Brazilian Writer | Debbie Oliver

And, just as her sociopathic perfectionism demanded, the entire tour schedule through October was organized into categories and subcategories—separated and perfectly aligned across the small vanity that had served as her office for the past few hours.

The bassline on her cassette tape died the second Hannah yanked the headphone jack out of her Walkman, and she stretched like a stray alley cat that had just swiped a rotisserie chicken.

Her spine answered back.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

“Mmm...”

You know what? Fuck multi-million-dollar tours and explosive arena gigs.

That was the real music...

Until something hijacked her attention—noises coming through from the other side of the annex.

She craned her neck.

First came the muffled voices, then the distinct squeaking of a room service cart rolling by while somebody barked na order.

Her brow furrowed.

“Huh... they’re here already?”

She double-checked her watch: 8:35 P.M.

...

Stepping out of the bedroom, she walked into a troop of hotel staff hustling back and forth across the main room.

A maid was scooping up the rags and damp towels, while two guys were shoving the main sectional around under the orders of someone barking from a clipboard.

The empty bottles at the bar had been swapped out for fresh rows of sealed whiskey; further back in the room, lighting techs were running tests on the spotlights.

Without even meaning to, Hannah found herself rooted dead center in the room.

What kind of witchcraft is this?

Barely a few minutes ago—at least in her memory—this square footage looked like the aftermath of a frat house rager.

Now, piece by piece, it was reverting back into one of the most insanely expensive and exclusive hotels in Vegas.

“Ah... there she is.”

The voices drifted in from her left.

Hannah turned to see two men altering their trajectory and heading straight for her.

One was rocking a strictly tailored burgundy suit. The other was in full, aristocratic Caesar’s Palace livery, complete with a gold nameplate pinned to his chest.

The guy with the gold tag offered his hand as he came to a halt in front of her.

“Harlan Capaldi, Head of Housekeeping. I assume you must be Miss Cameron.”

“That’s me,” she replied, shaking his hand.

The gentleman in the burgundy suit broke into a blindingly professional smile.

“Geralt Oliver, Event Manager,” he introduced himself. “We’ve been waiting to have a word with you, miss.”

Hannah literally peered over her shoulder to check if there was a stray ghost or some other poor bastard standing behind her.

“...with me?”

The two men exchanged a brief, sideways glance.

“With you, miss,” Harlan confirmed.

A crew member darted through the space between them, hauling a massive stack of pristine white towels.

He waited for the foot traffic to clear before picking back up:

“We knocked on your door a few minutes ago, but we assumed you were busy. We decided it was more prudent to wait.”

Geralt offered a crisp nod of agreement.

“After all, you are Metallica’s new right hand, am I correct?”

Fuck, I almost forgot about that little detail...

“Oh, that?” She forced a tight, slightly pained smile. “Yeah... that’s me.”

So why the hell does it sound so weird right now?

“Is there a problem?”

Harlan rested a leather portfolio on his forearm and started thumbing through the laminated pages.

“We wanted to get on the same page regarding tonight’s reception,” he flipped another sheet. “Just confirming if the floor plan and access routing are still following the standard set by the previous assistant, Howard Priestly.”

Hannah stared wide-eyed at the folder.

Standard? Buddy... I touched down in Vegas less than three hours ago, and I’m still sketched out about what happened to poor Howard.

Geralt chimed right in on the same wavelength:

“Floral arrangements, catering, furniture layout, unrestricted bar access...”

“A’right, hold up...” Hannah threw her hands up, slamming the brakes on the conversation. “I mean, hasn’t this all been locked in already?”

The duo just kept staring at her blankly.

“You guys are... telling me you actually need my input?”

“Naturally, Miss Cameron,” Geralt replied smoothly.

“Any adjustments or last-minute deviations from protocol, must be cleared by you,” the other added.

Naturally my ass. I don’t even know which of these cavemen drinks beer.

Meanwhile, the two executives just stood there waiting, Montblanc pens poised.

Pull it together, girl. If these suits smell your panic, they will eat you alive and spit you out in the trash.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, pivoting to scan the sprawling living room...

Elevator bank.

Fire exit.

Main double doors.

The fully stocked wet bar.

The catering spread.

Couches and coffee tables.

She had no experience coordinating an afterparty for a rock band crashing at the top of a casino.

But she had survived Cameron family cookouts, frat house ragers, and block parties where half the damn neighborhood crashed uninvited.

At the end of the day, swap out the corrugated tin roof for crystal chandeliers, trade the ratty shorts for tailored Italian suits... and people are still just people. Drunk animals stumble around, start brawls, and break shit.

Speaking of breaking shit...

Jesus Christ, why do they have so many porcelain vases in here?

She scrunched up her nose and turned back to the two men.

“Right,” she gave a little wave of her hand. “Can I suggest something?”

Both men snapped to attention almost simultaneously.

“By all means, Miss Cameron. We are listening—”

“Push the catering right up next to the bar.”

Harlan immediately jotted that down.

“Any specific reasoning?”

“If you keep the alcohol on one side of the room and the food on the opposite, you’re gonna have everybody crisscrossing this exact space at the exact same time.”

She traced na imaginary line slicing right through the middle of the room.

It made total sense.

“Flawless spatial optimization,” the Director of Housekeeping noted.

Hannah spun on her heel, coming to a halt in front of that massive floral sculpture.

“Actually,” she waved a hand at all the vases, “you can scrap these, too.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up at the sheer audacity.

“You want us to... remove the lilies, miss?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She gave a shrug.

“No offense, but anytime you throw cash, booze and women in the same room—” she grimaced at the expensive arrangements, “— nobody’s gonna care about flowers.”

“An exceptional observation, miss,” Harlan commented.

She took two more steps across the lounge before stalling out next to a polished, gleaming black grand piano.

She absentmindedly tapped one of the keys with her fingernail.

Plink.

A sharp, painfully flat note died in the dead center of the room.

Hannah pulled a face.

“Who put this here?”

“It is part of the presidential suite’s permanent furnishings, Miss Cameron. A house classic.”

“Right, well, take that classic and shove it against that wall over there,” she pointed. “Get this thing out of the middle of the floor.”

For the first time all night, Harlan genuinely almost choked.

“Excuse me? Move the grand piano? It is an eighty-thousand-dollar mahogany piece, miss, it doesn’t simply—”

“Look here, sir.”

Hannah traced na invisible “X” in the air between the main double doors and the elevator antechamber.

“If some guy stumbles out of that elevator hammered, he could end up splitting his head wide open on the corner of this thing... not to mention the massive bottleneck at the entrance.”

The event manager and the head of housekeeping took two seconds to mentally process the hypothetical pile-up.

“Indeed...”

Harlan clicked the tip of his gold pen.

He had seen a hundred cold-blooded industry fixers parade through the upper echelons of Vegas high society, but there was something about this girl that completely bypassed the manual.

A wry, knowing smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

“I have to confess, Miss Cameron... Q-Prime has a knack for making terrible choices, but they know exactly how to pick their fixers. Outstanding work.”

Hannah tilted her chin up, holding the deadpan, blasé posture of na absolute veteran.

“You know how it goes... ‘standard of excellence’ is basically our middle name.”

They picked me by the biggest fucking fluke in phonographic history, my guy.

But if the boot fits and nobody’s calling the cops...

Harlan snapped the leather portfolio shut with a dry, sharp thwack.

“Perfect, miss. That will be all.”

Geralt tapped the end of his pen against the acrylic clipboard for final emphasis.

“Our crew will have it fully wrapped up before tem.”

The two corporate suits nodded in absolute sync, offering a crisp, elegant little bow.

“Have an excellent evening, Miss Cameron.”

“Thanks, gentleman. Keep up the good work.”

Hannah plastered on the brightest, most plastic smile that sheer desperation could muster...

...and the exact second they were out of earshot, her shoulders practically unhinged.

Her back slumped flat against the wall and she let out na exhale so long and heavy it felt like it was dragged up from the soles of her boots.

Jesus Christ, that was close...

I need a drink.

Preferably a shot of whiskey the size of my actual skull...

She was pivoting back to the annex when she froze mid-stride and spun back around on her heels.

“Excuse me... Mr. Capaldi?”

Harlan was in the middle of barking new orders at the cleanup crew when he caught himself, turning gracefully back to the girl.

“How can I help you, Miss Cameron?”

“Can I ask a dumb question?”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Harlan’s mouth.

“In my line of work, miss, it’s precisely those questions that prevent the casino from catching fire.”

She let out a genuine, surprised laugh, which knocked about tem percent of the tension right off her shoulders.

“Fair enough... so, where’s the restaurant around here?”

Harlan blinked, looking faintly intrigued.

“Do you intend to have dinner now?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I can send up for room service, if you’d prefer the privacy of the suite.”

Hannah’s eyes bugged out for a fraction of a second.

God no, buddy, please.

If I spend another tem minutes locked in this room, I’m gonna end up chucking myself off the balcony straight into the deep end of the pool.

“Oh, no, I’m good, thanks,” she blurted out, waving her hands in front of her. “I’d rather eat out... you know, outside of the penthouse.”

Harlan gave a crisp nod.

“Perfectly understandable, Miss Cameron.” He pointed a single finger toward the elevator bank. “Once you reach the main lobby, simply take the west wing. Our dining room faces the grand fountain courtyard. You literally can’t miss it.”

“Great. Thank you very much, Harlan.”

“Not at all. Enjoy your evening.”

Hannah was already halfway down the hall when she jammed on the brakes again, biting her lip with a sheepish, slightly guilty grin.

“Hey, just one more quick thing, Mr. Capaldi...”

Harlan snapped right back to attention, ready for whatever demand the girl might drop on him.

“What’s the usual scene around here for entertainment?” she asked.

“Outside of the casino floor, Miss Cameron?” he inquired.

“Yep.”

“Well, we have headline musical acts, large-scale spectaculars, VIP lounges, jazz piano bars...”

Hannah scrunched up her nose, shaking her head—that wasn’t exactly the vibe she was going for.

She cleared her throat, shooting a quick look down the hall to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. Then she stepped a little closer, like she was spilling a secret.

“You know...” she whispered. “Do you happen to know of any... cabarets around here?”

Harlan froze for a second.

It wasn’t exactly shock—this was Vegas, he had seen and heard literally everything—but there was a subtle, microscopic glitch in his flawlessly polished demeanor.

Oh, sweet Jesus, he thinks I’m a freaking pervert...

“No, no, no, please, that is not what I meant!” she threw both hands up like she was surrendering to the cops. “Dear God, I’m not talking about that naked lady smut!”

The harder she tried to backpedal, the more she felt her face absolutely burning.

Hannah buried her face in her hands for a second, laughing nervously at herself before trying again:

“You know what I mean, right? Those old-school revues, with the showgirls and the massive staircases and all the glitter... it’s just... well, I’ve never actually been to a show like that.”

Harlan took a moment to weigh that—not because he was offended, but quite the opposite.

It had been years since someone asked a question like that without a layer of corporate sleaze or deviant intentions attached.

He subtly turned his head away for a fraction of a second, fighting off a highly inconvenient smile.

“I do know of a few, Miss Cameron,” he replied.

When he faced her again, the professional mask was back in place, though there was a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes.

“Classic showrooms that still preserve the authentic magic of vintage Vegas, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Her eyes lit up.

“For real? Like... with the giant feathered headdresses and everything?”

“Exactly as you described it,” he agreed. “I can arrange a town car to take you, if you’d like.”

Hannah took a violent step back, practically choking on her own spit.

“Oh, hell no! No way!”

Harlan blinked.

“Pardon me? Did I say something offensive?”

“No! I mean, that’s gotta cost a fortune, sir,” she frantically waved her hands, borderline panicking. “I don’t have cash to bankroll that kind of flex.”

This time, Harlan didn’t even try to stifle it—a low, warm chuckle slipped out.

Not out of pity, but honestly—drowning in an endless sea of arrogant, dead-eyed billionaires—dealing with a kid who didn’t measure the world through black Amex cards was a breath of fresh air.

He held his hands out in a smooth, pacifying gesture.

“Miss Cameron, please...” he sounded almost paternal, like talking down a spooked animal. “I can personally assure you that everything involving the lodging, logistics, and comfort of the core touring party is entirely comped.”

Hannah furrowed her brow, deeply suspicious of this sudden capitalist charity.

“Wait, seriously? Even the ride?”

“Including the transport,” he confirmed. “It falls under the house’s courtesy policy for our highly esteemed... let’s say, longtime partners.”

Hannah stood completely paralyzed for a few seconds...

...letting the information slowly reboot her chronically broke intern brain:

Hold the fuck up... you’re telling me I can roll around Vegas in a chauffeured ride without spending a single dime of my own hard-earned cash?

Damn... playing babysitter to four menaces actually has its perks.

A wicked little smirk slowly tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Well, if that’s the case...” she cleared her throat, casually leaning into the VIP persona. “I’ll gladly accept the hotel’s courtesy, Mr. Capaldi.”

Harlan nodded, incredibly pleased to have made someone’s night.

“It will be na absolute pleasure, miss.”

He gave a subtle, sharp nod to the assistant hovering patiently down the hall.

“Your transport will be waiting for you right after you finish your dinner. Have a splendid evening.”

...

Thick, sweet-smelling steam billowed down from the bathroom ceiling.

Hannah shoved the damp door open, swaddled up to her neck in a plush hotel towel, aggressively drying her dripping hair.

She marched straight to the foot of the bed and yanked the zipper of her duffel bag open with a sharp tug.

“Well... if I’m going down to hell to sit on devil’s lap...”

She dug through her pathetic pile of clothes.

“...might as well dress for the part.”

She fished out the single dress that had made the cut, holding the fabric up to the lamplight.

“Okay, you’ll do.”

Tem minutes later, her hair was brushed to a sleek shine, her crimson lipstick was flawlessly retouched, and on her feet... the crown jewels. Stiletto heels—shameless, absolute knockoff Louboutins that Hannah had scavenged from a garage sale for exactly twenty-nine dollars and ninety cents.

Hannah did a slow spin in front of the mirror, assessing the damage to a thumping, imaginary bassline in her head.

Yeah, she could fake it.

Didn’t exactly look like a trust-fund baby or some untouchable socialite... but she also didn’t look like a sleep-deprived zombie on the brink of a nervous breakdown anymore.

She’d call that a win.

A crooked smirk cut across her red lips.

“If my dad saw me right now, he’d kick my ass all the way back to L.A.”

Old Butcher Bill would spend the rest of eternity screaming that this was an outfit designed to “catch a cold and invite sin.”

And so, out of ingrained family habit, she covered up the short, tight dress with the oversized leather jacket she had “borrowed” from her new boss, Hetfield... without his knowledge.

Oh, please.

The way he was bound to stumble back in here later tonight—drowning in booze and groupies—he wasn’t even going to realize it was missing.

Hannah let out a laugh, instantly muffled by the hollow rumble of her own empty stomach, and hiked her bag’s strap up her shoulder.

She reached out.

​Tapped the light switch.

​And let the room drop into complete darkness.

Like something that seeks its level, I wanna go to the devil...

12:47 A.M.

“I wanna be evil, I wanna spit tacks! I wanna be evil and cheat at jacks...”

The hallways of Caesar’s felt like they were swaying, rolling like a smuggler’s raft fighting against the current.

Her dress clinging tight to her curves, the massive leather jacket swallowing her shoulders.

A rogue pink feather bounced in her hair as she spun and spun in a clumsy little choreography.

I want to wake up in the morning with that dark brown taste...

“I want to see some dissipation in my face...”

Hannah grazed her fingertips over her cheek, right where a cherry-red lipstick print was still stamped.

A parting gift from a showgirl named Trixie, who had officially decreed that nobody was leaving her theater without a little more glamour than they walked in with.

And there was absolutely no way Hannah was washing that off anytime soon.

I wanna be horrid, I wanna drink booze, and whatever I’ve got...

“I’m eager to lose!”

Absolutely buzzing, she threw her head back and laughed out loud into the empty hall.

To hell with the four horsemen of the apocalypse!

And to hell with this Howard Priestly guy and his phantom shallow grave in the Nevada desert!

The most broke, screwed-up intern in all of California didn’t owe a damn thing to anyone, and she had just survived, without a single shadow of a doubt, the greatest night of her entire life.

Hannah parked herself in front of the annex door, still humming under her breath.

The heavy bass from the afterparty raging inside the penthouse was literally making the floorboards vibrate under her feet.

Even from out in the hall, she could hear the absolute chaos—shrieking laughter, the sharp clink of glass, some guy screaming at the top of his lungs over na argument, and somebody else laughing like it was the funniest shit in the world.

Yeah, the place had officially descended into hell, but Hannah smiled.

After the night she’d just had, it was gonna take a hell of a lot more than half a dozen rowdy drunks to kill her buzz.

“Good luck to whatever idiot has to clean that up tomorrow.”

She dug through the bottom of her purse, hooked her fingers around the annex key, popped the lock, and pushed inside.

Hannah slapped her hands against the wall for balance and kicked her stilettos off, sending them flying into opposite corners of the entryway.

Her toes, finally emancipated, curled deep into the plush hotel carpet.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” she groaned.

Everything her fried brain craved right now boiled down to one simple, holy master plan: a gigantic bathtub, scalding hot water all the way up to the rim and a mountain of bubbles.

And maybe just fifteen more minutes without hearing the words “rock” or “band.”

I wanna be evil...

But then, she locked up mid-stride—the heavy double doors connecting her annex to the master suite had been thrown wide open.

Little evil me...

The strobe lights from the afterparty were bleeding through the cracked entrance, washing the walls of her annex in a feverish, pulsing red.

All that obnoxious noise and heavy bass was actively invading her place...

Her eyes did a frantic sweep of her room—her bed was still perfectly made, her ratty duffel bag was sitting in the exact same corner, and her dirty clothes were still slung over the desk chair.

Everything looked untouched...

...except for the dark shadow projected across the white ceramic tile, cutting off the sliver of light under the bathroom door.

Somebody else was in the room with her.

The blood rushed straight out of her face, and the chaos raging in the Caesar’s penthouse—just for a second—faded into a dull, terrifying heartbeat thudding in her ears.

She snuck across the thick carpet on her tiptoes, plastering herself against the doorjamb.

Using the pads of two fingers, she eased the white door open, inch by agonizing inch.

Bent over the Carrara marble sink was a blonde poured into a suffocatingly tight black leather corset and lethal stilettos—her heavy club makeup and sharp winged eyeliner melting down her cheeks in dark streaks.

The creature was completely oblivious to her audience.

She was way too preoccupied racking up a fat line of white powder with a rolled-up Benjamin.

She dropped her face to the vanity, railing the entire thing in a single, massive hit. She cracked her jaw and whipped her head back with a violent snap.

Eyes rolled straight to the back of her head, glassy and dead, staring up at the ceiling while dark tears of chemical orgasm streamed down her face.

Based on the ecstasy on the bitch’s face, you’d honestly think the Saint Peter himself had just floated down from heaven’s gates strictly to give her a pat on the back.

Just as mean and evil as I can be!

“What the fuck...”

The whisper slipped out from between Hannah’s teeth before she could bite it back.

The blonde perched on the vanity didn’t even flinch at getting busted.

First, her glassy, bloodshot eyes caught Hannah’s reflection in the beveled mirror, sizing the younger girl up with a lazy, dismissive calm.

Then, she flashed a slow smirk and rubbed her coke-dusted thumb across her gums.

“Oh... hey, cutie,” she slurred, her voice a syrupy drawl. “Were you invited too?”

Hannah stayed rooted to the doorjamb, still trying to process why the hell some random chick thought she could treat her bathroom like a VIP crack house.

“What are you doing in my room?” Hannah finally said.

The blonde let out a breathy little chuckle through her nose, clearly finding the newbie’s confusion highly entertaining.

Taking her sweet time—acting like she owned the damn joint—she popped a hip and leaned her ass against the marble counter, casually flicking a chunk of over-processed blonde hair over her shoulder.

That was when Hannah took in the rest of the visual package: the aggressive spray tan, the harsh brunette roots screaming for help under a busted bleach job.

And, swinging from a lanyard right down the canyon of her massive, silicone-injected cleavage, na All-Access Backstage laminate.

Right, okay... a groupie.

Top-tier rank, chronic insomnia, and currently running on a grand total of three functioning brain cells.

“Oh, so you’re her, right?” she said, her tone a perfect split between venom and boredom. “The new girl Lars was talking about.”

She cocked her head, giving the intern a slow, sweeping once-over accompanied by a smile that masqueraded as polite...

...but absolutely wasn’t.

“The ‘clipboard girl’.”

Come, scusa?

I hadn’t even been on the payroll for twelve solid hours, barely met these assholes face-to-face... and they’ve already christened me?

And what the actual fuck is this “clipboard girl” bullshit?! Even stray street dogs don’t get named that damn fast.

“Hope you don’t mind,” the blonde shrugged nonchalantly, hiking up the top of her corset. “The other suites were packed, so I figured I’d just use this one.”

Hannah’s jaw locked hard enough to crack a tooth.

“But my door was locked,” she clipped back. “Locked and deadbolted.”

The groupie flashed a cynical grin.

“Oh, sweetheart...” she patronized. “When you spend enough time hanging around scumbags like your bosses, you pick up a basic trick or two.”

She gave the VIP pass resting between her tits an ironic little flick.

“A bobby pin, a plastic credit card and no shame will get you through any door on this earth.”

Perfect.

This bitch was casually discussing B&E like it was some Tuesday night hobby...

“Actually...” the blonde called out, pulling Hannah back. “I like what you did with the party.”

Hannah blinked hard.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, the little shindig, it’s way better than last week’s.”

The blonde turned her face back to the mirror, teasing her bangs as she stared at her own smudged reflection.

“Got rid of those funeral flowers, traffic flow to the bar is totally clear...”

She gave a careless shrug, wiping a stray tear of melted mascara off her cheek.

“The guys down in the lobby were saying the ‘clipboard girl’ finally whipped the madhouse into shape.”

Hold the fuck up, they noticed?

They actually paid attention to that?

“Thanks,” Hannah muttered, a sour grimace twisting her lips. “...I guess.”

The groupie caught her eye in the mirror and let out a laugh, clicking her tongue before spinning around to face the younger girl.

“Oh, cutie, you’re wound tight as a spring... come on, sit down and relax for a sec.”

She held up her arm, dangling the rolled-up Benjamin right in the rookie’s direction, like a priest offering communion.

“You sure you don’t want a quick bump? It’ll make you see life in completely different colors. Gorgeous colors, I swear to God.”

The fucking audacity of that offer hit Hannah like a backhand across the face.

Her eyebrows pulled together, her eyes went dark... and that one specific vein on her right temple started to throb.

Is this bitch seriously fucking with me right now?

She didn’t yell. She didn’t jump.

But something fundamentally shifted in how Hannah was looking at the room... like she had just made a calculated decision on which one of them was walking out of here alive.

Her eyes did a slow sweep of the perimeter, locking on the fat line of coke sitting right on her marble vanity.

Then she glanced behind herself, to her king-size bed, soft and perfectly untouched.

Christ, if I had taken just a little bit longer to get back... and she refused to picture the downright disgusting hypothetical outcome of that.

“Come on, don’t be a prude,” the groupie coaxed. “Here, I’ll show you how to pull a line...”

The massive, gaping depth of the hole Hannah had just stepped into suddenly became crystal clear.

Marge, sweetheart, I am so sorry I ever doubted you. I am young and dumb as hell.

And Howard, my dude? I’m starting to get why you bailed and vanished off the face of the earth...

...but anyone who had pulled a B&E at the Cameron house would, by this exact moment, already be sporting a bullet hole right between the eyes.

Hannah looked dead back into the bleached-out bitch’s cynical face.

“No, I... I’m gonna pass, actually,” Hannah answered, her voice completely level and dangerously calm. “But, hey, could you do me a teeny-tiny favor?”

The blonde furrowed her brow.

“Hm?”

Without changing a single fiber of her expression, the girl raised her arm.

“Grab all your shit—” and she pointed a rigid index finger straight at the door leading out of the annex, “—and get the fuck out of my room.”

The blonde’s caked-on smile faltered.

“Heh... the fuck did you just say?”

“Are you deaf, sweetheart?” Hannah had officially lost all her patience and any remaining parameters of basic politeness. “I told you to get the fuck out.”

The hundred-dollar bill was still hanging in the space between them. Hannah crinkled her nose.

“And I pray to God you didn’t use my toilet, because I’m not catching whatever biological hazard you’re carrying around.”

Hannah snapped her fingers twice.

Snap. Snap.

“Come on, shoo! Go turn tricks somewhere else.”

The blonde peeled her ass off the Carrara marble counter, moving as slow as a cornered snake.

“Little girl...” she hissed. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?”

Lord in heaven, grant me patience... because if You grant me strength, I’m gonna splash this bitch open right here on the tiles.

“Listen here, cutie—” Hannah’s voice dropped a full octave. “I’m not talking to anybody important... I’m talking to a whore.”

She took a half-step forward, closing the perimeter.

“And I’m telling this whore to get out of my room. Last chance: leave.”

The two of them locked eyes in dead silence.

The groupie didn’t answer—her lips twitched in a sudden spasm of rage, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

Her hand slid down the side of her leather boot, feeling along her shin right down to her calf.

Clack.

The steel of a butterfly knife caught the light, locking open with a sharp, dry crack. The blade was pointed straight at Hannah’s waistline.

“Do you realize the size of the shitstorm you’re stirring up?” she hissed, her face twisting into a sadistic sneer. “Huh, Clipboard Barbie?”

Hannah didn’t open her mouth to panic nor throw her hands over her head.

She just stared at the two inches of trembling blade, calculated the angle of the bitch’s wrist, measured the exact distance between them—four feet of open clearing—and clocked the available escape routes.

Only then did her eyes flick back up to the blonde’s face.

Why this idiot had to ruin my night?

Hannah made no effort to hide the dark amusement playing on her lips.

If this bitch thinks that a gas-station pocket knife and taking spins in rockstars’ beds makes her dangerous...

...she didn’t know shit about the real world.

The younger girl gave the silver blade one last, assessing look.

Lemme give you a little crash course in urban survival, doll.

Out of all the choices a wannabe badass can make when facing down a hood-raised L.A. street rat...

...pulling a knife in close quarters is, hands down, the absolute worst of them all.

With a terrifying level of calm that most people would mistake for insanity, Hannah took a single step back.

The groupie let out a strangled, mocking little laugh.

“That’s right, little bitch...” she taunted, matching her step. “Run and hide under the bed. Run.”

Hannah kept slowly retreating out of the bathroom—her brain had already mapped out the exact floor plan—until the small of her back collided with the double doors isolating the annex from the main suite.

Without breaking eye contact with that cheap-ass blade, her hands trailed along the wooden panels behind her, blindly searching until they hooked around the door handles.

With one hard shove of her hips and shoulders, she slammed the heavy doors shut.

The deafening chaos of the afterparty raging next door—the manic screaming, the hysterical cackling, the shattering glass—was instantly decapitated.

Click.

The entire room nose-dived into a suffocating silence; the oxygen in the room practically turned to lead.

The only sounds left were the low, mechanical hum of the AC... and the jagged breathing of two women locked inside the exact same square footage.

Perfect... now nobody’s gonna interrupt playtime.

The groupie’s brow furrowed, that cocky little smirk quickly melted off her face.

She had been fully expecting some defenseless intern backed into a corner, sobbing and begging for her life.

But the chick standing in front of her? She didn’t even blink.

Why the fuck isn’t this bitch panicking?!

Hannah didn’t bother to answer.

She just reached up, grabbed the lapels of Hetfield’s leather jacket, and casually shrugged it off her shoulders, taking her sweet time.

The massive jacket slid down the silk of her black dress, dragged past her legs, and dropped to the carpet.

THUD.

“Lemme tell you a little secret, you trashy whore.”

Hannah tipped her chin up, rolling her neck to crack the cartilage to the left.

Pop.

Then, a hard roll to the right.

Pop.

She blew out a harsh breath through her nose, flashing a smile that was absolutely stripped of any warmth.

It was a crooked and twisted smirk... the exact kind of smile the devil wears right before He pulls the rug out from under you.

“You wanna know the difference between us?” Hannah took a slow, deliberate step forward. “I’m not locked in here with you...”

The groupie, by instinct, took a trembling step back.

And that twisted little curve on the ‘clipboard girl’s’ lips stretched another terrifying millimeter.

In a quiet, lethal whisper, she laid down the verdict:

“...you’re the one locked in here with me.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

“Good luck, Hannah”... GOOD LUCK?!

The poor kid was barely twenty and couldn’t even rub two pennies together to make rent for that dump in L.A.

She was still hoarding a collection of amazing bad teenage life choices that she prayed to the Almighty and all the saints would never be made public.

Not to mention she was entirely dependent on her old man to keep her ass in college.

And all of this happened because, in a temporary lapse of reason, she said yes to getting on a plane.

To do what, God?

To play babysitter to four rock star millionaires whose primary skill was turning any living soul into a war vet with PTSD.

A heavy E string snaps on stage? Her fault.

A crystal vase vanishes from the lobby? Her fault.

The drummer gets thrown in the drunk tank before the show? Take a wild guess whose fault that was.

If the slightest little thing went sideways—and the universe always goes out of its way to screw people over—hers would be the first head on the chopping block.

This wasn’t luck; it was a suicide mission of epic proportions, with a hazard bonus thrown in just in case she actually survived.

“No, no, no... stop it.”

Hannah was already wearing a groove into the floor, pacing back and forth across the annex.

“C’mon, Hannah, knock it off” she muttered to herself.

She jabbed na accusing finger at the framed painting on the wall.

“We’re good. Come on, for real... it’s all gonna buff out, right?”

Like the stuck-up English lord with the resting bitch face in the oil painting was actually gonna validate her.

The noble gentleman, naturally, kept his trap shut—which, given the fragile state of her psyche, was a colossal bummer.

“What’s up, man?” she squinted at the painting, shaking her head. “I’m straight outta L.A., you hear me?”

She resumed her frantic march.

“I’ve been taking hits since I was seven, I’ve lived through way gnarlier shit than this...”

The carpet under her boots was so obscenely soft it was actually pissing her off—who the hell blows the GDP of a third-world country covering the floor in dead animal pelt?!

Even the fucking floorboards in this room have a higher net worth than me.

Hannah rubbed her icy palms against her cheeks, feeling the oxygen leave the room.

“Come on, girl, it’s just four dudes.”

She shook her head, stopping for a split second to fact-check her own logic:

“I mean... four lunatics who make a living swinging a chunk of wood with steel strings and screaming like soulless demons on a stage... what’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

And, just like every time she asked that stupid-ass question, her brain was all too happy to help out:

A thin, strangled, genuinely psychotic little giggle squeezed through her teeth.

“Who knows, you tell me...”

Hannah stared dead at the heavy wooden double doors leading to the main suite.

“They decide to ice a hooker in the middle of the living room and tell the new girl to ditch the body?”

Hannah locked up mid-step, going as pale as a sheet of printer paper.

Fucking brilliant, Cameron.

Flawless train of thought.

Nothing quite like closing your eyes and picturing yourself out in the pitch-black Nevada desert at 3 AM, kicking a corpse rolled in a Persian rug into a shallow grave.

Her stomach did a somersault and plummeted straight to her knees.

“Holy sh—”

She stared into the void, acting like the void had just confessed to a homicide.

​“I’m gonna do time for concealing a dead body...”

She went back to pacing, now in full-blown red-alert mode.

​“...my record goes down the drain... college is gonna kick me out without a second thought...”

She spun on her axis, officially dizzy.

​“How the hell am I gonna look my old man in the eye and explain I threw my life in the trash over a shitty rock band?!”

Another lap, her fingers buried all the way to the roots of her hair:

“And, worst of all... I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in orange.”

She scrunched up her nose, looking like she just bit into a raw lemon.

For the love of Christ, anything but that.

Out of all the catastrophic ways this could end, getting swallowed up by the penal system rocking a pumpkin-colored jumpsuit was, hands down, the worst of them all.

Hannah tried to reel her spiraling brain back in.

“Maybe that’s exactly what happened to that Howard guy...” she whispered to the fancy wallpaper.

Because absolutely no one just bails on a multi-million-dollar tour out of nowhere... unless the poor bastard saw something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake...”

SMACK!

She slapped her own left cheek, hard.

It didn’t quite rattle her teeth, but it was enough to pull the plug on the horror movie projecting inside her head.

“Snap out of it, Cameron,” she barked at herself. “Your old man was a US Army sergeant.”

SMACK!

Time for the right cheek.

“You grew up wrestling five dickheads and survived shootouts... get your shit together, you stupid bitch.”

She sucked in a massive breath, puffed her cheeks out until the pressure actually hurt, and blew it all out in one go.

Focus. Think.

What did old Bill preach every single goddamn time he took you the boys hunting in the backwoods in October?

“Upon entering a hostile environment, keep your finger off the trigger...” nope, not that one.

Oh, right: “Upon entering hostile territory, rule number one is perimeter recon.”

“Exactly,” she nodded to her invisible reflection. “Recon the fucking perimeter.”

Infinitely more productive than plotting how to dispose of a corpse in a Persian rug, that was for sure.

Hannah smoothed down her tee, yanked on the belt loops of her jeans, and banished the whole shallow-grave scenario to the deepest pits of hell.

She clamped her hand around the doorknob and fired off a quick little prayer to whoever was working the night shift up in heaven.

Not because she was some devout saint, but out of the sheer pragmatism of a girl who knew she was gonna need a miracle.

She twisted the knob.

And, for the very first time, she crossed enemy lines, stepping out of her annex and breaching the master suite of the almighty Metallica.

The place was trashed, littered with all the crap the band and their advance crew had left in their wake.

Hannah took her sweet time doing a lap around the room.

First stop: a private wet bar fully loaded with enough whiskey and vodka to put a Russian regiment in a coma.

On the floor: damp towels with highly suspicious moisture levels, discarded shirts, and random black socks scattered around.

And, acting as the crowning glory of the U-shaped sectional, two issues of Hustler splayed wide open to the centerfolds.

Judging by the sheer state of the crime scene, somebody had tapped out of their “self-help” exercise mid-session.

Hannah navigated through the mess, dodging a mountain of flight cases and guitar bags dumped in the corner, until...

Hold up... what do we have here?

She paused in front of the glass coffee table. Sitting right on top was a folded business card and the leftover dusting of some white powder.

She hit it with a classic raised eyebrow—growing up in L.A. taught you real quick how to spot the exact difference between confectioner’s sugar and imported cartel snow.

She leaned in close, just to double-check, and scrunched up her mouth.

​“Fancy stuff, huh?” she muttered, dragging her index finger through the stash.

​She stared at her snowy fingertip for two seconds.

​“Yeah...”

​Then she grimaced and wiped her hand on the side of her jeans.

​“...I still prefer weed.”

Picking her patrol back up, she ran down the checklist:

Bar untouched.

Bathrooms clear.

Bedrooms completely free of hanging corpses.

All copacetic.

Until her radar locked on and Hannah hit the brakes hard.

Dumped haphazardly over the back of a lounge chair was a mammoth of a leather jacket.

“Lord have mercy...”

Hannah closed the distance and hoisted the thing up. Top-shelf genuine leather, heavy as fuck... rocking a highly specific aromatic bouquet of dark tobacco, lukewarm beer, and a stubborn trace of gasoline.

She ran her fingers down the thick, scuffed sleeve.

James Hetfield.

The frontman.

The ringleader of the gang.

It made perfect sense. The guy’s frame had to be built like a literal brick shithouse to fill out that kind of volume. And, she had to hand it to him, the dude had taste.

Hannah threw a sneaky glance over her shoulder, just making sure nobody was about to jump out and catch her.

“Oh, whatever... just for a second.”

She shoved one arm in, then the other. The sleeves were so huge they swallowed her hands completely. She flipped her blonde hair out of the heavy collar, squared her slumped shoulders, and shuffled over to the mirror behind the wet bar.

“I look ridiculous,” she chuckled, alone in the dead silence of the luxury suite.

Her brain took a sudden detour right back to her backyard in Cali—bringing up the phantom smell of fresh-cut grass and coffee brewing in the kitchen.

It felt exactly like being a little punk again, swiping her older brothers’ jackets the second winter actually bothered to show up. Bob and Ricky would scream, swear, and threaten to chop her hands off if she touched their “shit”... and what did she do? She’d sprint out into the yard laughing her ass off, completely drowning in a flannel three sizes too big.

But the warm fuzzy feeling of that nostalgia evaporated faster than a stripper’s affection.

Because her brain decided to hit play on the very next audio file:

“Portland, Oregon.”

“This is gonna be one of the most thoroughly unpleasant experiences of your life.”

“Deadbolt the door and play dead.”

Her smirk completely flatlined.

She stripped the jacket off and held the leather carcass back in her hands, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Hey, you never know, right?

If a silverback gorilla like that decides to throw a tantrum and completely lose his mind, it seemed like a solid tactical move to check if the guy was packing heavy heat first.

“Sorry, big guy...”

Hannah jammed her hands into the exterior pockets, coming up empty.

Then she went digging into the inside breast pockets, patting down the lining to feel for the grip of a snub-nose, the cold iron of brass knuckles, or the distinct shape of a balisong.

Literally anything to justify the sheer psychotic panic they had managed to infect her with.

“Come on... where are you hiding it?”

Her fingers patted down the dark fabric, and suddenly, brushed against a little square.

More coke?

Nah.

No dealer was meticulous enough to package powder in heat-sealed foil.

Hannah fished it out and held the prize up to the light of the crystal chandeliers.

“Oh...”

Yeah, definitely not a holster.

At least, not for a pistol that fired lead bullets.

Hannah froze like na absolute moron, staring dead at the gold wrapper resting in the palm of her hand.

A condom.

And, to get brutally specific: an extra-large Trojan Magnum.

Her left eyelid literally twitched.

She flicked her gaze back and forth between the shiny gold square and the sheer hulking size of the empty leather jacket.

Her traitorous brain—which really needed to prioritize not getting fired on day one—ran some highly unauthorized geometric math.

And the sum of that cursed equation plummeted into a heavy, pooling, stupidly hot flush right between her thighs.

Oh, dick... literally...

​Hannah Darling Cameron was far from a prude, but, staring at the circumference of that rubber ring...

​Dear Lord.

​I hate to admit it, but I got turned on...

​The guy might not carry a .38 in his pocket, but he definitely walked around with a double-barreled Remington shotgun between his legs.

And she frankly couldn’t—and, if she wanted to keep a shred of her sanity, absolutely shouldn’t—picture the kind of collateral damage a caliber that huge would inflict on some poor girl.

Hannah waggled the wrapper in the air, biting her bottom lip with a laugh that was equal parts sheer disbelief and morbid fascination.

“Yeah, alright, buddy...”

She shook her head at the lifeless leather shell of the great James Hetfield.

“...I swear to God, my heart bleeds for whatever poor soul spreads her legs tonight.”

Hannah slipped the ammo right back into the owner’s pocket, giving the jacket a respectful little pat before scanning the room one last time:

The absolute trainwreck of booze, drugs, smut, discarded laundry...

Jesus Christ...

Was I seriously losing sleep over this for the last hour? These dudes weren’t cartel hitmen.

They were just a bunch of horny, coked-up, messy rich kids.

And at the end of the day? Just men.

She flicked her wrist, checking the cracked face of her trusty tem-dollar watch: 6:24 P.M.

She had a solid buffer of time to get the paperwork sorted before the circus finally rolled into town.

​“Well, Cameron...” she nodded, cracking her knuckles with a confident smile. “Time to work, girl.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

The only thing she couldn’t get out of her head was her rent. Her absolute dump of a studio on the Sunset Strip was due on the 5th, and her landlord—a Grade-A prick with a cheesy 70s porn ‘stache—had exactly two passions in life: collecting his money, and not giving a damn about excuses.

At the time, she was just some girl from the wrong side of the tracks, scraping her way through college with a pathetic bank balance and an even more pathetic fridge.

Metallica?

They were just the band the guy next door cranked up to eleven at two in the morning while she was trying to cram for exams.

To be fair, Hannah never really complained.

It definitely beat listening to the downstairs neighbors having a screaming match because the wife was dead certain her husband was banging the waitress from the local dive.

Even so, she wasn’t about to pretend she gave a damn.

If anyone had asked her who the bassist was, she’d probably just blink and say: “They have a bass player?”

In the meantime, to keep a roof over ther head, she was busy swallowing her pride on the tenth floor of Q Prime, one of the most massive tour management outfits on the West Coast.

And trust me... the job was nowhere near as glamorous as it sounds.

Hannah was a logistics intern. Which basically meant she spent all day managing other people’s chaotic screw-ups, color-coding spreadsheets, and taking home a paycheck that was less than what the company dropped on coffee supplies every month.

A perfectly mundane existence.

Right up until fate—or God, or the Devil, or whichever deity was working the shift in L.A. on that suffocatingly hot Saturday—decided to use her for a cheap laugh.

Up in the boardroom, Peter Mensch and Cliff Burnstein—two of the most successful managers in America—were busy trying not to have simultaneous aneurysms.

The culprit? Howard Priestly.

Howard was Metallica’s PA right up until two weeks ago, when he had a mental breakdown so epic on the Damaged Justice Tour that he just... dropped off the face of the earth.

Literally.

He didn’t give notice. He didn’t hand over his laminate.

He didn’t even leave a Post-it note saying “fuck you all, don’t come looking,” and not a single soul saw him leave the hotel in Portland.

Rumor had it he’d fled back to his mom’s basement in Ohio. Others swore blind that Howard was off meditating in a Tibetan monastery, and a few were dead set on the idea that he’d bailed on the industry entirely to sell coconuts on a beach in Cancun.

But the reality? Nobody knew jack shit.

The kicker was, considering he’d just spent two weeks trying to keep pace with Metallica on the road, nobody could actually blame the guy for bailing.

“You know exactly where you can stick this airline report, Cliff?”

Peter didn’t even bother waiting for a response.

He yanked the sheaf of papers straight out of his partner’s hands and smacked it down on the boardroom table with such force that a single page broke free, coasting gently down to the carpet.

Then, Peter jabbed a finger right in his face:

“Shove it straight up your ass. That’s what you can do with it.”

Here’s the thing about tours that size that barely anyone gets: it was never just about the music.

The music happens on stage and lasts about two hours. Three, if the guys are feeling it. Once the house lights shut off, the crowd leaves with blown-out vocal cords, the media craps out half a dozen “good gig” reviews, and that’s it.

The rest... well, the rest is what holds the whole damn thing together.

Forget MTV and Rolling Stone, selling you those glossy shots of guitars raised against a sea of flicking lighters. A beast that size wasn’t just four dudes making noise:

Without the sound guy, there is no show.

Without the roadies, no one even finds the gear.

Without the lighting tech, the stage is just a dark, empty warehouse.

Without the driver, the band doesn’t even roll into the next town.

And without a PA?

Well... Portland answered that one for everybody.

Since Howard pulled his disappearing act, backstage had turned into a domino effect of little screw-ups—a missed flight here, a botched hotel booking there, trucks rolling in late, or rigs getting left behind because no one bothered to do a headcount.

On their own, no big sweat.

Put together? It was the exact kind of chaos that makes a million-dollar tour start rotting from the inside.

And patience—never exactly a shining virtue for four guys who’d been locked in a metal tube on wheels for months—was wearing dangerously thin.

The way things were going, it wasn’t a question of “if”.

It was a question of “when”.

And when Metallica finally exploded... the fallout was going to land squarely in Q Prime’s lap.

Peter planted his hands on the table and leaned in.

“Marge called earlier,” he announced. “That harpy is dipping out of Vegas the minute the house lights come on tonight. So tell me this... who exactly is gonna babysit those assholes by tomorrow?”

Cliff opened his mouth.

“We ne—”

“We need a full-time PA in this circus by yesterday!” Peter completely cut him off, dragging a hand through his hair. “Correction: last fucking week!”

Cliff waited a beat, just to be absolutely sure his partner was done venting.

“The well is dry in L.A., Peter.” He let out a heavy sigh, massaging his temples. “But I did skim through some entry-level resumes...”

Cliff took a highly strategic pause, calculating the exact distance between his own face and Peter’s fist.

“They aren’t exactly our usual demographic... but there are a few promising girls—”

“Fuck no!”

Peter slammed his fist down on the table so hard that some poor bastard on the other side of the glass actually choked on his coffee.

“I told you, I don’t want a woman anywhere near this shit.”

“For fuck sakes, man...” Cliff finally lost his cool. “You want me to pull a PA outta my ass? Because that’s what you’re asking for, and we are flat outta options and outta time.”

Peter folded his arms across his chest.

“You ever listen to KNAC, man?”

Here we go.

Cliff squeezed his eyes shut.

“I listen, brother, yeah, I listen...”

“Then you know exactly what half the psychos on the West Coast are mailing to that station.”

Peter threw his arms wide, utterly appalled.

“Those aren’t fan letters, Cliff. They’re literal psych ward evaluations!” He started checking them off on his fingers: “Love confessions, masochistic poetry, naked Polaroids... even used panties.”

Peter shook his head. He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh because it was so completely absurd, or be legitimately terrified.

“Used panties, man. Used panties—”

Cliff let out a long breath.

“Yeah, okay, dude. I got it the first time...”

“No, it’s not ‘okay’!” Peter jabbed a finger at him. “Women are using the US Postal Service to mail their underwear to a radio station! If that isn’t a mass declaration of insanity, I don’t know what the hell is.”

Cliff dragged a hand down his face.

“Dude... you’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

“Oh, am I?”

Peter threw his arm toward the panoramic window, as if the entire Sunset Strip were about to vomit groupies all over the sidewalks.

“We put one of those nutjobs on that bus for the rest of the Stateside leg, and you know exactly how it plays out.”

Cliff didn’t even dignify that with a response.

Peter did it for him.

“It ends with her in somebody’s bunk before Tuesday night’s encore. After that, take your pick of disasters: a pregnancy, a PR nightmare, lawsuits. Or a National Enquirer front page crowning Metallica the root cause of the moral decay of the youth.”

Cliff scoffed, a short laugh escaping through his nose.

“The moral decay of the youth started long way before those four learned how to tune a guitar, Mensch.”

He pointed his pen at his partner.

“What worries me is how long it’s gonna take for you to get hit with a discrimination lawsuit, you fucking sexist bastard.”

Peter shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

“Call me whatever you want, but I’d rather answer for prejudice than a multi-million-dollar scandal.”

Peter dug a cigarette out of the crumpled pack on the table and sparked his Zippo.

“This industry’s still a man’s world, Cliff,” he stated, the sudden flame lighting up his face for a fraction of a second. “I didn’t make the rules, I just survived long enough to learn how to play ‘em.”

He took a deep drag, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke that hung heavy in the air.

“Now, since you’re apparently the patron saint of the fairer sex, tell me something... where is the goddamn professionalism in this fucking country?”

Cliff waited a beat, just to know the floor was his.

“...you gonna let me talk now, or do you plan to interrupt me with a brand-new bitch fit?”

Peter snorted.

“Bitch fit, my ass. This is what you call experience, man. You should try it out sometime.”

Cliff chuckled, way too tired to keep up the fight.

“I get a front-row seat to it every time you open your big fucking mouth, old man—"

“We don’t need a fan.”

The voice drifted across the room, almost aggravatingly calm.

Peter and Cliff snapped their heads around in unison.

Up until that second, Roman—Q Prime’s head of logistics—had kept his mouth shut, slouched deep into the leather sofa in the corner, resting one elbow on the armrest and nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee in his other hand.

The guy had survived way bigger shitstorms than two managers bickering like a couple in marriage counseling.

Because, let’s be real...

This didn’t even scratch the surface of a crisis.

In more than a decade of artist management, Roman had seen pretty much everything a human being could possibly see without catching a felony charge:

A frontman thrown in the drunk tank the night before a gig.

A drummer going MIA for forty-eight solid hours.

An entire rig held up at the Canadian border for “customs irregularities” which, according to a deeply uncomfortable border agent, involved a taxidermy bear, three kilos of weed, and a samurai sword that absolutely no one could account for.

It was the kind of headache that would trigger a total meltdown in a normal corporate office.

But at Q Prime? It was just a Tuesday.

And up to this point, Roman had handled every last one of them the exact same way: with common sense and two phone calls.

He never needed a third.

Once Peter’s cigarette smoke dissipated, Roman calmly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a single finger.

“We need somebody who actually knows how to read an itinerary,” he stated, his voice a low, heavy drawl. “And who isn’t gonna flinch at four guys running on pure rage, booze, and coke.”

He rose from the leather sofa smoothly, bringing along a black folder he’d kept tucked under his arm since the meeting kicked off.

He took his sweet time crossing the room, dropped the folder onto the mess of paperwork on the table, and flipped the cover open.

Then, using just two fingers, he slid the file into the center.

Peter and Cliff’s eyes dropped simultaneously to the little headshot stapled to the resume — a blonde girl, bright eyes, rocking a facial expression that screamed she didn’t give a damn about pleasing anyone.

Roman let the silence marinate for a second. Then he gave the photo one sharp tap.

“Hannah Darling Cameron,” he introduced her. “Logistics intern I brought on two months ago. She works down in bay three.”

But Peter didn’t even make it past the middle name. The second his eyes locked onto ‘Darling,’ he let out a cynical snort.

“Oh, absolutely,” he mocked. “Next time the boys need a chilled Perrier, we’ll be sure to summon your intern.”

“Shut the hell up, Peter.” Cliff cut him off, gesturing for Roman to keep going. “You were saying?”

“Her old man is a retired drill sergeant,” Roman smoothly went on, turning a page in the file. “And from what I pulled on her background, before Hannah came along, he’d already raised five men.”

Peter was right in the middle of a drag when the smoke caught in his throat.

“W-what?! Five?!”

He spent three solid seconds hacking up a lung before he finally caught his breath, snatched the file closer, and gave it a hard second look. Just to make sure.

“You’re telling me the old man raised six kids?” He let out a low whistle. “Shit... guy was as lethal in the sack as he was in uniform, huh? Now that's what I call serving your country, gentlemen.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter.” Cliff grimaced.

“What?” The other manager shot his eyebrows up, totally baffled.

“Are you physically capable of being any more sleazy, man?”

“I am,” Peter replied with a smirk. “Just give me five more minutes—”

“Considering the environment she was raised in,” Roman powered through their bickering, “we can assume she knows how to handle a bunch of meatheads, right?”

“Yeah, fair.” Cliff agreed, dropping his eyes back to the file.

“And she’s good at what she does. Damn good.”

“Define ‘damn good'."

Roman finally looked up from the dossier.

“Third week on the job, I handed her a logistics exercise,” the manager replied. “A map with schedules and a ‘limited’ budget, and I told her to put together a full routing plan for next year’s Suicidal Tendencies tour.”

Roman let that hang in the air for a second.

“I gave her a week to get it done.”

Cliff leaned in.

Peter stayed dead quiet, an eyebrow still cocked while the cigarette burned down to the filter forgotten in his hand.

”And?” Cliff asked, already dreading the answer.

Roman closed the folder just as painstakingly slow as he’d opened it.

“She had it on my desk before her shift was done.”

“Excuse me?” Peter squeaked, his voice cracking slightly.

Roman stroked the black leather cover like he was petting a damn cat.

“Four hours and thirty-six minutes.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “On the stopwatch, gentlemen.”

Peter stared at the file, then at the slick manager, then right back at the file.

“You’re telling me a twenty-year-old intern...”

“Twenty, yes,” Roman nodded.

“...solved in under five hours what would take one of our senior coordinators a solid week?”

Roman didn’t even bother replying. This time, the absolute ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—though it might have just been the lighting. With a guy like him, you never knew for sure.

Cliff shattered the tension, letting out a laugh that came from somewhere between utter disbelief and almost fatherly pride.

“Four hours, Roman...” he muttered, shaking his head.

“And thirty-six minutes.” The manager held up an index finger. “On the stopwatch.”

Peter crushed his cigarette into the ashtray with way more force than necessary.

The gesture screamed everything he refused to say out loud: he was actually starting to get impressed, and he absolutely loathed being impressed by any idea that didn’t come out of his own head.

Roman kept right on rolling, regardless:

“So, gentlemen, the question isn’t whether my intern can handle your boys...”

The silence that hung between the sentences felt dangerously close to a threat.

“...The question is whether your boys can handle my intern.”

Peter, however, was never one to just roll over and play dead.

“The kid can be as hyper-efficient as she wants,” he pushed back, his voice more controlled, less rattled. “But roughhousing with five brothers in the suburbs is a hell of a lot different than being locked in a metal tube for days with four wild metalheads.”

Cliff kept quiet for a beat, unfortunately forced to actually concede the point.

“Yeah,” he said finally, dragging his knuckles through his beard. “Peter makes a solid point, Roman.”

Peter snapped his head toward his partner, blinking in mild shock.

“Thank you, my friend.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Cliff raised a warning finger. “You happen to be right about this one, but you’re still an unreasonable asshole.”

“I’ll take it.” Peter held his hands up in mock surrender. “One win at a time.”

Cliff tuned him out and zeroed back in on the manager.

“That tour bus is not exactly a safe space for a little lady. You know that better than anyone, Roman.”

He paused for a second.

“And the girl can’t exactly go running for the hills the second one of them decides to scream in her face... or cop a feel.”

Peter didn’t miss a beat.

“Or screw one of them and turn this whole operation into a goddamn daytime soap opera,” he chimed in.

Roman calmly removed his glasses. He polished one of the lenses with the tail of his tie, then slid them right back onto his face.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Fair enough what?” Peter asked, immediately on edge.

“You guys are right,” Roman conceded. “It’s not a safe space for a little lady. But there is one detail about Hannah I haven’t mentioned yet.”

“Which is?” Cliff pressed.

“She was almost fired yesterday afternoon.”

Peter blinked.

“What?”

Cliff narrowed his eyes.

“What the hell did she do?”

“Hannah threatened to jam a fountain pen straight into the FedEx guy’s jugular.”

The two managers just stared at the black dossier and the passport photo of a twenty-year-old kid who had, apparently, attempted an office-supply homicide.

“The delay on the master tapes had her pretty worked up,” Roman elaborated. “Fortunately, the kid was a faster runner than she is.”

“Son of a bitch,” Peter muttered, clearly torn between finding it hilarious or genuinely terrifying. “What a son of a bitch.”

“And you want to know the kicker?”

“There’s more?” Cliff honestly didn’t know if he was more worried for Metallica or the intern at this point.

“Hannah doesn’t have the faintest clue what a mosh pit is.”

“Oh, get the fuck out of here,” Peter scoffed, not buying a word of it.

“I’m dead serious,” Roman insisted. “She listens to Nancy Sinatra, The Doors, and according to the gossip from the HR girls, Hannah’s been hitting up underground parties playing that new gangsta rap garbage.”

The words left his mouth like a vile, personal insult.

“To be honest with you gentlemen,” he finished, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even like metal.”

Seeing as a multi-million-dollar tour was on the verge of going off the rails for want of a drill sergeant backstage, the math was pretty simple for Cliff—and since they needed a body, that kid was the best bet within a thousand miles.

Whether Peter liked it or not was entirely beside the point.

Cliff brought his palm down hard on the table.

“Bring her in.”

Peter whipped his head up so fast he practically threw out his neck.

“Hold on a sec— what?!”

“You heard me, man,” his partner fired back. “Oh, and... Roman?”

The manager glanced over his shoulder.

“Draw up a fat signing bonus,” Cliff instructed. “I want this girl at LAX in sixty minutes flat.”

At that, Roman did something he almost never did.

He smiled.

Peter, meanwhile, stared in wide-eyed horror, looking like he’d just watched someone get mowed down by a semi.

“You guys have officially lost your damn minds”—it wasn’t up for debate—“you’re gonna hand over the keys to the biggest tour of the year to a deranged twenty-year-old?”

“Technically, no...” Roman dragged the dossier back to his side of the desk. “We’re handing them to an underpaid college student who was raised by a retired sergeant and five presumably violent brothers.”

“Damn right.”

Cliff already had the receiver to his ear, starting to punch in the extension for logistics.

No, no, no... hell fucking no.

Peter violently shoved himself up from his chair.

He needed to get the hell out of that room, march down to the nearest dive bar, and down a double whiskey before his brain boiled over and coated the boardroom walls.

“This is a disaster waiting to happen,” he fired off, stalking across the room in massive, furious strides. “Mark my fucking words, Cliff.”

His partner didn’t even bother taking the phone away from his ear, merely flicking a lazy hand in a gesture that meant half good riddance and half hurry up and leave.

“Dropping a raging psycho full of estrogen right in the middle of those morons...”

Peter slammed his hand onto the door handle, spun around with an accusing finger pointed straight at them.

“...it’s gonna blow up in our faces!”

And the glass door slammed shut with a deafening crash.

Man...

Any ordinary fan would have happily sold their soul to the devil for a shot like that.

Hannah Cameron, however, agreed to take a VIP trip straight to hell for a vastly superior reason: cold, hard cash, baby.

Specifically, enough money to stop Southern California Edison from turning off her power by the end of the week—a pink FINAL NOTICE bill she’d been actively ignoring for days.

So when Roman rolled up to bay three flashing an advance check that could easily cover three months of her cramped studio, her brain immediately ran the only equation that counted:

Money → rent covered → power stays on → no freezing my ass off taking ice-cold showers in the pitch black.

→ Sign me the hell up.

She snatched the check and stared at it for a solid couple of seconds, just to double-check that the zeros weren’t some kind of stress-induced hallucination triggered by the fact that she hadn’t eaten lunch... or breakfast. Or dinner the previous night.

But nope, they were still right there. All three of them. Standing up like a row of little soldiers.

With that, she folded the slip of paper and jammed it into the back pocket of her denim.

“Any questions?”

“Just if this check actually good to cash” she asked, crouching down to grab her stuff from under the desk.

Roman had dealt with way too much in this industry to ever be truly surprised. But in that split second, he just knew.

She was gonna outlast poor Howard.

By a mile.

“Yes, it’s good,” he replied smoothly.

Hannah snatched the battered messenger bag hanging off the back of her chair and slung it onto her shoulder.

“Then we’re good. No further questions.”

And...

For a girl who took the job expecting a glorified traveling office while the band did whatever the hell they did in whatever city they were in, stepping into a United Airlines first-class cabin felt like a solid punch to the gut.

She hadn’t even cleared the boarding door before a sickeningly sweet flight attendant with a plastic-perfect smile approached, offering to stash her ratty backpack. She was escorted to a seat where a flute of champagne sat waiting next to a tiny card: Compliments of Q Prime.

Hannah downed it. Not because she had a taste for champagne—she survived on lukewarm beer, bottom-shelf whiskey, or anything that burned the back of her throat—but because refusing it felt impolite... and it might give away the fact that she was a massive fraud.

She lifted the flute and took a gulp, the bubbles popping across her tongue like tiny, golden aggressions.

Her seat reclined... like, genuinely reclined. Not that bullshit two-inch tilt that just manages to make you somehow more uncomfortable.

They even handed her a menu. A legitimate dining menu for a flight that wasn’t even ninety minutes long.

So, Hannah ordered the smoked salmon. Again, not because she actually liked salmon—she loathed seafood—but simply because she could order the fucking salmon.

She ate it with her eyes wide open, letting the buttery fish melt in her mouth as she watched the clouds slice across the California skyline.

For one fleeting moment, she allowed herself to pretend she was someone else...

Somebody with cash.

Somebody important.

Somebody who didn’t have to play russian roulette between keeping a roof over her head and putting food in her stomach.

And, if she was naive enough, she might have actually believed she was living in a goddamn fairy tale.

But Hannah Cameron wasn’t naive.

Roman had made a point of ripping any grand illusions right out of her head on the drive to the airport:

“You’ll be staying in one of the annex suites at Caesar’s Palace.”

She almost cracked a smile.

Mistake number one.

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Don’t get carried away. You’re not being paid to take a Vegas vacation.”

“Oh, really? Because from where I’m sitting, that’s exactly what it sounds like.”

He let out a sharp exhale through his nose. It didn’t quite qualify as a laugh.

“It sounds like that because you haven’t grasped your position here yet,” he said, coasting down Franklin Avenue while downshifting. “If one of those four decides to pull some stupid shit at 3 AM, you need to be within arm’s reach to stop it.”

He let that hang in the air for a second.

“Or, worst-case scenario, stop it from making the CNN morning broadcast.”

Her smile faltered.

“I thought my gig was organizing itineraries... booking hotels... that kind of stuff.”

Roman smoothly took a turn, dodging a Buick that had decided to merge without signaling.

“That’s the corporate pitch we give people before they sign the NDA.”

Hannah turned her head slowly to look at him.

“Right... let me ask you something, what exactly happened to the guy before me?”

Roman took so long to answer she genuinely thought the guy was carefully crafting his words.

But no, he was just checking his blind spot in the rearview mirror.

“Portland, Oregon.”

Hannah waited for him to finish the damn story, but all she got was radio static, followed by a Three Dog Night track fading in:

I seen so many things I ain’t never seen before...

Don’t know what it is...

I don’t wanna see no more...

And for whatever reason, the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.

Hannah pulled a face, shaking her head.

“That doesn’t really explain anything.”

“Exactly,” he replied, letting out a heavy, bone-deep sigh.

His Cutlass idled at a stoplight, the red glaring off the hood of the car like a pool of blood.

“Look, forget the whole ‘band PA’ bullshit... this outfit needs somebody to keep those four breathing and, with any luck, somewhat in line.”

Roman stared at the girl in the passenger seat, her profile lit up in crimson.

And she stared right back.

“This is probably going to be one of the most thoroughly unpleasant experiences of your life, kid.”

It sounded an awful lot like a warning he wished someone had given him years ago.

Hannah didn’t say a word, she just gave a curt nod, which seemed to satisfy him.

The light flipped green and the LA scenery went back to blurring past the window.

LAX loomed a few miles ahead—Roman reached into the backseat as the car rolled up to the company’s restricted-access security booth.

“Hannah, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I have never made a bad call regarding my work.”

He dug out a dossier.

“...and now, for some reason God has yet to explain to me, I’m rolling the dice on you.”

He tossed it into her lap before pulling his All-Access laminate from the inner breast pocket of his suit, flashing it at the guard who barely glanced at it before nodding them through.

Nobody questioned the Q Prime guys.

The gate lifted.

Hannah flipped the folder open.

It was the exact same one Roman had carried into the boardroom that morning, only now it was stuffed with extra pages and marginal notes, along with a brand-new, freshly laminated pass:

HANNAH D. CAMERON.

Fully prepped and ready to go.

Way before Peter and Cliff had even signed off on hiring her.

They cruised through the tarmac service area, past fuel trucks hooking up to aircraft, ground crews pushing baggage carts, and a few private jets taxiing in the distance.

Roman engaged the parking brake, staring dead ahead through the windshield for a long moment before finally leaning across the console to pop her door open.

“Don’t make me regret this.

And that’s how, not much later, Hannah tumbled out of a taxi right in front of Caesar’s Palace.

Her ratty backpack slung over one shoulder, her jaw practically on the floor as she stared at fountains blasting golden water around statues of gods that never even existed.

Everything about this whole grand illusion was ridiculous, over-the-top, and tacky as all fuck.

Probably bankrolled by some mobster who snorted blow through rolled-up Benjamins and decided he wanted to die surrounded by ancient Rome.

Even so... it was the most gorgeous lie she’d ever laid eyes on.

A couple strolled across the plaza, laughing and bickering over the best angle for a picture; a little girl botched her coin toss into the fountain, the penny bouncing off the marble and skidding right to Neptune’s foot.

Some dude dressed in full Roman centurion gear was haggling over five bucks for a photo with a Japanese tourist.

Hannah cracked a dumb smile.

She’d never seen so many people burning cash just to pretend they were somewhere else entirely.

HOOOOOONK!

The car horn practically blew her eardrums out, and she whipped around, jumping so hard her bag almost slid right off her shoulder.

The cabbie stuck half his torso out the window.

“Hey! Princess! You planning on moving in, or are you gonna pay the meter?” the guy barked.

She blinked twice.

“Oh, shit... sorry.”

She dug into her jeans pocket, whipped out her wallet, and handed over the cash. The driver counted the bills with terrifying speed.

“Look, lady, I got a whole convention of drunks landing at the airport in fifteen minutes. Don’t do this to me.”

Hannah let out a sheepish little laugh.

“My bad.”

The guy stuffed the cash into his shirt pocket, flicked his turn signal, and was just about to peel out when he rolled the window back down.

“And watch out for anyone who smiles at you in this town.”

Hannah furrowed her brow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He jerked his thumb toward Caesar’s Palace.

“Here in Vegas, everybody has a price tag.”

He gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Just figure out what yours is before somebody else does, alright?”

The guy threw it into drive and merged seamlessly into the chaotic flow of the Strip.

“Okay then...” she muttered to absolutely no one. “That was oddly fucking specific.”

But that could wait, because the oddly specific problem hit her about five minutes after stepping into the casino lobby, delivering a solid kick straight to the pit of her stomach.

​Metallica wasn’t just crashing on some random luxury floor.

​Nope.

​The sons of bitches had rented out the entire fucking penthouse.

​She wasn’t even entirely sure how it happened. Somewhere between a bellhop explaining the penthouse layout and the private elevator dinging at the top, Hannah just... arrived.

​When she finally snapped back to reality, she was standing dead center in a massive bedroom, and the suite annexed just for her was—all on its own—bigger than her whole crappy studio back in L.A.

​She slowly spun on her heels... holy shit.

​So much cash.

It was obscene.

​Nobody on earth needed a marble bathroom that massive, or a TV with a screen that big. And Hannah was fairly certain the crystal fruit bowl sitting on the coffee table cost more than her actual car—which, to be fair, wasn’t exactly a high bar to clear.

​Her car was worth less than a decent toaster.

​But the view...

The view was outta this world.

​All of Las Vegas glittered right outside the floor-to-ceiling glass—blinding neon signs reflecting off the traffic where Flamingo Road sliced through the dark like a glowing scar.

​It was beautiful as hell.

​Hannah dumped her bag at the foot of the king-size bed, and when she let herself fall back onto the mattress, she almost jumped out of her skin.

​Jesus.

​It had been a long, long time since she’d laid down on a bed this soft.

​Actually, the last time was probably back when she was still living with her old man.

​...or maybe in the bedroom of that jerk quarterback who took her virginity after prom.

​She stared blankly at the ceiling.

​...Yeah...

...that was a whole other story.

The daydream lasted a grand total of three seconds.

​The double doors connecting her annex to the master suite clicked before being unceremoniously kicked wide open.

​“Nice, ain’t it?”

​“Jesus fuck!”

​Hannah flinched so hard she nearly tangled herself up in the luxury linens.

​“Don’t get too comfortable.” The stranger strolled in like she owned the damn room. “You’ll be lucky if the mattresses don’t have fleas by the time this tour rolls through Reno.”

​She was rocking an All-Access laminate clipped to a beat-up denim jacket and looked to be in her early fifties—or a seriously rough forty. In that time, the sheer stress of the job had already leached most of the dark dye from her choppy haircut.

​Chain-smoking had claimed the rest, including half her vocal cords.

​Hannah scrambled to sit up straight.

​“You must be...”

​“Marge.” She didn’t even let the rookie finish. “I’ve been holding this shitshow together ever since poor Howard went AWOL.”

​Marge crossed the room in six long strides and dumped a massively overstuffed clipboard right onto the coffee table.

​The thud made the crystal fruit bowl shudder.

​“And thank Christ you showed up.” She let out a drag of a sigh that had probably been brewing for fifteen solid days. “Give it another three days and I would’ve hired anyone with a pulse to take your spot.”

​She waved a hand at the towering stack of documents.

​“Routing, hotel reservations, local promoters, emergency hotlines... every single piece of paper you need until the end of this tour.”

​She leveled a dead-serious glare at Hannah.

​“You lose that, you better run.”

​Hannah just stared at the mountain of paper. It looked like it weighed more than her entire duffel bag.

​“The guys are down at the Mack Center right now,” Marge briefed her. “Prepping for the show. Sold-out house tonight, so expect them back around midnight.”

​Hannah ran the numbers in her head.

​That left her enough time to unpack, maybe grab a shower—who knows, maybe even call her dad.

​“Am I supposed to head down there?” she asked.

​“Christ, no!”

​Marge shot that down so fast it was like she feared the mere suggestion would curse her.

​A gravelly laugh followed.

​“Let the local crew deal with their asses. Your babysitting shift strictly starts the second James and the rest of them walk through those doors.”

​She pointed at the double doors connecting the annex to the main penthouse. Hannah stared at the dark polished wood and the gold doorknobs...

​It didn’t look particularly menacing.

​And yet...

​The way Marge talked about it, it sounded less like a door to a hotel suite, and a lot more like a pack of starving wolves was waiting right on the other side.

“Word of advice, newbie,” the veteran stated.

Marge dug a Virginia Slims out of her jacket pocket, packed the filter twice against the box, and sparked it up.

“These boys aren’t total degenerates like the Mötley Crüe or Guns N’ Roses crowd, alright? They’re working men. For the most part, they’re actually pretty decent guys...”

She squinted against the curling smoke before finishing her sentence.

“...when they aren’t totally hammered or strung out.”

Hannah nodded, keeping it dead serious and deeply attentive. Almost professional.

Mötley... what? Was that a band or a venereal disease?

Guns N’ Roses? It sounded exactly like Uncle Eddie’s pawn shop up in Frisco... assuming he sold bouquets right next to the 9mms and pump-action shotguns.

“Right. Got it.”

She said it with so much conviction she practically convinced herself.

In reality, she didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.

“Except this is Vegas, fucking Sin City.” Marge took a drag until the cherry glowed bright orange. “...and we are dealing with four guys in their twenties, running on rage, fame, and enough cash to fuck up on an industrial scale.”

She exhaled a slow, heavy stream of smoke.

“When the gig wraps, this penthouse is hosting the official afterparty.”

Oh, Hannah knew parties.

“No sweat.”

Marge froze mid-drag, cocked one eyebrow, and then the other.

Did this kid process a single syllable of what I just said?

“No sweat?” Marge echoed. “Sweetheart... they’re gonna walk out of that elevator dragging the entire parade from hell with them: friends, suits, hangers-on.”

She took another hit of her cigarette.

“People looking for a quick fuck, and every other piece of trash Vegas spits out after midnight.”

But for a white chick who once had to vault the wall of an abandoned high school to dodge a shootout between local dealers and the LAPD at an underground block party in Compton, it all sounded just a tad dramatic.

She might have even laughed at the memory... if she hadn’t completely shredded her knee on a chain-link fence, hobbled three blocks, and nearly became Alpo for a German Shepherd living in the yard she eventually passed out in.

Hannah grimaced.

That dog was a monster, and the owner was some old dude—a completely blind old dude, for the record.

Okay... maybe not the greatest example in the history of the world, but she was seventeen. And, in her defense, the party was actually a blast before the bullets started flying.

“I think I can survive a little Vegas shindig.”

Hannah shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Marge didn’t return it.

Youthful arrogance was a funny thing, and I've had seen it in artists, managers, roadies, promoters... all of them swearing blind that they had everything under control.

Afterwards, it was just a matter of figuring out which ER the ambulance dropped them off at.

The veteran held her gaze for one more agonizing second, then pulled a long drag from her Virginia Slims.

“Hannah?”

And the girl didn’t like that flat, deadpan tone one bit.

“Ma’am?”

“Get your paperwork sorted now, then deadbolt that door from the inside. Are we clear?”

The room suddenly felt a whole lot quieter.

Whatever Hannah had been imagining this gig was gonna be... the joke was officially over.

She shot a glance at the double doors, then looked right back at the stone-cold look on the older woman’s face. She swallowed hard.

“Do I... really have to lock—”

“Are we clear?”

Hannah Cameron was nobody’s fool—she could be impulsive, bullheaded, and temperamental as all hell... but she wasn’t stupid.

Growing up under the roof of an old drill sergeant had actually paid off in some ways: learning early on how to tell the difference between a scolding and a warning—between a barracks joke and the tone that meant this is not a drill.

Old Butcher Bill used to drill the exact same phrase into her head since she could barely reach the kitchen counter:

You respect the rank, you respect the experience, and above all else, you listen to the one who made it back alive from the front lines.

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied.

The most ridiculous part was realizing a split second later that she had actually snapped her posture to attention out of pure, conditioned reflex.

“That’s better.” Marge nodded, satisfied. “Oh, and... if you hear glass shattering in the middle of the night, don’t freak out, alright? Just play dead, it usually does the trick.”

Okay, right there, Hannah genuinely waited for the older woman to crack a smile, clap her on the shoulder and say, “Just fucking with you, rookie.”

But it wasn’t a joke.

So she gave a slow nod.

“Right...” she cleared her throat quietly. “Got it.”

Marge snuffed the Virginia Slims out in a silver ashtray on the coffee table.

“Perfect.”

The veteran bent down, grabbed her own duffel bag, and hitched the strap higher on her shoulder.

“My taxi’s idling downstairs.”

She marched to the door without looking back, but with her hand resting on the knob, she decided to leave one final parting gift:

“Welcome to the Vegas inferno, sweetheart.”

And that was it.

Just like that.

The bitch was walking out like she hadn’t just tossed a live grenade into the lap of an intern who, five minutes ago, still thought she was on a glorified business trip.

And the only thing Hannah knew for sure right now... was that she didn’t know a goddamn thing anymore.

She chewed on that bullshit for a few seconds.

Nah... they were just hazing the new kid, obviously.

It had to be.

Just the dramatic ramblings of a burnt-out, frustrated woman who definitely hadn’t gotten laid since Prohibition.

“Hey, Marge!”

The veteran froze in the doorway, turning just far enough to catch her eye over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

Hannah hesitated.

And, for the very first time since she touched down, she actually entertained the thought that she might be walking straight into a death trap.

“Is it really that bad?”

Marge just looked at her. She didn’t answer right away.

She just broke into a small, exhausted smile.

The specific kind of smile that only surfaces when some kid asks you the exact same question you asked twenty years ago. And that, now, you could answer with all the irony in the universe: My child... you have absolutely no fucking clue.

“Good luck, Hannah,” she said.