I gaze into the liquid, looking for answers. I know they're not in there but it certainly can't hurt to steel my nerves. I toss it back and coughs wrack my body. I'm not used to the hard stuff. In fact, I rarely drink more than a glass of wine, if that. But a warmth spreads through me and I know I can do this thing.

I think.

"Short and sweet," Frank advises as I ghost past in a daze. My heart is beating so fast I think it's lapped itself, and my skin is slick with sweat. Somewhere in the deep recesses of what's left of my mind, I send up a little thanks for remembering my deodorant this morning.

Dozens of eyes follow my progress to the stage, I can feel them on me like annoying bugs. I want to glare them all down, but it's all I can do to keep my feet moving forward. And then I'm standing to the side of the stage.

I'm in the dark but the stage itself has lights as bright as a million suns shining down on it. At the edge of light, I can see ecstatic faces chanting "Drax! Drax! Drax!" A mosh pit has formed at the front and I see a young woman dive into the thick of it. The crowd lifts her stiff body above their heads and starts passing her along, hands groping various body parts.

They're animals!

I back away. I can't do it. How could I ever think I might be able to? I hate public speaking. Just thinking about it makes me want to yak all over, which I'm very close to doing at the moment. I glance behind me to find an escape route only to see a wall of scowling roadies with their arms crossed. They're not going to let me by. The only place I can go is forward, into the mouth of hell.

I look out at the stage again. How can Drax go out there night after night? The hatefire flares up again deep in my chest. This is all his fault. I wouldn't have to do this if it wasn't for him. If he's not in a hospital somewhere, he will be if I ever see him again.

The deep breath I take does nothing to calm my nerves, but I can't put it off any longer. I walk out to the microphone at center stage, my legs wobbling like Jello the entire way, and blow into it to make sure it's on. Feedback screeches through the amphitheater, bouncing off the walls. The crowd quiets and 8,000 sets of eyes focus on me.

On me!

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention!"

Jake hands me a jar of peanut butter and tries not to snicker. Never in a million years would I have guessed this day would end with me sitting on the crazy-chaotic loading dock of the theater trying to get gum out of my hair.

Needless to say, the crowd didn't take the news well. Thank God spit doesn't seem to travel as far as gum or I'd be drenched. I'm just lucky none of the shoes managed to hit me. That would have hurt. Seriously, I'm pretty sure this day couldn't get much worse.

Oh wait. Is that Harry tearing up in his Caddy? Yeah, I think it's about to get a whole lot worse.

He screeches to a halt right in front of me. Even through the glare from the loading dock's bright lights reflecting off his windshield, I can see that his round face is bright red and his eyes are bulging with what I'm gonna guess is, um, rage. Perfect.

He starts screaming the instant his door is open and just gets more irate as he storms onto the dock, heedless of the hustle and bustle going on around him. He's got a good fifty pounds on the chubbiest roadie, and they wisely give him a wide berth.

"What the hell did you do, Lauren? For the life of me, I can't figure out how you screwed this up! Everything was set up and perfectly planned. What the ever-living fuck?!"

I scramble to my feet to face him, to face my punishment. I know what's coming so I'm not worried or anything, but getting yelled at is never fun. Especially then the yeller is looming over you like a giant grizzly, massive maw gaping in an eternal howl of anger. The only thing I can really do at this point is maintain my dignity and accept my termination with as much grace as I can muster. Not an easy thing to do with a big wad of Hubba Bubba stuck in your hair.

"Harry--"

He cuts me off. "Don't even speak my name, you useless pile of human garbage. You had one job. One! Get that piece of shit musician to the venue. That's it! And yet it was somehow beyond your abilities. Tell me, Miss Raines, how is that even possible? Explain it to me because I really want to know."

Uh oh, he was calling me Miss Raines. That's never good.

"We had a couple hours between the signing and the sound check, Harry. I didn't know I was supposed to stick to him like glue. When I got here, he...wasn't."

"Did you even bother to go looking for him? God, tell me you did at least that!"

"Um, yeah...I...uh..."

Oh boy. How am I supposed to tell him that I found Drax drunk in a bar and ran out because I have a stupid schoolgirl crush on a rockstar? Then I stood there like an idiot as he climbed into a car with the Groupie du Jour? The memory of it chokes me up, even now, after all that's happened.

"She did but she was too late." There's a hard edge to Savory's voice as he stands next to me and crosses his arms, as if to say, 'Back off, asshole.' "He was already driving off when she spotted him. We tried to call him about a thousand times but no joy."

"Fuckin' musicians," Harry mumbles as he drags a hand through his prematurely graying hair. "Whatever. I can't have this. Does your teeny, tiny brain have the slightest inkling of a clue how bad this is?"

Now he's just dragging it out. But I'm determined to maintain my composure. "I do, Harry. And if there's anything I can do--"

"Do? I think you've done enough for one day. Now I've got to do damage control, and that's after working my ass off at that stupid revival. I want you gone. I'll have your last check and personals messengered over tomorrow. Get out of here and never let me see your stupid, incompetent face again."

My ex-boss spins around and stalks into the facility, dodging busy roadies and giant equipment cases, and I'm standing here trying not to cry. Heck, I knew this was coming. I was completely prepared to get chewed up and spit out like a gristly piece of meat. But now that it's happened, my emotions threaten to overwhelm my noble intentions.

"Wow, he's an ass," observes Savory. "And you wanted to work for him?"

I shrug but don't speak. No way can I trust my voice right now. Instead I turn away and slather more peanut butter on my hair. At least I can keep my head ducked so no one can see the tears in my eyes. And the ruckus of truck engines and clattering equipment dollies will cover any choking sobs that come my way.

I want to tell him that working for Harry was only supposed to be a stepping stone to bigger and better things. Michelle was always wonderful to me, and she even sent me an email after she left to keep in touch. I was hoping to get some experience with Harry before applying at her national firm. Guess that plan's shot to hell. No one's going to hire me without references, and I'm guessing Harry wouldn't give me a glowing one.

"Wanna move your sweet ass, honey?"

I glance up to see a big, barrel-chested guy bearing down on me with a huge black rolling case. Standing around moping on a busy loading dock after the cancellation of a concert probably isn't the best idea ever.

I jump out of the way and stumble, the low heel of my boot slipping off the edge of the dock. You know how people say something happened to them in slow-motion? Yeah, I always thought it was a line of B.S., too, but then I start falling backward and everything slows to half-speed.

The first thing that happens is the open jar of peanut butter flies out of my hand as my arms windmill in circles to maintain my balance. I pray no one is filming this because I know I look just like Wile E. Coyote as I flail around and try to stay upright.