Chapter One
Ami and her band, Haunted, stood center stage.
The drummer flipped his drumsticks to the rabid fans, and the guitarist flung out some picks. Then, with a final bow they were done—this was the final stop on the tour. When Ami turned to leave the stage, something flew up and hit her in the forehead, knocking her back in a daze. She shook her head to clear it and noticed a Frisbee on the floor by her feet. Kicking it, she staggered off the stage with a ringing headache and a desperate need for a drink.
The rest of the band pushed people aside so Ami could get into the backstage dressing room. She slammed the door and stumbled to the chair. Sitting in the cramped space Ami caught her breath feeling a trickle of blood falling from her brow to her lip.
Haunted topped the charts. Being the lead singer in a rock band, especially a female lead singer, meant paparazzi parked outside your home and everywhere else you went. Which, in turn, led to nonstop rumors, a continuous stream of innuendoes if she went out on the town. Anything that looked like a date was followed by questions about her getting married or—God forbid she put on a few pounds—whether she was pregnant. If she ate her favorite dish of jelly and sardines it immediately reported that she’d been hypnotized by aliens.
Hell, she couldn’t even buy a vibrator to scratch her personal itch.
The two-hour gig, complete with two encores, had been draining but she still did her best for the fans who had been there from the start. This final show was being filmed for a live CD and DVD to be released later in the year called Haunted Alive.
For one brief moment she was at peace. No screaming, no crowds—nothing but her and the relative quiet of her dressing room.
Bang, bang, bang.
Her momentary sanctuary evaporated.
“Come on, Ami, we’ve got a radio spot to get to after the show. Hurry the fuck up in there!” Her manager banged again, yelling through the door, “Come on, baby, we have places to go, things to do.”
The dressing room door swung open and like a gust of wind in walked a well-dressed, extremely hyped-up man.
“Martin—not now.”
As the band’s manager, Martin took pride in his musicians and credit for much of the success. He also made it his personal goal to put Ami dead center when it came to attention. This included making sure she was always in the news, at any cost. “Ami, we talked about this. You have commercials to do and the photo spread in that men’s magazine.”
“I told you, I’m not posing nude for some dumb publicity stunt.”
“Don’t worry. Just show a little skin. Look, this is a done deal. You sing. I’ll do the rest. Did you look over those other songs I sent?”
Ami took a drink from her glass and squinted. Her headache was getting worse. “Yeah, those aren’t for us, Martin. We write all our own songs. You know how the guys and I work, we’ve been writing together for eight years. We will cover a few tunes every now and then, but—”
“You people work too slow. Just listen to them again. I’ll tell the guys what to record. I know music.” He assumed his I-know-everything stance as he stared at her.
“This is no time to be a diva, Ami. This is the time to strike. Just do what I say, and I’ll make you rich. Now quit fucking around. We have things to do, people to see.” He frowned. “Oh shit, there’s a cut on your forehead. Put some cover-up on it and clean yourself up.”
Fuck you. I’m already rich, asshole.