Page 54 of Heavy Hitter

Which is, she thinks, a smile spreading over her face alone here in her bedroom, plenty of time to decide what to wear.

Powered up by a sudden burst of energy, Lacey throws off her covers and scampers toward the bathroom for a long-overdue shower—then stops in the middle of the rug and feels her shoulders drop, reflexively beginning the long and laborious process of talking herself out of the idea. She thinks of every talking head on ESPN accusing her of turning the Division Series into a circus. She thinks of Maddie’s warning her she’s already overexposed. Still, Lacey thinks, it wouldn’t necessarily have to be a huge deal, would it? Maybe Jimmy was right, that people are only weird about her because she expects them to be, because she invites it. Maybe it’s possible to fly under the radar after all.

Lacey picks up her phone, starts a new text to Javi. Hi! she begins, her heart thrumming with the disproportionate thrill of doing something brave and spontaneous. Something that’s just for her. I’m going to go see Henrietta Lang at the El Rey tonight and would like to travel light.

Sure, Javi texts back. Though I think a team of three would be more appropriate for a venue of that size.

Lacey bites her lip. She knows this is as close as Javi will likely get to telling her he thinks it’s a bad idea, and normally it would be enough to cow her, but instead she sets her jaw. I think it’ll be fine, she insists, hoping she sounds more confident than she’s necessarily feeling. I’ll sneak in late and leave early.

Claire texts her fifteen minutes later, predictably. Hey there! she begins. Javi told me you’re planning to go to the Henrietta Lang show tonight. So cool! I did just want to share that I reached out to the venue and they can provide a seat in a private area up on the second level but won’t have any extra security available. I know Javi mentioned you wanted to travel light so I did just want to be sure we were okay with that!

Lacey chews her lip for a moment, briefly losing her courage. Probably after everything the smart move would be to just stay in tonight. She could invite Claire over to watch a movie and order ramen; they could get ice cream sandwiches from Van Leeuwen, try some of the million high-end beauty products Lacey’s always getting sent in the mail. She’s almost decided to scuttle the whole endeavor entirely when all at once she shakes her head, remembering how disappointed she was with herself when she chickened out and missed Henrietta’s show back in New York. Maybe she doesn’t have to submit her every decision to focus-group testing. Why shouldn’t she just do what she wants to do?

Yup! That’s fine! she types, hitting send and marching herself up to her closet to pick an outfit.

***

LACEY HAS NEVER PERFORMED AT THE EL REY—SHE GOT HER start on the festival circuit, state fairs and opening gigs for boy bands, then quickly leapfrogged to headlining arena shows of her own—but she’s always loved the look of it: the enormous chandeliers and the art deco sensibility, the brilliant neon lights of the marquee. She sneaks in just as Henrietta’s opening band is finishing up later that night, smiling her thanks to a gawking attendant and following Javi across the lush red carpet of the lobby. What she really would have liked to do is disappear into the crowd down in general admission—she used to love to do that when she was younger, to stand crushed shoulder to shoulder in a thick, anonymous sea of bodies, her arms thrust into the air with wild abandon—but she knows that’s ridiculous, so she trails Javi obediently up a narrow flight of stairs to the box reserved for her up in the mezzanine, sitting down in one of the two folding chairs lined up side by side. Lacey glances at the empty seat for a second, trying not to think about anyone who might or might not be sitting here beside her in an alternate universe, but before she can start to feel too sorry for herself the lights are going down and the crowd is whooping and clapping and cheering, Henrietta is stepping onto the stage in wide-leg jeans and an oversized blazer, slinging the strap of her guitar over her head.

Lacey leans forward and rests her chin on the railing, unable to keep a slow, reflexive smile from spreading across her face. This is what she loves about music, the way it engages her brain and her heart and her body. The way it calms the endless churn of her mind. For a moment it doesn’t matter that Toby’s spreading garbage about their breakup or that she besmirched Jimmy Hodges’s precious postseason. All that matters is the sound of Henrietta’s voice ringing out in the darkness. All that matters is the beat of the drums. Lacey loses herself completely to the melody and the lyrics, and later it will occur to her that that’s why she doesn’t notice when the energy in the room starts to change.

It’s whispers at first, a general restlessness—at least, she thinks it is; by the time she registers the sound it’s turned into a murmur, some commotion at the back of the lower level near the doors. Lacey sits back in her seat, glancing over her shoulder for Javi and trying to ignore the creeping instinct for approaching danger she’s honed over a dozen years in the spotlight, but when she turns back around and chances a look down at the crowd, she realizes with a start that Henrietta has all but lost them. Almost nobody down there is even facing the stage anymore, all of them craning their necks and peering curiously up into the mezzanine.

Almost everyone is looking for her.

That’s the moment when a hand drops onto her shoulder; when Lacey turns around to look at him, Javi’s face is grave. “Hey,” he says, and she can tell by how preternaturally calm he sounds that this is about to be a total shitshow. “We’ve got a little bit of a situation.”

***

WORD IS OUT, JAVI TELLS HER. SOMEBODY POSTED A PICTURE OF her on Instagram; there’s a group of fans outside the venue, trying to push their way into the building. They need to get out of here, and they need to get out of here now.

“Okay,” Lacey says—nodding obediently, already getting to her feet. The crowd in the mezzanine has grown by at least half since she got here, she realizes suddenly; there are people on the stairs now, the venue’s security trying unsuccessfully to clear them out. “Let’s go.”

Javi takes her arm as they head quickly toward the staircase, doing his best to clear the path in front of them, to shove the grasping limbs out of their way. “There she is!” someone shouts, and Lacey feels herself flinch. She moves as best and as quickly as she can, ducking as people grab at her, touching her hair and her clothes and her hands. She trips on the last couple of stairs, stumbling for one terrifying second before Javi pulls her roughly to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but he doesn’t reply so she repeats herself once, then again and again until it’s just a chant she’s muttering over and over as he steers her along. This has happened twice before—once at a concert in Singapore, and another time at a radio festival in Nashville—but both of those times she had the whole team with her, a phalanx of protection to get her safely into the car. I think it will be fine! she told him this afternoon, like some kind of idiot. She’s never felt like such an amateur in her entire life.

“Keep your head down,” Javi advises, raising his voice so she can hear him over the screaming. Dimly she can hear that Henrietta has stopped playing; faintly she’s aware of her asking everyone to please be cool. “Let’s just get into the car.”

“Should we—”

“Into the car, Lacey.” It’s the most sharply he’s ever spoken to her in all the years they’ve known each other, and it’s not until that moment that Lacey is really and truly afraid.

The air changes after what feels like an eternity, the smell of the night and the pavement all around her, and Lacey realizes all at once she’s been squeezing her eyes shut; when she opens them again Javi is shoving her into the back seat of the SUV. Her driver in LA is usually a guy named Kevin, but Kevin is on vacation and so it’s someone else tonight, Steven or Stephen. Normally Lacey is much better about getting names. Shit, she’s really rattled. This was such an enormously bad idea. “What the fuck,” Steven/Stephen says as Javi climbs into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. He’s bleeding a little, Lacey sees with a gasp, right at the side of his mouth.

“Just drive,” Javi orders.

“Yeah, I’m trying!” the driver snaps, leaning on the horn, the sound of it enough to make Lacey cover her ears. The crowd is too thick: they’re pounding on the roof, on the windows, the sound of it like a hailstorm. Like bombs falling. Like the end of the world. “I’m going to fucking kill someone.”

“I’m sorry,” Lacey says over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Javi ignores her. “Is one of them on the—one of them is on the fucking car.”

It’s more than one of them, Lacey realizes with horror. It’s three and then four of them like something out of a zombie movie, all of them banging on the windows, all of them screaming her name. It occurs to her, not for the first time, that her fans may love her deeply, but also if given the opportunity they might tear the flesh right off her bones.

At last they break free from the crowd and pull off down the street, Lacey going limp in the back seat with sudden safety, with the feeling of a near miss. “Fucking insane kids,” the driver mumbles.

“I’m so sorry,” Lacey says again. Already she’s planning how she’s going to handle this with him and with Javi, with a bonus or vacation time or a Rolex. She’ll send something to the staff at the venue. She’ll smooth it over with Henrietta.

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