Seven Minutes 'til Midnight Read online

  SYNOPSIS

  1. THE FLIPSIDE OF REVENGE

  2. FRYCAST

  3. THE GARGOYLE

  4. LOVEMAKING

  5. WORSE IDEAS

  6. MENDING

  7. BARE

  8. RUN WITH THE HORSES

  9. ARENA

  10. CINNAMON KISSES

  11. FESS-UP

  12. BABY MINE

  13. MAKE YOU BURN

  14. DRAGO FUOC

  15. MAGNETS

  16. CONCERT PREP

  17. HEATER

  18. LOVE-INFESTED

  19. NUT JOB

  20. WORK

  21. TRUCE

  22. DATE

  23. TRUST

  24. PAWNS

  25. DON’T ASK

  26. NON-SHOCK STROKES

  27. DESTRUCTION

  28. SHH, DARLING

  29. MINUTES

  30. TRUST

  31. HAILEY

  32. EPILOGUE

  READING ORDER

  SNEAK PEAK: WALKING HEARTBREAK

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT SUNNIVA DEE

  STAY IN CONTACT WITH SUNNIVA

  COPYRIGHT

  A legendary drummer. An outrageous music video... and little me blowing his ever-loving mind in it.

  “Clown Irruption’s smash hit goes from hawt to adult!”

  — Star Report, April Edition.

  The uncensored, all-bared footage was leaked, and I was forced to stare down the paparazzi lenses.

  “Meet Aishe Xodyar, the vixen who made Troy Armstrong reach Heaven on tape!”

  —Fan Chicks, May Edition.

  I joined the band on their worldwide arena tour, an unfortunate miscalculation: Troy Armstrong was formidable. We were polar opposites, but he sucked me in like a magnet.

  I had an obsessive nature, but my fixation on him was downright wholesome compared to their new merch girl’s.

  “Meet Hailey Pawter, secret stalker, fangirl, and dangerously gifted lookalike.”

  —Tabloid Minute, June Edition.

  As Hailey’s web tightened around us, love in the limelight turned from complicated to impossible.

  AISHE

  “Bad boys of rock’n roll smashing the shock factor!”— Star Report.

  I gawk at the magazine in front of me and choke a gasp last second. The drummer of Clown Irruption’s beautiful face covers part of it. His head is tipped backward, safari-green stare beaming with orgasmic bliss as he presses me close to him. Tan, muscular shoulders hunch around us. All glistening skin, he’s enjoying our pleasure, and very little imagination is needed to understand that he’s deep inside of me. Oh yes, I surround him in every way, right there, in plain view, on the cover of a magazine in a supermarket in South Pasadena, Los Angeles.

  I bump my shopping cart into the customer ahead of me in my haste to grab the top copy and turn the others face in on the shelf. The cashier sends me a side-glance. Does she recognize me? I swallow nervously. No, of course, she doesn’t. I’m not the famous one in that picture.

  “Exclusive look at music video gone from sexy to outrageous.”

  I wrench my shopping cart out of the line. Mumble apologies in response to under-your-breath expletives when I almost run over someone’s foot. One aisle over, I abandon my cart and stalk to the restrooms.

  Clown Irruption has a twelve-page exclusive dead center of the biggest gossip magazine in the United States, and unless I’m in some lucid nightmare, I, Ms. Nobody, aka Aishe Xodyar, share that cover—intimately—with Troy Armstrong himself.

  I let out a strangled moan. During the few months I worked for them, I found an abyss in myself I’d rather not recall. I did things I’ll never be proud of, shit that might confine me to Hell once all is said and done, though even as I think it, I know that I am who I am because of what happened back then.

  My phone buzzes, making me drop the magazine to the floor. It’s Troy, the last person I want to talk with right now. It’s been months since I last saw him, and honestly, I’d forgotten about that video shoot. Almost honestly.

  I reject the call. He redials immediately, while I flip back to the center of Star Report and start perusing the pictures.

  I count quickly. Twenty-four explicit photos. Jesus Christ, they’re so hardcore they had to black out fistfuls of genitals.

  First up is Bo Lindgren, solo guitarist and band leader, pale, androgynous, and all slender muscle in the arms of his wife, Nadia. Physically connected to the most intimate degree, they’re staring deeply into each other’s eyes, in the throes of an ecstasy that should have been private.

  I turn the page and find Emil Vinter, the lead singer of the band. Golden-haired and charismatic as always, he’s doling it out doggy-style to his only match in crazy, wife Zoe. She’s screaming out her pleasure. Loudly too, from the looks of it.

  Bass player Elias Mikaelsson exudes raw, animalistic passion in his section of the spread. With vampire-perfect features and hair so light it’s silver, his porcelain-white body entangles with the ebony of the Somalian goddess he chose for his part.

  Another buzz from my phone. It skids off the top of my purse and clacks to the tiles. Troy again. My stomach tightens in response before I turn back to the article.

  On page eight and nine, my panic bursts free. I know why he’s calling me. Troy’s staring at the same thing I am, right now. I’m sure of it; his hard angles and my soft curves swell off the pages and straight into my chest. What the hell was I thinking?

  The one good thing that came of my merch-girl stint with Clown Irruption was my current job as a wardrobe assistant for the rock-opera trio, The Thalias. With them, I travel the country in languid commodity. We’re in dinner theaters and small venues where they draw sophisticated, adult crowds. The Thalias were just what I needed, a quiet, low-key gig that doesn’t stuff my heart into a blender and press “GO!” on a daily basis.

  I purse my lips, letting out a puff of anxiety.

  Clown Irruption shot me off to a different planet. Daring, talented, and groundbreaking, they smashed the cookie cutter for modern rock and painted heartbreak and depression in ravenous colors, glorifying the physicality of love beyond all acceptable borders in their songs.

  The college crowd adored them. Women danced, cried, begged. Working for Bo, Elias, Emil, and Troy was like being at the eye of a tornado. Until I became the tornado and it was time to flee.

  Impatient, I brush hair away from my face; it’s whatever. We all have a past.

  I study the photos. Zoe, Nadia, and Waris, the Somalian girl, are scantily clad, while I’m fully dressed in one of my long, billowy skirts, arms bangled like my Gypsy culture prefers. Even my drawstring top is in place. The décolletage is wider than usual, with the swell of my breasts on display. Later, Troy pressed them upward and washed them in kisses so delicious my eyes couldn’t remain open.

  Memories rest in the cells of your skin, and they can cause warmth to explode in your belly. They do it to me, now, a recap of how it was when I was there with him.

  Once I got there, into that room, it was over. Cameras or not, he and I were bound to go all the way. It was my choice. I came onto him, appearing there as his weakness, and it was my sweet revenge for disasters past.

  In the magazine I’m holding, his eyes glow leopard green against the bronze of his skin. Long, thick dreads, black at the roots, fading to auburn until the last inches of them shine blond. I remember how I buried my
fingers around them, digging against his scalp until he moaned and climbed high in ecstasy with me.

  God.

  In those pictures, he burns with single-minded, live-in-the-moment fervor. It shows how he’s there for you. For this one girl. For me. I cup my mouth, breathing shallowly into my hands. Because, yes, I know for a fact the girl he’s there for is me.

  TROY

  I send a drumstick flying across the room. It pops against the screen and thuds helplessly to the floor. “You think this is funny, Emil?”

  “Isn’t it? Zoay. Darling. Look at this. You’re so freaking pretty with your butt in the air. Have I ever told you that?” Emil leans forward and nuzzles his wife. Nose whipping back and forth over her forehead, he rocks her in his arms. She giggles happily.

  “You’re fucking children is what you are,” I mutter. “This is monumental. Our music video isn’t even official yet, and someone just leaked an X-rated version we never knew existed?”

  Thankfully, Troll, our tour manager, is thorough. When the press exploded and started banging on our doors, he set up a private screening of the YouTube video Star Report mentioned in their so-called exclusive. Now, we’re secluded in Cinema Teatro, The Gargoyle’s screening room.

  The whole band is here at the stone-castle version of a five-star hotel in Los Angeles. A few of us have homes nearby, but management wants us to weather the storm for this together.

  Here’s Bo, now, walking in with his baby on an arm. Unconsciously protective, he tucks her sleeping head under his chin, glacial stare at the screen in front of us. The rest of us are watching it for the fifth time, but this is Bo’s first.

  Nadia looks pale behind him despite her naturally olive complexion. Without a backward glance, he clasps her hand, pulling her against him at thigh level.

  “Fuck,” is all he says at first. Nadia doesn’t speak at all. The Lindgren family just stands there while the love they share sprawls across the screen in colors only made for them. It’s a picture so unfiltered, so different to what we agreed to during the filming.

  Elias is quiet too. The band was named after his offbeat spurts of humor, but none of it resonates from him tonight. He’s just sitting there. With a beer in one hand, he absently pulls thin scarlet threads out of his armrest.

  “Sort of a bad idea after all, huh?” Emil says. For a second, the room stills while the video darkens, an intermezzo before the next too-much performance. Zoe stifles a snort. Emil doesn’t. Next, they’re cracking up in the front row, holding each other and drying tears of laughter.

  “Janet’s flying in from San Francisco tomorrow,” Troll says, ignoring them.

  “Yeah? What’s a fucking publicist going to do? It’s out already, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “They’re taking it down,” Bo says. “They’re already on it, and we have a meeting with Isaias first thing in the morning. He’s digging into his ranks as we speak to find out what happened.”

  “You trust him?” I shout, and every one of my friends turns and stares. “You don’t get it, do you?” I’m out of my comfort zone with my voice raised and fists clenched. I’m not the drama dude in this band. But what they don’t get is that I’ve got shit to lose over this.

  Bo hands Selena off to Nadia, who looks paler by the second. He trots over. Lowers himself into the seat next to me. Eyes on the screen, he sighs. “Have you gotten a hold of Aishe yet?”

  “No.”

  “Have you tried?” Zoe asks, sending a blue-eyed stare over her shoulder.

  “Of course, I have. She isn’t picking up.” I sink deeper into the chair.

  “She might not have her phone with her,” Zoe says.

  “Right,” I mutter.

  “So she’s seen it already,” Elias says. “She’s pissed as hell, huh?”

  “Dude.” Bo shoots him a glare.

  Elias shows us innocent palms. “Just sayin’, all right?”

  “I’ll call her,” Zoe says. “She’ll pick up for me. You’s a different story, you know.”

  I suppress a growl and get up. Turn my back to them for another try. The entire band is quiet. Wives, baby, everyone. They’re waiting to see if I get her on the line this time.

  “Hey. It’s Troy,” I say, lips touching the phone while I walk toward the exit. “I know you don’t want to talk with me right now. I’m sorry. Okay? We have no idea what happened. This wasn’t planned at all, wasn’t in the contract or anything. Hell, you know that. Anyway, call me back when you can. Please? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  I picture her eyes, a velvety, bottomless black on the other end, staring as my voicemail settles in her inbox.

  The hand touching my shoulder is my cue to cut the connection. When I turn, Nadia is there. She has Selena in her arms and sways her soothingly from side to side.

  “Aishe is in town with The Thalias.” She dips her head and kisses the downy head of her daughter before she continues. “Second night tonight at the Frycast Theater.”

  “On Melrose?”

  “Yeah.” She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “I can give her a call too, if you want.”

  “That’s okay.” I scrunch my eyes shut. Then, I can’t hold back anymore, and a chortle escapes me. “It’s ridiculous. No matter what I do, it’s going to come back and bite me in the ass with her. It’s how we roll, she and I.”

  “That’s not true. I just think the two of you’ve been very unlucky.”

  “Ya think?” I laugh again. “Nadia, I’ve apologized to her so many times for what happened. When she came to the video shoot, I honestly thought she’d forgiven me. Hell, she forgave Emil. Why else would she volunteer to be my girl in the video?”

  “I know.”

  “Chicks are crazy.” I scratch my cheek, the sandpaper chafe a reminder it’s time to shave. “Not you, of course.”

  Nadia smiles smugly. “Of course.”

  “I’m gonna head over there,” I say, “to the Frycast.”

  AISHE

  I get to the Frycast early. I’ve actually never been this early to a show before. The Frycast is an amazing theater, of the vintage type with rounded, velvet booths and majestic drapes waiting to be pulled aside.

  The Thalias are on at nine every night for two weeks, and this is only our second performance. Usually, I love stints this long. You get to know the staff, set up your own routines, like finding a favorite coffee haunt for your morning java and find a provider of cut flowers.

  But this afternoon, I hardly spare a glance for my flowers. Instead, I start tidying up, fast, leaving one dressing room after the other more immaculate than they’ve ever been before my artists arrive. I head to the drycleaner’s and pick up Mariana’s golden gown so she doesn’t have to do it on the way here.

  It’s the guilt. The guilt of having done something I should never have done. Then, I purposely failed to mention my faux pas to the most important people in my life right now: my employers.

  My heart speeds up at the thought of The Thalias’ no-bullshit rules for their crew. They only expect of us what they expect of themselves—a sober lifestyle and high moral standards. I haven’t checked, but starring in a high-profile rock band’s music-‘n-porn video is probably a breach of my contract.

  Mariana’s dressing room is spotless, five Marie Antoinette gowns hanging in flawless rows along the wall. Bandleader and decision-maker, she’s the one I need to come clean to first. When? How long can I let it go before they discover me on their own in a magazine?

  I’ve been with them for over a year. They rely upon me, the big and small things I do to make their shows run smoothly. I mend. I dress them between numbers. Lately, Mariana has even asked my opinion on costumes for their new songs. All that trust is about to fly out the window.

  Mariana. I picture her, long, sleek hair along her spine, head low in concentration before a concert, until sh
e goes out there and belts her talent, composer and soloist in one. She’s a mood-driven artist; even if she forgave me, it would ruin her flow for days. How can I tell her?

  Yesterday was so good. Lord, I hope tonight is sold out to an awesome crowd of professionals, of the kind that truly appreciates talent because they have it themselves, hidden behind day jobs that pay their bills. Those are the best ones, the ones who clap until the lights are on and leave Mariana’s eyes glittering for the rest of the night.

  I can’t tell her.

  I have to tell her before she leaves the Frycast tonight.

  TROY

  The concierge at the Gargoyle drove me to the Frycast Theater herself. The press found out where Clown Irruption was holed up in record time, so I couldn’t take my own ride. It’d be an understatement to say Troll was unhappy with my leaving.

  “You sure you don’t want me to wait? I have time,” the concierge says, peeking at me over gold-rimmed glasses. “I could call the manager too. It’s no problem to let them know you’re here.”

  “I appreciate it… Marqueseena,” I read off her nametag, “but it’s a surprise visit. Ta-dah, etcetera.”

  “I understand, Mr. Armstrong.”

  I get out of the car, stretch, and look around. We’re in a back alley behind the theater. Sunset just happened, and only a few stray cats saunter around in the waning heat of the city. I seriously hope I don’t have to go to the front and bang on the doors.

  We played this room years ago, at the tail end of Bo’s guitar clinic in L.A. Their load-in area is crammed, but I see activity over there. It’s where I’m going to slip in.

  “Hey, man,” someone says as I walk past him up the ramp. He takes a break from the monitor he’s pushing. “Audience entrance’s around the corner— Holy shit.” Dropping his arms along his thighs, he adds, “Troy Armstrong. Clown Irruption fucking shreds, man. Can I help you with something?”

  “Thanks, man.” I clasp his outstretched hand. His name is Bob something. Seriously sounds like Builder when he says it, but probably not.