Breaking Hollywood (32 page)

A new night, same deal. They’d now take a bow one by one, then step forward and face different angles of the stadium and blow out love and thanks to every corner and curve in the room.

It all looked so effortless and slick, but Sarah had already sussed that Deeko had every single minute of this organized and choreographed to perfection. It wasn’t quite a dictatorship,
but it was close. The man wasn’t the manager of the biggest boy band in the world because he left anything to chance. Although, for someone so sharp, he still hadn’t realized that the
backwards-baseball-cap thing just wasn’t working for him.

She hoped he assumed that she was smiling at the action on stage. The boys had just taken their final bow, and a crowd 66,308 were screaming for more. Begging them for a second encore.

They bowed again, last time, then ran towards where Sarah and Deeko were standing. Sarah was confused. That wasn’t the plan. Jonell and Ringo were supposed to exit stage right, Logan,
D’Arby and Lincoln stage left.

Only when they got right up close could Sarah see that it was more of a chase situation. She flattened against the wall as Ringo ran between her and Deeko, then D’Arby. Logan paused as he
reached her, only for Jonell to slam into him, repeatedly, knocking him five feet forward until Ringo’s arms flew from the back round his waist and tried to restrain him. Deeko jumped into
the mix, his arms out, acting as a barrier, Jonell trying to fight his way over him to get to Logan.

‘You fucking threw me shade, man. You fucking know it.’

‘Hey, hey, hey! Calm down. Jonell! Take it down, man!’

He didn’t get the option to take it down. Eli, Logan’s personal protection officer, and another guy Sarah knew to be Jonell’s man appeared out of nowhere and dragged them ten
feet apart.

Sarah, still pressed against the wall, tried to make herself invisible so she could see how this played out. On the other side of the wall, the crowd were now chanting, ‘South City, South
City, South City,’ like brainwashed cult members worshipping in the temple of their gods, with absolutely no idea that right at this moment two of the chosen leaders were being ripped apart,
one still desperately fighting to get to the other.

Soaked with sweat, arms wide, Logan took a step forward, Eli’s arm held loosely in front of him, ready to push back if necessary. It wasn’t.

‘Let it go, Jonell.’ His voice was low, strong, but ignored. Jonell lunged again, and it took the combined efforts of Deeko and Shabak’s finest to hold him back.

‘Fuck you, man. These dogs don’t know about you, but I do.’

Sarah’s investigative mind was racking up the questions. What did they not know? And how could she find out?

‘And what, Jo? Huh? What about it?’

Jonell still had fury oozing out of every pore in his twisted face. ‘We’re over. D’ya hear me?’

Logan almost smiled. Sarah had absolutely no idea what was going on, what was behind this or what was going to happen next. But she couldn’t help admire Logan’s style so far. He had
this. Whatever it was, he had it.

‘You mean that, Jo? Because that might just be the best news I heard all year.’

With that he turned, walked away, to a loud scream of ‘You’re a dead man. D’ya hear? Dead man walking!’ behind him.

He kept on going. At least a dozen people now stood within earshot, no one quite sure what to say or do.

‘Get him to the car,’ Deeko ordered security, not making eye contact with Jonell.

South City, South City, South City.

The chants hadn’t diminished in the moment it had taken for two-fifths of South City to come to blows. Sarah slipped past the others, running, to catch up with Logan and Eli. They were
jumping into the car as she got to them and she took a chance. Up until now, she’d ridden with the staff: the PR team, record-label guys, hair team or the back-up security.

As she stepped up beside the door of the GMC, Eli moved to stop her climbing aboard, but Logan waved her in. ‘’S’OK, Eli, let her ride.’

Eli did as requested, climbing into the front, leaving Sarah with Logan in the back, his face obscured by the towel he was now breathing into as he dried his face and hair of his post-concert
sweat. If only she had an eBay account, she could have paid this month’s rent with what she’d get for that small rectangle of absorbent fabric.

Or maybe she’d get more for the tight white T-shirt that was so wet it had gone almost transparent, outlining every single groove of his toast-rack abs and the hard curves of his biceps,
triceps and delts.

Bugger, this was strange. To her, he’d always been Mirren Gore’s eighteen-year-old son. But right now, she was seeing him as rock and pop star Logan Gore, member of South City.

The chant started again in her head.
South City, South City, South City.

This time, Sarah wasn’t sure if it was the voice of the crowd or her own.

The flashing blue lights of the police escort on either side of them added a disco effect to the interior of the vehicle as they sped through the streets towards the airport.

‘So that was intense. I take it he didn’t get the memo that it was “Don’t Beat Up Logan Day”?’

Logan dropped the towel from his face and smiled. ‘I guess not.’

‘So what was . . .’ She struggled for the right terminology to use. What did teenagers say these days? Oh, for God’s sake. She was only seven or eight years older than this guy
and she struggled to talk the same language. ‘. . . his beef?’ she finished weakly, unsure as to whether she’d just used the dialogue of
The Wire
, circa 2007.

If she was ludicrously out of touch with the modern vernacular, Logan chose not to notice or mock.

Instead, he shrugged. ‘Who knows? It could be any one of ninety-nine things on any day of the week.’

Her instinct was to probe more, dig deeper, but she didn’t want to push. As far as Logan knew, she was here as a favour to his mum, in a purely observatory role, gaining some insight for a
book she was writing about Hollywood. He had no inkling of his mother’s agenda in protecting him, or of Sarah’s agenda in finding out what the hell he was up to that night in the
club.

He rested his head back on the top of the leather seat. ‘So how’s it been so far? Crazy ride, huh?’

‘Insane. It’s a lot to deal with. Do you ever find it hard to keep going?’

Not exactly subtle, but sometimes the blatant approach was the best one.

‘Nah, not really. You just need to keep it in perspective, you know? How many other guys get to do this? All I really care about is singing, and I get to do it every night.’

It was a press line that she recognized from at least two of the interviews he’d given in the last couple of days. OK, so that’s how he saw her. Someone to spin lines to. Deliver
sound bites.

Ironically, that’s when the journalist in her started to call the shots. Time to change the subject, make it personal and build up some trust. This guy intrigued her. His story read like a
TV drama. Son of Mirren McLean and Jack Gore, both successful film-makers. OK, so that might be stretching it a bit at the moment where Jack was concerned, but no one could deny he’d made a
few great movies over the years. But back to the point. Son of success, brother to a dead sister claimed by drug abuse, grandson to a psychotic woman who may well be on the hunt, pop star, absolute
hunk and all-round good guy – who just happened to be on film buying drugs in a Hollywood nightclub. That was a whole lot of baggage and a whole lot of stuff that wasn’t adding up.

That meant there was a story here.

Softly-softly. ‘I haven’t had a chance to thank you yet for letting me come on tour. I appreciate it. It was so good of your mum to set it up. She’s a great lady.’

Too much? She didn’t want to come over as insincere or patronizing.

‘Yep, she is.’ He agreed without a hint of annoyance. OK, so he was buying the friends act so far.

‘You from the same city as her? Glasgow?’

‘I am. You’ve never been?’

He shook his head. ‘Mom never wanted to. She’s got no family left there. Both her parents have passed away, so she always said it would be too hard. I get that.’

Sarah nodded. ‘Me too.’ His story backed up what Mirren had told her over lunch – Jack and Logan thought her mother was dead. That was going to take some explaining if Marilyn
McLean waltzed back into their lives.

‘I feel bad for her, y’know?’ he said. ‘She’s had it about as crap as anyone could have it this last year and she doesn’t deserve it. I know she’s got
Aunt Lou, but sometimes I feel bad she’s got no other family to look out for her.’

There was a steely sadness in his eyes, and Sarah suddenly realized that he saw this as his responsibility. Was it too much for him? Was that what the whole drug thing was about? Was it an
escape from the pressure?

‘She’s got Davie and Zander now too,’ Sarah offered.

‘Yeah, I guess. So are you gonna tell me what it was about?’

Sarah had a horrible feeling this was about to go deep. ‘What?’ she asked breezily.

‘Come on,’ he smiled, his poster grin, the one that made the screams notch up a few decibels every time. ‘The whole “those guys growing up together and then not talking
for twenty years” thing?’

Oh God. She was the only one with no connection to the entertainment industry and yet she was the one who was having to put on a performance.

‘Just drifted apart, I guess.’

‘Nah, I’m not buying it.’

‘Why?’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘They’re too connected to each other. It’s not a casual thing. Something deep there. Just a vibe I’m feeling.’

She tried to deflect him with humour. ‘Maybe you should be in my line of work, then. Investigative journalist. You know, if this gig you’ve got going on just now doesn’t work
out for you . . .’

Time to change the subject. ‘Anyway, tell me more about you. God, that sounded like a middle-aged sleazeball hitting on a chick who’s way out of his league.’

‘Thanks. Is it the fact I shave my legs?’ he teased her, making her blush. Blush! Bloody hell. Sarah hadn’t blushed since . . . since . . . probably ever.

‘And yet, despite the fact that I’ve just mortified myself, I’m going to keep on talking. So. You. Are you seeing anyone? And I promise I’m not hitting on you! I was just
thinking it might be tough to maintain a relationship with all this craziness.’

Logan rolled his shoulders one by one, easing out the stress. ‘Kinda. Been seeing someone for a few weeks. Keeping it on the lowdown, though, until we see where it’s
going.’

OK, he hadn’t said who it was, so he clearly didn’t want her to know. No point in pushing – might put his defences up. Chill. Take it slow. Go sympathetic, empathetic.

‘Must be hard with all the scrutiny. I don’t envy you.’

He shrugged. ‘She doesn’t want the heat, but I’m realistic about it. When we’re selling this many records, people are going to be curious, want to make money off us in
any way they can. If that means some dick is surfing in a dumpster looking for my trash, then hey, good for him. He’s the one in the dumpster. Anyway, won’t last forever, and when
it’s gone. I’ll probably miss it. Look at my dad . . .’ He let that one trail off, but the implication was clear. Jack Gore, searching for any kind of profile or exposure he could
get.

Sarah didn’t respond, let the silence hang. It was a technique she’d used a thousand times over the years, on everyone from politicians to drug pushers. Eventually, they’d fill
the pause.

‘So you don’t get shit from the paps when you’re with Davie?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘I’m strictly an off-camera, under-the-radar kind of girl. We enter and leave everywhere separately, we don’t do the gossip mags, and he knows if he
mentions me in an interview, he’ll incur a wrath that includes the words “idiotic” and “dick”. I just don’t want to be defined by him. Does that make sense?
Shit, I sound like Gwyneth Paltrow. If I start talking about my inner power, point it out and I’ll shoot myself.’

The car banked sharply to the left, then stopped suddenly. Outside, Sarah could see the tarmac at Montreal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport and the jet waiting, door open, stairs in
position, bags being loaded into the hold.

Eli jumped out first, opened Logan’s door and then accompanied him to the bottom of the steps. Sarah got herself out and trailed behind them. Obviously, in Eli’s world, security
trumped chivalry.

Only a few feet in front of her, she saw Logan speak closely into Eli’s ear, then gesture towards the trailer containing the luggage. Eli nodded and peeled off.

The noise of banging doors disturbed the night as each car in the convoy slid to a stop and discharged its cargo. Sarah hoped Jonell was in one way at the back.

She followed Logan up the steps, watching from the corner of her eye as Eli spoke to the crew loading the luggage, then stepped forward to look closer at the cases as if searching for
something.

On board, Logan walked to the table and chair set nearest the cockpit and slid into one of four caramel-coloured leather seats. Sarah had watched him do this every night so far. He would then
open his laptop, pull on his headphones and lose himself in the screen until he fell asleep.

Movies? Games? Conversations online? She made a mental note to establish what kept his attention for the hours in the air.

‘Come sit with me,’ he suggested, smiling. ‘I’m not great company at night, but if you’re there to protect me, I won’t have to sleep with one eye open,’
he joked.

Result.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

Sarah almost felt bad that he seemed so open and trusting. With all this subterfuge and duplicity, she was never going to heaven.

Sliding into the bank of two seats across the table from Logan, she pulled her cross-body messenger bag over her head and dumped it on the seat beside her, then shrugged off her black leather
bomber jacket. There was no squad of lackeys waiting on her hand and foot, so she’d quickly learned that it was best to carry everything she needed with her, allowing her main suitcase to
travel with the rest of the crew’s stuff. The Prada bag had been a gift from Davie – another month’s rent – but Sarah cared less about the label and more about the fact that
it was just big enough for her passport, purse, netbook, notebook and phone.