Page 33 of Love on Tour
“I can’t imagine anyone will follow through on it. It’s just crazed fans mouthing off,” Phoebe said.
“Let’s not forget that fan is short for fanatic,” Christine said.
“Good point.” Julianna nodded.
“And nobody has any idea who’s doing it?” Phoebe asked.
“Not overall, but we did catch two of them,” Christine said.
“What?” Julianna asked.
“Austin’s tour manager, Matt, was in catering and happened to walk past two of the servers. He said they were early twenties, a guy and a girl. They were giggling and looking at photos. He saw they were of me and assumed it was on Twitter or Instagram. Then he realized it was on their phones. They had taken the photos.”
“They should be fired,” Phoebe said.
“They were.”
A new singer-songwriter took the stage for her thirty-minute set. She wasn’t a seasoned performer and some of her onstage moves were awkward. She kicked her leg out and slappedher butt, causing the ladies to look at each other with raised eyebrows. However, her voice was strong, she sang on key, and there was something about her that kept their interest.
“She has potential if she gets the right team behind her,” Julianna said when the show was over. “I think I’ll give her my card.”
Phoebe paid the bill. The friends hugged and went their separate ways.
When Christine got to her apartment complex, she walked up the stairs and found a note taped to her door:Yo, bitch. Back off from Austin Garrett or answer to me.
She spun around, her heart racing. Shivers ran up her back. Was someone watching her? She unlocked the door and entered her apartment, bolting the door behind her. She took a picture of the handwritten note and texted it to Austin.Hey. This is getting scary. Do you have some weird ex-girlfriend? Have you pissed off some chick?
He replied,I’ve pissed off a lot of them.
Christine texted back.That doesn’t help. Maybe I should keep a low profile where you’re concerned for a while.
His response:Fuck that. Ignore them.
This was taped to my door!
That got Austin’s attention.Oh shit. How do they know where you live?
How should I know? But I’m scared.
Come here,he texted.
Where?
My house.
Why?she texted.
I have security. Nobody will get past the gate.
I don’t know where you live.
He texted her the address and said,Pack a bag and get over here. At least I’ll know you’re safe.
Okay, be there soon.
Christine thought about calling the police but knew they couldn’t really do anything. No crime had been committed. The ultimate catch-22.
Austin’s house was in a ritzy neighborhood, but when she arrived at the black wrought iron gate, she realized it was the smallest dwelling on the block. Assessing it before she passed through the gate, Christine guessed it was over five thousand square feet. It looked to be two stories, but there could also be a basement level. It was all brick. The garage had three bays and a bonus room on top. Christine knew it took time in the music industry to start making money. If you’d written a hit song—and Austin had written his first two—it could take a year to get the payoff. She also knew banks in Nashville would loan money based on the fact that you had written two hit songs and your mailbox would soon be filled with royalty checks. Three hit songs and you could demand a pretty high price for your concerts. Austin Garrett was not wealthy, but he was on his way. And a house like this proved it.
