Compact with the Devil: A Novel Page 13

  “Don’t start with me!” said Kit savagely.

  “Why not? Because you’re a rock star? There’s the bullshit!” yelled Nikki. “You are a working professional. You get paid to sing; if you’re not singing, what are they paying you for?”

  “I did sing! I sang an @last song, for Christ’s sake! But they don’t pay me to risk life and limb just so some German teenager can throw her knickers at me.”

  “Well, she was throwing them at you last night!”

  “She was an adult and I can do what I want!”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re a rock star; you can do whatever the hell you want. Grow up! You cannot always do what you want. You cannot always have everything you want!”

  “Where do you get off! You’re just some little makeup girl. You’ve been here two days. You don’t know anything about my life!”

  They were standing inches apart now. Nikki was dimly aware that Duncan and Richie were hovering in the background, but mostly she was aware of Kit’s blue eyes boring into hers. He smelled of the ginger breath mints he’d been eating and the underlying scent of cigarettes. She was also aware of a crackling heat passing between her and Kit.

  “What is going on?” exclaimed Trista, coming up the stairs, breaking the moment.

  “Nothing,” snapped Kit. “Your understudy is just overestimating her value and my ability to replace her.”

  “Yeah, ’cause I’m really worried about keeping this job,” answered Nikki sarcastically, and pushed past Trista, stomping down the nearly vertical stairs to the first floor. She wasn’t surprised when Trista didn’t follow.

  She surveyed the spacious seats. The band members and crew had spread out across them in her absence. The only remaining empty seat was directly behind the driver. Nikki remembered enough of her junior high experience to know that this was the seat reserved for complete losers but sat down anyway. Loserville was better than the city of Losing It Completely and Killing a Rock Star.

  “Hey,” said the bus driver over his shoulder as she sat down.

  “Hey,” she answered, staring at the passing scenery. The road was a slick black ribbon of licorice against the heavy layer of fondant snow. They rounded a curve, the bus working hard to drag them up the hill. Ahead of them on the next switchback, Nikki could see a semitruck coming toward them. As the truck came into view, it seemed to speed up.

  “Damn idiots,” muttered Louis, eyeing the oncoming semi.

  The road belled out in an oxbow curve, and the semitruck took the turn wide, well into the bus’s lane. Louis sounded the horn, but the truck just kept coming, swerving closer to the tour bus. Louis yanked the steering wheel, and the bus began to slide. Nikki could hear screaming, but she couldn’t tell if it was her fellow passengers or the brakes.

  “Oh…,” said Louis, yanking harder on the wheel.

  “Shit.” Nikki finished for him, taking a firm grip on her seat.

  At the last possible second the semi veered slightly, avoiding a head-on collision, clipping the front corner of the bus. The impact sent a jarring shudder throughout the entire frame of the two-story land yacht, and for a moment everything was perfectly balanced and still, then with incomprehensible speed the bus tipped over and began to tumble.

  FRANCE I

  Fiery Crash

  “Shit,” repeated Nikki when the world had stopped moving. The black in front of her eyes faded, turning her view to a sort of jumbled grayscale. And it looked sort of fabric-ish. She blinked and realized that someone’s luggage had landed on top of her; she pushed it off and took stock of things.

  She was on the floor, wedged between the seat and the back of the driver’s booth. She could hear people crying and cursing. The sound grated on her nerves and reminded her that there was work to be done. Always more work to be done.

  The bus was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, leaning against the hillside, and the interior was a jumble of bodies, luggage, and broken bus fixtures. Louis was lying, unconscious, in the aisle and against the seats. Nikki could see a large gash across his forehead and nose; his knuckles were bloody where they’d been hit by flying glass. She knelt down and pressed two fingers to the soft spot under his jawbone. The steady thrum-thrum of his pulse against her fingertips was reassuring.

  “Louis,” she said, tapping the bus driver gently. “Are you OK?” Nikki swung her head back and forth, trying to clear the cobwebs.

  “Louis, talk to me. Time to wake up, Lou.”

  “Bus,” he said, groggily opening his eyes.

  “That’s right,” said Nikki encouragingly. “We’re on the bus.”

  “Bus fell over,” he said.

  “Yeah, it did. Easy,” she commanded as the bus driver struggled to sit upright.

  “I’m all right. I’m sort of all right,” he said as the realities of physical pain slowed him down. Louis leaned against the tilted seats and wiped the blood out of his eye. He took a deep shuddering breath and winced.

  “You all right enough to stay here while I check on everyone else?” asked Nikki, pulling her hands away from Louis slowly. But he stayed upright and even nodded.

  “Go check on Mr. Masters,” answered Louis. Nikki frowned but didn’t respond. Mr. Masters was last on her list.

  Making her way to the back of the bus, Nikki saw that most of the band members were righting themselves and responded dazedly but affirmatively to her repeated “Are you OK?”

  She half crawled up the stairs, slipping on guitars and suitcases. Once she was on the second floor, the drunken angle of the bus was even more distinct. Nikki clung to the ceiling rail that was now at waist height, precariously stepping from seat edge to seat edge. She could see Duncan’s feet protruding from one seat aisle. Kit was ahead of her, kneeling on the couch, and he looked up at her, his face a mask of wide-eyed desperation.

  “Help me,” he said, “she won’t wake up.”

  Nikki felt her heart contract at the fear in his voice and stumbled forward.

  Trista was slumped on the couch, blood trickling from her mouth, one of her legs bent at an unnatural angle. Nikki knelt down next to Kit and felt for Trista’s pulse; it was weak but there. There was a groan from Duncan.

  “Gabh suas ort féin,” spat Duncan, jerking upright. The big man paused for a moment, his mustache bristling like a set of dog whiskers as he oriented himself; Nikki tried to work out what language he’d been speaking. “Where’s Kit?” he asked, attempting to stand.

  “I’m here,” said Kit, making his way back to Duncan. Duncan seized Kit’s shoulder, sizing him up in one measuring glance, then surveyed the bus’s interior, noting Nikki and Trista. “Bus crash,” he said, as if answering some internal question.

  “Come help Trista,” said Kit, pulling at Duncan’s sleeve.

  “No. Let’s get you off the bus—someplace safe.”

  “Bollocks,” said Kit, shaking his head. “Help Trista.” Nikki shook her head, trying to draw on her linguistics background to figure out what language Duncan had been speaking, but the urgency in Kit’s voice was making it hard to concentrate.

  “One of you call an ambulance,” interjected Nikki. “Argue later.”

  Kit pulled out his phone with a gunslinger’s quick-draw reaction, then halted.

  “I’m not getting any reception,” Kit said, looking at them with questioning eyes. “Call box!” he exclaimed with a snap of his fingers, and made for the stairs.

  “Kit!” snapped Duncan, reaching after him but snagging only air.

  “Be right back!” Kit yelled, bouncing down the stairs and over the luggage like a pinball.

  “Well, you wanted him off the bus,” said Nikki, gingerly feeling Trista’s leg. She was certain that it was broken but hoped that the leg was the worst of the damage.

  Duncan looked back at Nikki and growled before heading after Kit.

  The ambulances arrived shortly. First one, then two more as the paramedics assessed the damage. Trista was hurt the worst, but the bus driver needed stitche
s and an X-ray, while the sound guy and one of the other security men had broken arms. The number of whiplash cases was steadily rising, and Nikki was kept hopping back and forth between patients, translating for the paramedics. Kit matched her in an opposite orbit, checking on everyone but stopping every few minutes to place or answer phone calls.

  “I’m trying to rent a bus to come get us,” said Kit, slipping across the snow toward her, his phone outstretched, “but my French is terrible. Give us a hand.”

  Nikki took the phone, her nearly numb fingers brushing along Kit’s equally cold hand. He grabbed her free hand and held it close to his mouth, breathing on their fingers. She smiled at him as she talked and he grinned. The bus manager was skeptical, but a promise of cash got a promise to be there within minutes.

  The police cars arrived next, with their penetrating sirens and tires splashing snowy slush onto the already grimy scene.

  “Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs,” said the sergeant, flashing his badge and putting a halting hand on the gurney carrying Louis toward a waiting ambulance. “Quelques moments de votre temps, s’il vous plaît, vous devez répondre à quelques questions.” Everyone turned to Nikki.

  Nikki pulled her smock a little tighter around her and wished she had a coat; her green sneakers were soaked and she had stopped being able to feel her toes several minutes ago. With a sigh, she straightened her posture. No sense in letting everyone see that this was hard work.

  “He wants—” Her voice, raspy from the amount of recent translating, squeaked on “wants.” “He wants to ask everyone some questions.”

  “Bollocks,” snapped Kit, returning from an excursion into the bus. He dropped someone’s overcoat onto her shoulders. “My people are cold, tired, and hurt. You can ask all the questions you want at the hospital.”

  “And you are, monsieur?” asked the sergeant stiffly in resentful English.

  “Kit Masters!” exclaimed the younger policeman getting out of the car.

  “Qui est Kit Masters?” asked the sergeant, still glaring at Kit.

  “La star du rock anglaise!”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Kit, cupping his hand around a cigarette and lighting up with effortless cool. “Now get the fuck out of the way. My man Louis needs to get to the hospital.”

  Nikki watched the sergeant’s lips purse into a wrinkly rosebud of instant dislike. The newly rented bus chugged into view and parked on the other side of the orange cones that the paramedics had set out.

  “All right, my children,” said Kit, turning away from the policemen and projecting his voice to the widespread group with impressive ease. “All those who aren’t in an ambulance are in the bus. We’re going to follow the ambulances to the hospital, and unless the paramedics gave you an absolutely clean bill of health, I want everyone to get checked out by the doctors. If we could have all those with healthy hands help with loading the luggage into the new bus, we can be under way shortly.”

  Nikki stared at Kit in confusion. He was commanding the entire tour bus with ease and bullying the police with aplomb. It was as if more people made him less shy. Not to mention giving him a rather sexy disregard for authority.

  “Non, non, monsieur,” said the sergeant, shaking his head. Kit nodded to the ambulance driver, who began to load Louis into the ambulance.

  “Oui, oui,” mimicked Kit. “You can question us at the hospital. Terry? How’re we doing?”

  The perpetually harried Scotsman turned from his chivying of cold and traumatized volunteers as they unloaded the tipped-over tour bus and hauled the luggage onto the new one.

  “Your band dinna know how to load for shite! They’d never make it in my line o’ work.”

  “They’re musicians; give them a break!” answered Kit, grinning.

  “Lift with your legs, son!” Terry screamed at a startled Burg. Nikki had a sudden flashback to Carrie Mae training. Give Terry a ponytail and a set of falsies and he’d fit right in with the other instructors.

  “Duncan, have you got ahold of Angela yet?” Kit yelled to Duncan, who shook his head as he jogged over to them. “No, her phone’s off.”

  “Yeah right,” said Nikki sarcastically, and saw Duncan frown.

  “Maybe the battery died. What about Brandt?” asked Duncan.

  It was Kit’s turn to shake his head. “It keeps going to voice mail. Is this the right thing?” he asked Duncan suddenly. Duncan stared at him blankly, and Kit swung his gaze to Nikki. “Am I doing this right? It’s Angela that does the arranging of things.”

  “You’re doing great,” said Nikki honestly.

  “Swearing at the copper wasn’t too much?”

  “Probably, but hopefully he didn’t understand enough English to get that.”

  “Everyone knows that one,” muttered Duncan.

  “Probably true,” said Nikki distantly, watching the sergeant argue with his junior officer. “I’ll be right back,” she said, sliding her arms into the jacket sleeves. “Just keep getting everyone on the bus.”

  The sergeant was red in the face, and the junior officer was looking a bit pale as Nikki approached. Nikki took a deep breath and considered her approach. The junior officer was on her side already; it was the sergeant she had to worry about. She knew her accent was more Canadian than proper French, which wasn’t considered a good thing. On the other hand, it was French, which was eons ahead of English, and she was a girl and she was cute, which frequently counted for a surprising amount.

  Z’ev was so much better at this than she was. He’d say something about sports, and suddenly they’d be best friends. Or grandkids. For some reason people were always showing Z’ev pictures of their children. She raised her chin defiantly. She was not going to be outdone by Z’ev, particularly when he wasn’t even here. She yanked her hair out of its ponytail and plastered a smile on her face.

  “Bonjour,” she said breathlessly to the policemen, smiled a little extra wide, and tried to look doe-eyed.

  “Bonjour,” replied the sergeant, eyeing her suspiciously.

  Fifteen minutes later, the sergeant loaded the final bag onto the rental bus and helped Nikki up that treacherous first step.

  “Nous vous rencontrerons à l’hôpital,” she said with her smile in place, and bent down to exchange the customary double kiss.

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” said the sergeant, and waved as the bus doors closed and pulled away in a fog of diesel fumes and evaporating snow flurries.

  She stepped up into the main cabin and looked for a place to sit. The band and crew burst into applause.

  “That was just impressive,” said Kit, scooting over and making room for her in the geek seat behind the driver.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Hammond.

  “I have,” said Duncan, giving her a cold stare.

  “Did he really show you pictures of his grandchildren?” asked Holly from a few seats back. She had a bandage over one eyebrow, and it gave her a cockeyed look.

  “Uh, yeah. He’s got a daughter who married a Canadian, so he was showing me where they lived.”

  “Sorry, you’ve lost me,” said Hammond. “How does Canada matter in the slightest?”

  “I’m Canadian,” explained Nikki. “I don’t really speak French. I speak Quebecois, so he knew I was Canadian, and then of course he wanted to know if I knew his daughter.”

  “I thought you were American,” said Holly.

  “I am. I’m just also Canadian.”

  “Can you do that?” asked someone farther back.

  “Mike’s right. I don’t think that’s allowed,” said Hammond. Everyone stared accusingly at Nikki.

  “Uh, sorry. You’ll have to take that up with my parents.”

  “Well, she’s got a point there,” said Kit. “My old fella was Irish, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.” Nikki caught a flicker of movement from Duncan as the rest of the bus laughed. He was frowning heavily into his mustache, apparently unamused by Kit’s Irish parentage.

&
nbsp; “I hope Trista’s all right,” said Kit as the bus trundled into a small town. “The paramedics didn’t seem … Well, they took her first. That’s not very good, is it?” He turned his dark-fringed baby blues to Nikki, looking for reassurance.

  “That just means that she got there first,” said Nikki. “She had regained consciousness by the time she left, so that’s good.”

  “But her leg…,” said Kit, looking a little ill at the memory of Trista’s leg bending in unnatural directions.

  “I’m sure they’ll set it and it’ll be fine.”

  He nodded nervously and didn’t smile. Nikki glanced back and encountered Duncan’s gaze. He flicked his sun-bleached blue eyes away before she could read his expression, but she had the distinct impression that it hadn’t been a happy one.

  The hospital was tiny and straight out of the fifties—completely undeserving of having a busload of rock and roll freaks dropped into their lap. Word of their coming had been sent on ahead, and the admitting personnel were polite and efficient, much to Nikki’s relief. She wasn’t sure she could pull another Sergeant Herault. How many other people could possibly have daughters in Canada? A stern-faced doctor chased away the loitering nurses clearly hoping to catch sight of Kit and marched up to their group.

  “You are Monsieur Masters?” inquired the doctor. His dark face looked as though it had been carved out of teak and was a perfect antithesis to his crisp white coat.

  “Yes, my friend Trista…” Nikki noted the use of “friend” over “employee.”

  “Yes, Trista Elliot.”

  “Can we see her?”

  “Actually, I’m afraid she has to go in for surgery. We’ve just given her anesthesia.”

  “Is she all right?” Kit asked, going pale.

  “Her leg was broken in three places and we need to set it with pins. Ordinarily, we wouldn’t let anyone see her at the moment, but she’s been extremely insistent.”

  “I’ll go immediately,” said Kit.

  “No, she’s been asking for someone named Nikki. Nikki Lanier.” Kit stared at Nikki.