On Tour

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QUEENIE BABY: ON TOUR

by

CHRISTINA A. BURKE

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Copyright © 2014 by Christina A. Burke

Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen

Gemma Halliday Publishing

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To Monica, my lovely assistant and sister extraordinaire.

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It's hard to feel like a rock star when you're dressed like a pirate. Really, I have a hat and everything. Okay, so maybe I shouldn't be whining. I was, after all, officially a rock star. Hadn't I just played the biggest night club in Miami?

"Come on, Diana," my sister, Ashley, called. "This stuff isn't going to get done on its own." She pointed to the pile of fan mail mixed with several packets of personal and business mail.

I gazed out at the blue sky and turquoise waters of the Florida Keys. I marveled at the way my little sister had taken over as "the boss of me" during her temporary tenure as my personal assistant. It hadn't taken a lot of arm twisting to get her to join me on the last leg of the tour in southern Florida. Get paid to spend two weeks away from her three kids and her redneck husband? What was there to think about? This whole personal assistant idea had been the brainchild of Roger and Phil, my producers.

I'm new to this whole rock star experience. Normally, I live in Annapolis, Maryland where I share a spartan, downtown condo with my dog, Max, and make a living temping by day and performing at local bars nights and weekends. I'm thirty-one and tall to the point of gawky, with long straight blond hair and blue eyes. I look like Grace Kelly and move like Chevy Chase. Not the best combination for a girl on the dating scene, but I'd recently settled down with Mark Greene, a man who smelled so good he could've been Yankee Candle's scent of the month. I had some unanswered questions about his ex-CIA turned real-estate developer career path, much of which didn't add up in my book, but I'd decided not to waste our limited time on questions. Once the tour was over, there'd be a lot of things to talk about.

Back to Roger and Phil, who worried over me like a couple of neurotic, well-dressed hens. They were concerned about my lack of attention to my growing fan base.

Trouble was, I was pretty sure they were Carlos' fans, not mine.

"Ah, there you are m'lady."

Carlos' long black hair was loose. He was wearing a red Speedo and nothing else. Only a twenty-two year-old had enough confidence to pull off a Speedo. Maybe men over seventy also had the confidence, but they didn't have the abs. Carlos and his killer abs had swashbuckled their way into my life last spring when Carlos became the singing pirate king of Puerto Rico thanks to my song "The Rum Song." I tracked him down on the enchanted island, and we parleyed an awkward situation into a singing partnership that landed us a major tour. He was young, unpredictable, affected a Jack Sparrow brogue from Pirates of the Caribbean, and looked like Russell Brand. He was also utterly charming.

I smiled despite my mood. "New suit?"

"Aye," he returned my smile with a show of brilliant white teeth. "The lasses love a man in a Speedo."

"Don't try to distract her, Carlos." Ashley approached us with her hands on her hips. "She's got work to do."

"The general has spoken," I replied with a sigh.

"Why the long face?" Carlos asked as we walked over to the table strewn with mail.

I picked up a letter Ashley had opened and sorted into the "Fan" pile. It started off with:
It must be amazing working with Carlos every day. I would give anything to be in your shoes.

"Exhibit one." I handed the letter to Carlos.

He grinned at the gushing teenage prose. "I'm not sure I see the problem, m'lady."

"These letters are from your fans, Carlos. Or from people who are into wenches. They don't know me." After my third marriage proposal, I'd stopped opening my mail.

"Well, the girls really admire you," Ashley said.

"Yeah, because they think I'm sleeping with Carlos. Not because they admire my guitar playing." I knew I was being a grump, but this tour had been dragging on me the last few weeks.

Carlos grinned at this.

"I bet I could walk into any bar around here, start playing, and no one would recognize me," I said.

The silence from Carlos and Ashley was answer enough.

Screams of, "Carlos! Carlos!" came from the deck. The sun was high in the brilliant sky. I squinted against it to see a boat filled with teenage girls drift by. Carlos stepped onto the deck which led to the dock.

"Ahoy, lasses!" he called with a wave. Shrieks of joy filled the air, rivaling the chatter of nearby seagulls.

Roger and Phil had rented an estate for us for two weeks in Key West. It was protected from uninvited visitors by a gated drive. However, the dock on the waterway had become part of a celebrity tour as word spread that Carlos was staying there.

As we had begun playing to packed venues on the east coast tour, security had become more important. Fans appeared in the strangest places. At one hotel Carlos had been surprised by a man in full pirate garb lying in wait for him in his closet. Lucky for him, Carlos hadn't been wearing his sword. As it was, the guy ended up with a black eye and a story to tell. I hadn't had any run-ins with fans. My problems centered around my lack of grace and general bad luck. In the last couple of weeks, I'd fallen off the stage and nearly been hit by a speaker. I'd noticed some of the crew had begun mumbling prayers and making the sign of the cross as I took the stage.

"See what I mean?" I grumbled. I watched Carlos blow kisses to the girls and make a sweeping bow in their direction.

"So you're not the biggest star on the tour. Who cares? You're still making the money, and it's your song that made the whole thing a hit," Ashley reminded me.

She had a point. Making my mortgage payment wasn't a problem anymore. And I wasn't really interested in being followed around by a bunch of groupies. What I wanted was to be home with Mark and play at McGlynn's on Thursday night for people who loved all my originals. Not just the "The Rum Song."

We had one more performance here in Key West before the tour ended. We were the featured act at The Pirate-Heads' Annual End of Summer Party. Thousands of role-players were headed here for the big event. And my pirate tolerance was at its end. Arrr!

Carlos sauntered back in wearing an unapologetic grin.

"I know, I know," I said, shaking my head. "It's good to be Carlos."

"It is."

I rolled my eyes. "I bet you annoyed the hell out of your sister growing up."

"Yeah, wonder how that feels," Ashley said.

"On the contrary. I was a perfect little brother to Margarite. Never gave her a moment's problem." He batted his eyes and gave us a thousand watt grin.

"How are your sister and David doing?" Ashley asked. David was Mark's no-good cousin. He and Margarite had hooked-up when I'd first met Carlos in Puerto Rico.

Carlos shrugged. "Mama's picking out wedding dresses, but I'm not so sure about Margarite. She swore off marriage after the first two."

No one had asked me, but as far as I was concerned Margarite and David deserved each other. I was pretty sure they were both gold diggers. Margarite had run through two husbands and some rich, old gentlemen friends before Carlos hit the big time. David passed himself off as a jet-setting playboy, but the truth was he lived off the largess of his stepfather Ed, the former owner of Greene's Staffing. My experiences with David had been short and unpleasant, but he'd seemed to improve after getting away from the influence of his incarcerated father. And far be it from me to judge people by the actions of their relatives.

Back to the topic at hand. "One more show, and I'm outta here. I've had it, Carlos. I don't want to be a pirate anymore."

Carlos gasped. "You wound me, m'lady. What would 'The Rum Song' be without you? What would I do without my musical sister?"

I was tempted to give him a
Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn
response. But instead I said, "Hang out with your real sister. I need a break. I need to go back to my roots. I'm just not a pirate at heart. Remember how you felt when Roger and Phil made you hide your pirateness behind a rock star persona?"

Carlos nodded thoughtfully. "Aye," he said with a sigh. "I guess I've always known you were a landlubber. Thought maybe I could make a real pirate out of you."

"Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," Ashley quipped.

I shot daggers at her. "Really, Ashley? Aunt Pearlisms?" Our Aunt Pearl had a line for every occasion.

Ashley shrugged. "If the shoe fits…"

I held up my hand. "Enough already!" Our Aunt Pearl had a way with words. Notice I didn't say it was a good way.

"I'll stop as soon as you get to work." She pointed at the pile on the desk. "We need to get this done before Mark gets here. Work before play and all that," she added.

"You're really annoying." I sat down at the desk.

"That's what you're paying me for."

Carlos laughed. "I'd love to stay and help you, Diana, but me and the boys are taking the Jet Skis out for a little spin." The "boys" were The Band of Brethren, our band on the tour.

"Whatever," I mumbled as I dug into the paperwork. I left the fan mail alone and started on the envelope from Carol, my business partner.

Carol and I had recently bought Greene's Staffing Service in Annapolis, Maryland from Mark's Uncle Ed. Carol had been Ed's manager for years. I'd been working as a temp for Carol for almost three years and had frequently helped out in the office. We'd become friends over the years, and when the opportunity to take over the business had come up earlier this summer, I'd decided to invest my newfound riches in the venture. Carol happily managed the day to day operations.

I looked over the P&L for July and marveled at how the business had grown since we'd taken over. Wow, we were doing better than I'd thought. Carol was already making noises about hiring more office help. I was actually looking forward to working at Greene's again. You never knew who or what was going to walk through the door.

The roar of Jet Skis drew me back to the window. Ashley was off somewhere, probably digging up more paperwork for me to do. I watched Carlos take off on the Jet Ski with his band of merry brothers behind him. Carlos knew how to have a good time. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a really good time. I used to have a good time on stage, but the stage had lost its luster. Funny, but it really is the journey and not the destination that counts. In the beginning, I thought I wanted to be a star with all the trimmings and that sharing my music with the world was all that mattered. Sharing my music dressed as a pirate seemed like a fair price to pay. Now I realize that just sharing my music isn't enough. I want to share myself with the world. And a pirate, I was not.

A thought popped into my head.

I glanced down at my cut offs and white tank top and then at my guitar case in the corner. Not dressed like a pirate right now…

Without another thought, I grabbed my guitar and took off. I headed down the docks and crossed over to Duval Street. I was going to test my theory and, hopefully, have a good time doing it.

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Unfortunately, I'd forgotten it was Pirate-Head Week in Key West. Which meant I was one of the few people on the street
not
dressed like a pirate. It also meant there were a bunch of drunks staggering around at three in the afternoon. Believe me, the only thing worse than pirates in general were drunken pirates.

I found a dilapidated dive bar and ducked in the doorway to ditch three pirates following me and shouting, "Sing us a song or walk the plank, wench!"

The bar's wooden floors were littered with peanut shells; a couple of dogs wandered among the mismatched tables and chairs.

"Didn't know we had live entertainment today," said the bartender.

Now I'd seen my share of bartenders playing in little bars all over my hometown of Annapolis, Maryland, but I'd never seen one dressed like Elvis. And not the good Elvis, either. This was Vegas Elvis.

Distracted by the giant gold sunglasses and bristly sideburns, I mumbled something about dropping in to play a few songs.

Vegas Elvis shrugged. "Can't pay you, but you're welcome to play a set." His southern drawl was one of the best Elvis impersonations I'd ever heard.

I set my guitar case down and leaned across the bar. "Thanks so much. Diana," I said offering my hand.

Vegas Elvis wiped his hands on a dish towel and grasped my hand. "Eli Prattley. Nice to meet you, Diana."

His grip was warm and firm. I stifled a giggle at his name. "You play?" I asked.

Eli laughed. "Not in years. I used to dabble, but I leave it to the pros now. Too many headaches." A lock of his black-as-shoe-polish hair fell across his brow. His face was starting to show signs of aging. I'd guess him to be mid-forties give or take. The chest hair peeking out of his satin shirt was starting to go salt and pepper.