Chapter 1: Quinn
The air was brisk for a late May night in the city, but I didn’t mind because the heat radiating off the crowd of concert-goers was stifling. As the stadium filled, the temperature rose with each new sweaty body. Soon, I was forced to find the nearest exit for a breath of fresh air. The excitement inside the walls was tremendous, but I couldn’t bring myself to share their enthusiasm. It was late. I had eaten nothing all day but an egg salad sandwich, which I’m pretty sure was spoiled. The so-called chic pair of Levi’s I mistakenly wore tonight kept slipping down my ass crack every time I leaned over. I was tired, hungry, and chafing from the sweat buildup, and I hadn’t been able to take a deep breath since stepping out of my hotel room at six a.m. this morning. Not for the first time that day, I wished I was back home in Detroit.
Dropping to perch on the edge of a marble fountain outside the venue, I took a deep breath. My movements were slow; I was tired of flashing everyone, and there was no way in hell I could stroll back into that stadium with my Vampire Diaries underwear flashing through the crowd. Not everyone may appreciate Damon Salvatore as I do.
As I fanned myself with an abandoned paper plate I’d scrounged from the garbage pail, my phone rang, vibrating awkwardly against my thigh. I jumped so high that the plate dropped into my lap, smearing not-so-dry sauce all over my not-so-chic jeans.
“Well, fuck.”
Some lady with a kid around ten jerked her head in my direction and narrowed her eyes. The boy stifled a laugh as I squeezed my fingers into my pants pocket and pulled it out. Like most electronics that tested my patience and skills, cell phones were on the list of things I could probably live without. Unfortunately, my new boss has always clarified that I have it on me. If he needed to give me a ring and check up on things, you know. It’s only been one day, and he’d already abused that power twelve and a half times—the half being when he butt-dialed me and sang “I Will Survive” at the top of his lungs for six minutes before I finally hung up. The other twelve times weren’t for anything terribly important, only to check up as if he kept expecting I would lose my shit, ditch the phone, and get on the first plane back to Michigan. I had considered it.
“Jones,” I answered, raising the phone to my ear. I figured if I was going to act the part, I could at least try to sound professional.
“Quinn?” Daryl shouted in my ear. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I said. It didn’t seem to matter that it had been me the last dozen times. I pulled the phone slightly away from my head, looking around. It was quieter out here now. Most of the crowd had finally moved inside, but Daryl was yelling like someone was blowing a French horn in his ear.
“Are you at the venue?” he howled. Not for the first time, I wondered if he was hard of hearing and just pretended to have his shit together for the sake of his job.
“I’m at the venue.” I turned down the volume on my phone, flashing an apologetic smile at a woman glaring at me as she leaned over to tie her shoelace. The girl flaunted a tee-shirt with a photo of the band, Midnight Oil, plastered across her boobs.
“How come I don’t hear any music?”
“Because it’s seven forty-five,” I muttered, glancing at my watch. “The concert starts at eight.”
“Are you inside?” Daryl demanded. He took the phrase *micromanager *to a whole new level. In the short time I’d known him, I’d found that Daryl Dickenson assumed everyone was incapable of doing their job if he didn’t check in every fifteen minutes.
“I needed some air. It’s hot in there.”
“You’re outside?” Daryl snapped. “Why? Why are you outside when your job is to be inside? Why?”
“Because I—”
“Don’t bore me. Just get inside that building and do what I’ve hired you to do.”
“On it,” I said, hanging up the phone before he could drill me more. He didn’t call back at once, so I stuffed the cell phone back into my pocket and stood, adjusting the fabric around my waistline in the hope I could magically make them fit better. Some teenage boy walked past and gave me a once-over, but not in a way that suggested he wanted to get all up on that. He was smirking, so I stuck out my tongue at him like a child.
I pulled out the camera Daryl sent me as I headed back inside. I had to nail this interview because Midnight Oil—the mega-rockstar band and heart-throbs—had the future of my career resting in their privileged, spoiled hands. If I could perfect this article for the magazine, my job might just start taking me seriously. At twenty-eight years old, it was about time something worked out for my future.
A group of women rushed past me as I made my way back into the stadium, knocking me to the side without so much as an apology. I stumbled, tripped on the toe of my shoe, and had to grab a tree to keep from eating dirt.
Bitch.
I huffed out another sigh, knowing that if I wanted things to turn around for me, I had to stop dwelling on the heavy shit that consumed my life. I *would *be more than just the girl from Detroit, the girl with a sick father and worried, worn-down mother.
I would be something.
Somebody.
Come hell or high water.
