Page 53 of Ticket to the Stars: Part Two

Bishop sat beside me, and he set a hand on my knee and squeezed it the same moment Ramona walked in. She had a key to our place; that would change soon enough. The moment she spotted me on the couch, she raced over to me, saying, “Thank God you’re alright. We were so worried about you last night—”

Whatever else she was going to say, she stopped herself, noticing how the guys got up and put some distance between us. That let her gingerly take up a cushion beside me. “You are okay, aren’t you? Priest didn’t say much when he called, but he mentioned Pope.”

Part of our plan, you see. Get her relaxed, make her think that we were blaming all of this on Pope even though we knew the truth.

As the guys paced the room around us, I nodded and said, “Yeah. Pope was there. He had a key to the room.” The room that, according to the front desk, had been rented out with Pope’s old line of credit, back from when he used to live here. A line that Ramona must’ve still had access to.

I stared deep into Ramona’s black eyes as I continued, “He was very angry at me. He blamed me for taking his place in the band. I tried to tell him that wasn’t true, that I wasn’t trying to be his replacement, but he didn’t want to hear it.” I let my gaze fall to my lap, where I fiddled with my hands.

“Pope’s always been a little off,” Ramona spoke carefully, “but I had no idea he was capable of something like this. I had no idea he was this unhinged. We need to make sure they put him away for a long time, work on a restraining order or something—”

Ramona was going to say more, like she had this whole thing planned out—and I must’ve been playing my part well, because it didn’t sound like she suspected me at all. That’s what would make this all the sweeter.

“There’s just… one thing I can’t seem to wrap my head around,” I muttered, slow to bring my stare back up to Ramona’s.

“What’s that?” She pretended to act concerned, interested, and sympathetic. The mental gymnastics she must be doing right now, I couldn’t imagine.

“I don’t understand how Pope was able to get backstage without alerting someone. I mean, I know it was showtime, so everyone was running around, but wouldn’t someone have seen him? Security was tight.”

Ramona shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s something the police will have to figure out. Either way, Greenbay definitely has to beef up their security.”

The guys had stopped pacing. Ramona didn’t notice, but I did. It’s because the guys knew what I was going to say next, and they were waiting with bated breath to see what Ramona would do once it was out there.

“Youknow,” I started, speaking slowly, “there is something else that’s weird. The police came right after Pope got there. Like, right after. Almost like it was timed.”

Ramona blinked. “Timed? What do you mean, timed?”

“Like someone was waiting for Pope to walk through the front door at the Redborne, and, whoever they were, called the cops right then. I just don’t understand how the police showed up so soon after Pope did.”

She had an explanation for that ready: “The front desk knows Pope is banned from the Redborne. As soon as they saw him, I’m sure they alerted the authorities.”

“You’re right,” I acknowledged, “but it’s funny. Pope and I had some time to talk before the police showed up.” Granted, he’d been pissed the hell off and hateful beyond all belief, but that was beside the point. Acting angry and hateful only furthered the story Ramona was trying to tell here.

“You did?” Ramona cocked her head. “And what did Pope have to say?” A slight change in her tone. She was starting to realize this was going somewhere she wasn’t going to like.

“He said he was sent a key to the room, along with a note telling him to meet them there… a note from you.” I waited a few seconds before saying that last part, and when I said it, Ramona’s back straightened, the corners of her mouth twitching in annoyance.

“From me?” She let out a chuckle full of disbelief. “Why on earth would I send him a note and a key to theroom? That doesn’t make any sense. He’s obviously trying to push the blame—”

“To get him there, obviously.” That was Priest answering, and he stood behind me on the couch, his phone in his hand—though he set it on the cushion near my shoulder. “You wanted him to come.”

Her voice came out low and dry, “And why would I want that?”

“To frame him for kidnapping and to get Black Sacrament in the news again,” I said. “Any publicity is good publicity, right?” I’d never heard Ramona herself say it, but I’d heard it from other people, so it had to ring true.

Black Sacrament was in the news when Pope got kicked out. We were in the news again when she held that contest for me, and when they announced I was the new fourth member. We were again in the news when Priest kissed me on stage—we went viral that time. There was no way Ramona was going to let an opportunity like this pass by without constantly spinning it to our benefit.

Some people would do anything for more money, and I knew now Ramona was one of them.

She let out a chuckle. “Are you saying I planned this just to get a good headline?” Her eyes darted from me to the guys, one by one, and when she saw they were all watching her with suspicion, she got to her feet. “This is insane. You don’t know what you’re saying. After such a traumatizing experience, I can’t say I blame you, but to insinuate it wasme, well, I—” She tried to leave, but Deacon stepped in her way, blocking her path.

I stood up with her. “They found the note at Pope’s place. I’m betting the handwriting matches yours.”

Ramona was sluggish in turning around to face me, her lips drawn into a thin line. Her black eyes studied me hard. “If they found this supposed note, and it was so incriminating, why aren’t the police here, arresting me?”

Bishop stepped in. He stood next to Deacon. “All we want is for you to admit what you did. I don’t care about Pope.” He glanced at Deacon, adding, “He might, but right now, all I care about is the fact that you drugged and kidnapped our girl.”

“What would I get out of it?” Ramona asked. “This is so stupid—”

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