I feel him behind me, yet I walk ahead to the side entrance of the massive building. Throngs of screaming, adoring fans are held at bay by a partition, but I approach the wall of beefy security like they are nothing but ants under my strappy, metallic Jimmy Choos.

“Heidi DuCane,” I say with all the arrogance of Donald Trump on a good hair day. “The band is expecting me.”

The guy directly in front of the door—a bald, seven-foot beast of a man with a crooked nose—studies a clipboard using a penlight. He thinks I don’t see the way his hand is trembling as he searches for my name. As usual, my reputation precedes me, as it should.

“Here you are, ma’am,” he says, with an almost audible sigh of relief. He peers over my shoulder and looks back down at his clipboard. “And he is . . . ?”

“My guest,” I reply tersely, without an ounce of hesitation or remorse.

“Guest?”

I roll my eyes at his questioning tone. “Yes. Guest. Is there a problem?”

“N-n-no, ma’am,” he stutters like a cowering toddler. “I just need his name and you can—”

“Not important,” I huff out, crossing my arms over my chest. “But since you want to keep us out in this stifling heat all evening, why don’t I call Mr. Berke out here so he can join the party.”

The giant visibly trembles before looking back down at his clipboard. “My apologies, Ms. DuCane. That won’t be necessary. Please, proceed.”

He steps aside, waving us toward the door and the solace of central air. Yet, even with unrelenting humidity sticking to my body like hot honey, a startling chill passes through me.

I don’t turn around as we walk through the door that leads to the backstage common area and dressing rooms. As expected, it’s swarming with roadies, sound techs, and stage grips, yet it is nothing like the usual preshow scenes I’m accustomed to. For starters, there are no skanks. Not one. The only women in sight are fully clothed professionals, and not of the slutty persuasion either. Not one colossal silicone titty or fake mink lash for miles.

There’s also a lack of alcohol or any signs of drug use. I don’t condone the behavior by any means, and have been known to rip a few new assholes because of it for some of my more reckless clients, but I kinda expected the whole Sex, Drugs, Rock ’n’ Roll persona from Ransom.

“I don’t see your boy anywhere,” Tucker says, coming to stand beside me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the car. I’m just happy he’s speaking to me at all, considering how I completely belittled him at security. But this is a business call. And in this industry, the only marriages that count are the ones that come with the right name and a black card.

“I don’t either. But there’s his agent.”

Caleb Berke is the epitome of what you expect from a successful talent agent—fast-talking, manipulative, and about as honest as a three-dollar bill. He’s made his millions from representing some of the hottest young talent, from pop princesses to hardcore rap artists. Imagine Ari Gold from Entourage, but taller, fitter, and gayer. Caleb is my most trusted frenemy. Friend, because I genuinely like him. Enemy, because he’s a big, flaming pain in my ass on most days ending with Y. He’s actually the person that tipped me off about Ransom Reed’s desperate need for a new publicist, so on these rare occasions that he actually acts more like a friend, I make note and take it seriously.

“About time you got here,” he gripes just as we approach. “I swear, bitches are always late. And the few extra minutes didn’t do you any favors.”

We fake air kiss before I fire back with, “You’re one to talk, Queenie. Any more bronzer and someone may mistake you for the Tanning Mom. Or a piece of beef jerky.”

Caleb snickers and greets Tucker with a handshake. “Tuck, good to see you, handsome. I’m surprised this old harpy let you out of your kennel.” Tucker laughs off the comment, accustomed to the way Caleb and I tease each other.

“So where’s your client?” I ask, jumping right into business. “You did say you were desperate, correct?”

“In his dressing room. You’ll have to meet him after the show.”

I prop my hand on a slender hip and narrow my wicked, silver gaze at him. “No,” I retort with the frightening calmness of an assassin. “I’ll meet him now.”

Caleb isn’t even phased. “No can do, Blondie. Ransom has a strict routine for performances. He demands that he and his bandmates be left alone to meditate and mentally prep before every show. No partying, no groupies, no business. So yes, you’ll wait.”

“Then why the hell did you insist I be here before the show?”

Caleb shrugs before inspecting his perfectly trimmed cuticles. “Thought you could use some fun, is all. Plus I want you to get him. To know him is to know his music. Without that, you’re just scratching the surface.” He buffs his nails against the lapel of his blue metallic suit jacket. “He’s the real deal, Heidi. But the kid needs help.”

With that, Caleb flicks his eyes up to Tucker, signaling that whatever he needs to say isn’t for public knowledge. And although the good doctor is bound by his vow of confidentiality, Ransom Reed is not his patient.

“Excuse me. I’m going to grab us a few bottles of water before the show starts,” my husband says, taking the hint. He kisses my cheek before giving Caleb and me our much-needed privacy. God, that man is a saint.

Caleb digs right into the dirt as soon as Tucker is out of earshot. “Girlfriend, what’s with the ball and chain tonight?” he probes, his stare burning into Tuck’s retreating back.

I shrug. “He wanted to come. I don’t know, maybe he’s warming up to all this,” I suggest.

“Humph. Or he feels the need to mark his territory.”

I roll my eyes. Leave it up to the drama queen to create some make-believe conflict. “Whatever. Can we get off my marriage and get back to business, please? Or would you like to crawl into our bed tonight too?”

“You wish, bitch,” he fires back, although he quickly switches up his demeanor. “The kid is stupid talented, but he’s a magnet for trouble. Paternity rumors, bar fights, rocky relationships—he’s like candy for TMZ. And that’s just the U.S. tour.”

With a sobering air, Caleb steps forward and rests a hand on my bare shoulder. “Once it’s over . . . I’m worried for the kid. His entire identity is wrapped up in his music. It’s who he is to the core. And with such a long break between this final show and the world tour, I’m not confident that he’ll be able to keep himself out of trouble.”

“Wait,” I say, taking a step closer. “What kind of trouble are we talking about? Is there something I need to know about him?”

Caleb gives me his usual cocky grin and waves me off. “Nothing to worry that pretty little head over. Anyway, I have a band to corral for a concert. Enjoy the show.”

With that, he air kisses my cheeks once more and turns toward the mass of frenzied activity. But before he can get more than a few feet away, he turns back to me, wearing a peculiar, almost jolted look. As if a very important notion has just struck him over the head.

“Heidi . . .” He calls me by my name. Not “Bitch” or “Blondie” or “Legs.” Whatever’s on his mind must be serious. “Just be . . . smart about him. Be careful.” And without waiting for a response, he disappears into the crowd.

Huh.

Be smart. Be careful. What the hell does that mean?

Before I can pick his words apart and concoct all kinds of silly notions about the elusive Ransom Reed, my ears are suddenly bombarded with wild, hyena-like screeches and shrieks, along with the thunder of clapping hands. My eyes search for the source of the rapid change in atmosphere, but keep colliding with a quickly forming wall of bodies, humming with excitement. Instead of moving closer to the scene, I take a step back toward the entrance of the stage where I can blend into the shadow of heavy curtains and dim lighting. But that doesn’t obstruct my view. Not in the least. If anything, it gives me the privacy I need to mentally process what I’m seeing.