“I am packing right now, as we speak,” Erlea assured her manager.
Nigel’s constant harping on image wore on her. On tour, jeans and sweatshirts were fine for rehearsals and on the bus. Costuming conveyed her carefully crafted rock star image during performances. Nigel insisted she live up to that image for the occasional party or night of clubbing as well. But a two-month residency show on the Mediterranean island of Majorca would give the media a chance to see her outside those controlled settings. “I can get a swimsuit there, right? And something for the VIP reception?”
“No one is going to see you in a bikini, unless you’ve made more progress than your trainer tells me,” Nigel replied. “And I’ll select an appropriate outfit for the reception. For now, just make sure you don’t look like a street urchin tomorrow morning. The car will pick you up at seven.”
Erlea rolled her eyes at the reference to the fantastical narrative he created for her backstory, the rough-edged waif plucked from the gutter and catapulted from Barcelona’s bar scene to fan-packed arenas across Europe and Asia. She let her cat in from the balcony and closed the doors, shutting out the perpetual hum of traffic below. The plaques and instruments adorning the walls of the spacious living room bore testament to both her years of formal training and her grandparents’ support. This apartment was hers now, swapped with them for the quiet house they enjoyed in the countryside; but the paparazzi didn’t know that. Which made it the perfect haven in the city.
Erlea stared down at the Barcelona street dark with late afternoon drizzle. Why did she have to leave when it was so lovely and quiet, the beaches and markets nearly free of tourists? She could record a few more tracks, maybe even pen another song if she could just relax. No one had warned her how much the stress of having to be likable to the whole fucking world, fans and industry alike, would impede her ability to pull the words and melodies together. Not so long ago, music was her passion. “Seven?”
“Seven sharp. You know how traffic is. Please refrain from staying out late tonight.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be ready.” Nigel’s view of her as a party animal fit his narrative, and it was nearly as fantastical as his rags-to-riches story. At least here at home. “It’s just, does that make me the last stop? Earlier is fine if it lets the others sleep in.”
“I need you rested when we land, looking every inch the rock star. Try as I might to keep your arrival a secret, you know how word leaks out.” Nigel paused. “Besides, the others will find their own way to the airport.”
Erlea didn’t try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Oh, so it’s just me and my minder.” The new assistant hired for the residency was a nice enough young woman, but she resented Nigel’s thinly veiled attempts to keep tabs on her.
“Ah, the girl. Did I forget to mention? Nico let her go.”
“What? When?” Erlea might not want a minder, but her assistant was outside the production director’s arena.
“Yesterday. She gave notice by text.” Nigel sighed loudly. “Youth. No manners.”
“She wouldn’t quit on a whim. What the hell did Nico do to drive her off so quickly?” Erlea fumed. “No—never mind. Are we insured for homicide? Because if I don’t kill him first, one of the crew is bound to.”
Athena wound her lithe, silky frame around Erlea’s calves, a welcome distraction. Erlea scooped her up and cradled her in one arm, rubbing a thumb along her chin and cheekbones just the way she liked it. A little massage to the ears and the lanky cat pressed her nose into Erlea’s jaw, purring.
“Don’t even joke like that,” Nigel said. “Once you two get settled at the Gran Balearico and start setting up the show, I’m sure you’ll work together like the professionals you both are. Remember, you’re the one who asked for an alternative to another tour.”
Erlea’s shoulders sagged. “I remember.” It was a compromise, making audiences travel to her, with the added draw of the resort setting. But even there they would lock her in the hotel to shield her from the paparazzi. At home she knew how to dodge them when she didn’t want to be seen. Erlea knew Barcelona intimately, every back street and shop of her favorite neighborhoods. She could sit in a café with friends, anonymously buzz down the streets on her moto, even ride the metro most days. Like a real person. “I’ll do my best. But he’d better meet me halfway.”
Erlea hung up on Nigel and followed the cat to the open suitcase on the bed. “If I put you down, will you help me pick what to take? Or will you curl up in there again? You know I’d go naked, if I could take you with me instead.”
Athena springboarded onto the floor and off to her bowl of crunchies in the kitchen. The telltale tinkle of her tags on the bowl told Erlea she was eating again, feeding another growth spurt. By the time the residency was over, the lanky kitten would be a cat. Would she still want to play, batting at everything and maniacally chasing the red dot? Or follow Erlea from room to room, wanting to be with her while awake and curl up next to her to sleep? “You’ll forget me and adopt Jordi and Maria, won’t you?”
Well, it would serve her right. Getting a kitten had been selfish. She knew Nigel wanted her on the road again, not in the studio or at home composing. Erlea could get by just fine on song royalties alone, but her career wasn’t just about her. The band and crew and all the bit players on the production side needed jobs. Now she was Erlea, Inc., an industry supporting at least a hundred people with homes and families. And if she fell off the public’s radar, her next album would tank. Assuming she ever wrote enough decent songs to fill another.
Stop it, already. Erlea paced from the bedroom out to the living room, finding Athena by the balcony door, washing her silver-gray face with one paw. If only cats liked to travel. It would be so comforting to have her there, but caging her wildness in a hotel room would be cruel. Erlea let her out, then watched Athena leap in an agile arc toward the balcony next door. Thank goodness she loved the neighbors, and they her. The cat was like all of Erlea’s lovers, providing temporary comfort and then finding better homes than she could offer. With her life on this trajectory it was foolish to wish for more.
“Bona tarda, Athena,” the neighbor said, scooping her up.
“Bona, Maria. I think she’s changed alliances already. Are you sure about this?”
Maria beamed at Erlea. “You know we’ve wanted a cat for years. And she’s the perfect cushion for my retirement. Maybe when you get home again we’ll get a kitten and they can both go back and forth together.”
“Who knows when that will be? I may have to tour after.” Erlea cut the complaint off. She chose this life, and she didn’t need pity from anyone, even herself. “If she gets hurt, take her to my vet and they will bill me. I can’t stop her from climbing up to the roof, so don’t feel bad if you can’t either.”
“I wouldn’t try to tame her wild nature,” Maria replied with a wink. “She takes after you, no? We will keep her as safe as we can, but love her as she is.”
Erlea felt her spirits lift. “Good advice from the happiest married woman I know. You must have trained Jordi well.”
Maria set the cat down with a humble shrug. “We have had years to learn how to trust each other.” She gave Erlea a look of real concern. “I only wish you had someone on the road with you, Beatriz.” Like family, Maria was allowed to use her given name—and to meddle in her love life. “But not that drummer. You don’t have to see him again?”
Erlea loved Maria for taking her side without ever asking the details. “No. I hired a new drummer. A gay one this time. I’m swearing off cigarettes and dating the men I work with.” Dating was too genteel a word for her last romantic disaster, but she moderated her language around Maria. Some days she envied Jordi his life in the symphony, getting to come home every night to the woman he loved.
“All the bad tour habits, eh?” Maria asked. “What about the parties, the clubs? I know you don’t do drugs but…still, I worry for you.”
Erlea looked at the tiles beneath her bare feet. She only drank hard when she was miserable, when she had no place to run home to. But would a residency really be better than touring? “I can’t make any promises.”
Maria reached across the divide for her hand. “Just remember we are here for you, in the same time zone and only a short flight away. You are not alone out there.”
“Thank you,” Erlea replied, keeping hold of Maria’s hand. She leaned over the rail and gave Maria a parting kiss on both cheeks. “I’ll do my best.”
* * *
“Split and double,” Maji instructed the dealer in Spanish. Just to be clear, she made the hand gesture, too—without touching the cards in front of her. Touching the cards was forbidden, forgivable only once and only if they really believed you didn’t know better. Otherwise the Gran Balearico would ban you from the premises just as surely as any Vegas casino. And while Majorca offered white sand beaches surrounded by the Mediterranean, it did not offer any other places to play blackjack. So Maji couldn’t afford to wear out her welcome.
Reimi, looking as attractive as she had every day that week in her dealer’s uniform, quirked an eyebrow but made no comment as she reached across the table to separate the aces on the felt in front of Maji. Any experienced dealer could tell who the counters were, and Maji made sure neither Reimi nor the floor manager minded. She tipped well, acted pleasantly surprised by her wins, chatted with the other players, and—most importantly—kept her betting spread modest. Playing the tourist meant fewer euros won per hour but more hands available to reach her goal to afford Dr. Lyttleton’s expensive services.
The minute she hit that magic euro mark, she’d be out the door. Well, maybe she’d ask Reimi for a date first. Casinos had a hands-off-the-players rule for dealers, a firing offense. And although she didn’t expect Reimi to gamble with her livelihood, Maji wondered what other games she might enjoy. Maji smiled as she pushed her second stack of chips out to double the original bet. “Hit me.”
“Stop. You’ll regret that, trust me,” the player to her right said, speaking in English as if of course it should be the island’s lingua franca. The clipped authority in his tone matched his upper-crust British accent and expensive leisure clothes.
Maji spared him a sideways glance. “I only regret having to share the table,” she said in Spanish.
“Miss, I implore you.” He’d switched to Spanish. “At this game, I am something of an—”
“Interloper,” Maji said in English, looking him squarely in the eye. “And too late. The bet is placed. So kindly sod off.”
He recoiled. “I beg your pardon. If you want to throw away your chips, be my guest.”
Maji turned her attention back to Reimi, who dealt two more cards onto the split aces. A ten on one, a nine on the other. Maji waited to watch the house break, which it certainly would. No magic involved. You simply had to maintain perfect play while watching several other players and keeping the count on what the dealer held in a two-pack shoe.
Magic was starting with a banged-up brain barely able to add two cards for a saintly occupational therapist, with no stressors or distractions, and after only a few months of rehab being able to stay in the zone even with real money at stake and an asshat pestering you. Talking back was a slip, but sleep had been rough again lately. Better watch that.
Reimi congratulated her on the double win and laid a final card on the asshat’s hand. Maji felt no sympathy when the ten pushed him over twenty-one and he forfeited the foolishly large bet in front of him. Then Reimi dealt the final card onto the house’s hand, breaking at twenty-five. No magic, just simple math that dictated when to risk and when to pull back.
Reimi paid out and began shuffling the two decks of cards, resetting the odds. Maji indulged herself by staring at the Brit, giving him a look that dared him to try mansplaining again. He began to stack his chips, grumbling about needing a fresh start.
A wave of fatigue rolled over Maji, the hours of concentration catching up. “At last we agree on something,” she said to him in Spanish. “I’m out.”
Maji gathered up her chips and tipped Reimi generously. As she turned to go, a clammy hand on her elbow sent her to high alert. She twisted free and stepped back, glaring at the handsy jerk. “Hands off.”
“I do hope I didn’t scare you away,” he said, apparently oblivious to her climbing adrenaline. “Clearly you know what you’re about here. May I buy you a drink?”
Maji forced herself to breathe. Not a threat. Just an idiot. “No. You may leave me alone.”
“Of course—I see it now.” He looked delighted rather than put off. “Wait until I tell my wife I played at the same table with Erlea. She’ll never believe it. Wait—” He reached for a napkin, adding, “Do you have a pen?”
Maji shook her head in confusion and stepped farther away.
“I’m not with the media,” the Brit assured her, holding the napkin out like an offering. “Just here for a nicer place to work, like you. Good to get away from the spotlight, eh?” And then he winked.
What the actual fuck? “Whatever you think is going on here,” she told him, “you are mistaken.”
“Right, of course. You’re not officially here yet. And I hate to impose, but my wife is smitten with you,” he said, reaching for her. “If you could just…”
Maji didn’t wait to hear what nonsense followed. Before his hand could latch on to her arm, she took control of it and twisted. His body responded predictably, turning and yielding to avoid damage. He stumbled toward the nearest table, and Maji’s instinct to protect kicked in. With another simple move she redirected him toward the floor boss, whose late arrival to the party spiked her pulse anew.
“Here,” she said to the startled floor boss. “You deal with him.”
As she strode off, Maji’s left hand began to throb. Must have smacked it against a table. That’s what being rusty gets you, Rios. At least you only hurt yourself this time. She cradled the hand against her center, thinking about where to find ice in a warm-drink town. Any tourist bar by the marina would do.
“Wait,” called out a deep voice behind her. A native Spanish speaker, not angry but insistent nonetheless.
Maji tamped down the urge to flee. She could get out to the street easily enough, but then what? She had no plan B if they banned her. Don’t borrow trouble. Just breathe. She stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back.
A uniformed security guard headed toward her. By habit she sized him up in less than a second, taking in his soft belly, the pristine uniform, the neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache along with erect posture and a slight hitch in his step. Injured vet.
With a solicitous smile, he held her chips out. “You dropped your winnings.”
When? Without even noticing. Off your game, Rios. “Wow. Thanks.” She reached out with her good right hand.
The guard’s expression shifted to genuine concern. “You are hurt. We must see to that. Please.”
* * *
Celeste scrolled through the online tabloid articles, reliving the night Adrienne picked a fight with Erlea. The worst of them, salaciously titled “Catfight at the Kitten Club,” made it sound as if the rock star and the soccer player tried to claw one another’s eyes out in a drunken scuffle. Well, perhaps Erlea was drunk, but Adrienne was merely possessive and cruel, with enough whiskey in her to let her mask slip off in public. Even a year later, Celeste shuddered at the memory. Her scalp tingled where Adrienne had used her hair to jerk her about, hissing in fury about Celeste’s behavior. When Adrienne abruptly released her, Celeste fell. By the time she picked herself up off the club floor, bruised and humiliated, Erlea had Adrienne pinned to the ground several feet away. The crowd turned their phone cameras toward the two celebrities, ignoring Celeste.
And now Erlea would arrive here tomorrow, living in the same hotel with her for months. If Celeste ran into her, would the singer even recognize her? And what would Celeste say to her? Thank you for rescuing me from my hateful girlfriend. Sorry she tried to sue you sounded terrible. No; she would avoid the star and her crew altogether, unless they called for the house doctor.
A knock at her office door announced someone here, today, in need of her services. A welcome reprieve from dark memories. “Doctor?” a deep voice asked before a second knock. “I have a patient for you.”
Ah, Santxo, head of security. A friendly man, willing to be a friend if she let him. “One moment.” Celeste blacked out the screen on her computer and put on her professional face before opening the door. “Yes, Mr. Quintana?”
Santxo’s broad form in the doorway nearly blocked the guest from view. “I really don’t need a medic,” the woman said, peeking around him.
“Wonderful,” Celeste replied. “A miracle cure.”
Moving aside at last, Santxo volunteered, “This lady was accosted by another patron and defended herself ably. You do have an X-ray machine in there, don’t you?”
Celeste blocked his effort to step inside. “Thank you, Mr. Quintana. I will interview our guest and determine what she needs.” She met the gaze of the woman who quite disconcertingly seemed to have given her a full examination in the few seconds Celeste had stood within her view. “If you wouldn’t mind coming in for a moment?”
“Not at all,” the woman replied with a smile. “Thank you,” she added to a puzzled-looking Santxo as she stepped inside. “I can take it from here.”
“Yes, thank you,” Celeste reinforced, moving to close the door on him.
He hesitated. “But shouldn’t I tell you what happened?”
Celeste looked at her new patient. “Did you strike your head? Are you capable of speaking for yourself?”
“I think I can manage,” the woman said, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. She turned to Santxo and addressed him in Spanish. “If you’ll take my chips to the cashier, I promise to stay until you return with my winnings.”
With relief Celeste closed the door behind the well-meaning head of security. He was nosy by nature, which might have been an asset in his work but sometimes put him at cross-purposes with hers. And this time he seemed particularly interested in the guest, who looked familiar somehow. Intriguing.
“You must be someone famous for our head of security to be so concerned when you seem fine,” Celeste said. “If I should recognize you, I apologize. Now, how can I help?”
“No apology needed.” The guest lifted her cradled hand a little. “And this barely counts as an injury, Doctor. A little ice for the swelling and I’ll be good to go.”
“Please, call me Celeste. And you are?”
“Maji,” the woman said, not offering a last name. She snugged her left hand back to her belly, protected like her identity.
A pretty name, Middle Eastern sounding. Celeste thought she looked more Spanish, but then she had always been bad at guessing ethnicity. In her sports practice, her clients often played for teams outside their home countries. Without her notes on their biographies, she would be hopeless. “Maji,” she repeated. “Ice, of course.”
“If it’s no bother. I can hit a bar for some, otherwise.” Maji seemed restless. “I should get out of your hair.” Then she laughed when Celeste self-consciously brushed the pesky new bangs from her eyes. “Your hair’s fine. I just don’t want to keep you from any real patients.”
Celeste laughed. “No need. You are the most real of my day. In fact, it would be a great favor if I could please examine your injury.”
“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?” Maji hopped up onto the exam table and pushed her left arm forward, supported by the right.
Rotating the hand gently, Celeste noted that Maji’s pinkie was swelling, with a redness that would become a nasty bruise. She palpated, listening and watching for any sign of discomfort. None. This woman either had a high pain threshold or was trained to not betray an injury. Testing that theory, Celeste wiggled the finger. Not a twitch. “Does this not pain you?”
“A little. Maybe some tape after the ice.”
Celeste gave her a hard look, but Maji did not flinch at that either. “I see. And in what sport do you compete?”
“I don’t do competition.” A smile, finally—somewhat sheepish. “Martial arts. And yes, we self-diagnose and self-treat. Bad habits.”
For that smile, Celeste thought she might forgive a number of peccadillos. “And how did you sustain this mortal wound?”
The smile vanished. “An annoying guy interrupted my winning streak. I should have let it go. But then when I tried to leave, he grabbed for me, and…I overreacted.”
“Well, no one has a right to touch you if you don’t want them to,” Celeste insisted, then worried how that might sound. “What I mean is—”
“No, you’re right, of course. And if he’d been a real threat…whatever.” Maji sighed and frowned. “But I need to do better. Plus, the casino could ban me.”
A client more concerned with the impact of events on her future performance than with the injury itself: familiar ground. Celeste smiled at her. “I’ll tell you what. While you ice, I shall investigate. If you are in any danger of a reprimand, I will warn you so that you may prepare your defense.”
“I don’t have a defense. I’m a black belt.”
That reminded Celeste of Adrienne’s lawsuit. Her ex had tried to use Erlea’s martial arts background against her. “No need to worry. Santxo seems concerned for you, not about you.”
“I hope you’re right. If the casino wants to ban me, it’s a done deal. But I meant it more…morally. Ethically?”
“Like a code of behavior,” Celeste confirmed. “Admirable. Explain?”
Maji looked relieved. “Thanks. But I’m more wiped out than I realized. Can we just say that I should know better?”
“Really you don’t owe me an explanation at all,” Celeste reassured her. “Why don’t you rest now?” She left Maji reclining with the cold pack and stepped outside to speak with Santxo.
“Well?” he said, his bushy mustache twitching with worry or excitement. Or both.
“She’ll be fine with rest and ice,” Celeste reported. “A bruise, nothing more. No lawsuit…Tranquilo.” Chill out, she translated mentally to American slang.
Santxo looked disappointed. “So it really isn’t Erlea? I thought maybe she would tell you.”
Seriously? Well, the VIP treatment made sense now. “I am quite convinced she is just an average tourist. Besides, don’t you have your crew scheduled for Erlea’s arrival tomorrow?”
He winced at her look. “She could have arrived here early…and incognito.”
Celeste smiled at the dramatic notion. Santxo had confided that the media had been seen inside the complex already, sniffing about. He seemed to relish kicking them out. Perhaps this mystery woman was a reporter.
“Wishful thinking, my friend. But aren’t you trained to observe? I admit there is a resemblance, but that is all.” Maji was nice looking, with a definite charm. But Erlea? Unforgettable. Despite how the evening had ended, Celeste held on to the way she’d felt when Erlea had turned her charm on her.
Santxo’s eyes sparkled with intrigue below bushy brows that rose with excitement. “Indeed, I am trained. And you are the mistaken one. I have seen all the music videos and behind-the-scenes clips on the web. Erlea is not always so glamorous. Sometimes she looks quite like the woman in there.” He pointed to her office. “And she has kept a very low profile, not like most gamblers. If not for the tidy sum she has earned these past days, we would have taken no notice of her at all,” Santxo explained. “No trouble until today, when this Brit sits down and tries to talk with her at the blackjack table. She discourages him from interrupting her game, but he persists. Then he puts a hand on her arm, calling her Erlea like it is their little secret.”
“You saw all this yourself?” Celeste wondered exactly what security was for then.
“Well, I was just keeping an eye out for her. I would have helped if she needed it.”
“And yet she was injured, no?”
“Yes, and he’s very lucky. She handled him like a pro. Or a black belt, I should say.” He looked smug. “Did you know that?”
Celeste mustered a blank look in response. “So I have heard. In Aikido, right?”
Santxo’s exuberance deflated. “Correct. The man she handled so adroitly told me so, too. He is a bit obsessed with Erlea, I think. And you know who he is?”
Celeste opened her mouth to cut this line of gossip short, but too late.
“Dr. Lyttleton! You know, the famous one. He does all the nip and tuck on the celebrities. And now he is mortified, afraid she will ban him from the VIP reception.”
Celeste smiled. “Santxo, my friend, what an opportunity to use your diplomatic skills. You know I cannot give you information about my patients. But you could comp this mystery woman a room. Then she would have to give her passport to the front desk, and you could assure the doctor that he has not offended the great and mighty Erlea.”
“Genius. You are as brilliant as you are beautiful. How are we so blessed to have you?”
Celeste only smiled and waved him away. If he knew the answer, he would not think so highly of her.