro hurts you, I’ll do more than fire him.”

  “Slow down, woman. Don’t get me married off and divorced before you even introduce us.”

  She sipped her coffee. “I can’t help it. I am a songwriter. I see a glimpse of the authentic you and a whole story unfolds in my head. Maybe it’s a happy story.”

  “Maybe you’re a romantic at heart, deep down where nobody can see it.” He must have seen the flash in her eyes, for he latched on to the idea. “That Maji lass. Was it love at first sight? She’s not really your twin, you know. All fine there, nothing smarmy.”

  Erlea shook her head at his fancies, savoring a bite of croissant. Tomorrow the diet would begin. “No lightning bolts from the sky. Just a wild idea.”

  “Wilder than me finding Mr. Right with a drummer?”

  “Definitely. What if Maji could fool the paparazzi? She could keep them occupied, and I—”

  “Could enjoy a little peace?”

  Erlea nodded. Roger might indulge in an occasional prowl of the clubs with her, but they were kindred souls when it came to work and quiet downtime. “If I could just focus for a few weeks, it might actually be a very good show.”

  “It’ll be the best, love. Even with that tosser at the helm. And the idea’s brilliant.”

  “You think Nigel would go for it?”

  Roger looked skeptical and her heart sank. He’d worked on Nigel’s productions off and on for years. “It’s always the bottom line with him, love. And your run-ins with the journos do feed the marketing machine. More press, more bums in seats, and who cares if the show’s as good as you want it to be? It just has to sell out.”

  “But…if I’m afraid to go out, then there are no photos and no stories.” She gave him a sly look. “Surely a morose, drinking alone, hiding in her hotel room Erlea would be terrible for marketing.”

  “Not bad. Just don’t actually hurt yourself to sell it. Don’t want to make him a fortu
ne the Santiago way.”

  Erlea shuddered at the thought. “He wasn’t even good.” Nigel’s most lucrative client of all time had been a midlister until his suspicious death. The endless news articles, the conspiracy theories, and the lawsuits over his estate drove album sales like his concerts never had. Even today, some gossip show would find an angle to bring the mystery back to public attention. Erlea waved one hand in the air, an imaginary headline banner. “Santiago: Still dead! Fans demand to know how this can be! Details at eleven.”

  They laughed ruefully together.

  “Try the frightened little girl angle,” Roger advised. “Nigel’s old-fashioned enough to buy it, and he doesn’t know the stuff you’re made of. God help him, neither does Nico.”

  Chapter Six

  Maji turned her back to Erlea and her asshat manager, pretending to admire the view of Alcúdia’s waterfront while she mulled his offer. Nigel Winterbottom’s posh suite exuded the kind of luxury expected of a music industry mogul. Nigel and his pontificating about art and image fit the plastic-fake classiness perfectly. Did he actually care about Erlea, or even the quality of her music?

  Which was not classy or fake but good, really good—especially the early years. Erlea’s sound reminded Maji of Ani DiFranco in tone, a bit more like Pink in oomph, plus something else. Something in the instrumentals—wild fiddles and exuberant horns, not the straight up guitars and drums of most American rock. Almost like zydeco. If Erlea were a guy, the press would ask her about her craft, not just clothes and boyfriends. It wouldn’t be that hard to fool the paparazzi, as Nigel proposed, but then the press wasn’t a real threat to her safety.

  “Well?” Nigel prompted her.

  Maji took in his imperious figure reflected in the glass. She should just walk out, but she owed Erlea politeness at least. “Not interested.” She gave Erlea an apologetic look. “Playing dress-up was fun, but I’ve got other business here.”

  “Like playing blackjack,” Nigel said, looking satisfied with himself. “That gullible security chief may think highly of you, but I could have you barred from the game room.”