“But you recognize me,” I say, trying to make him understand. “You know who I am. There’s probably just some mistake. I’m supposed to be in there right now, he’s expecting me.”
“For all I know, he broke up with you earlier tonight and now you’re just trying to sneak in to trash his dressing room.” He grabs the edge of the door above my hand. “If you’re not on the list, you’re not getting in here.” He yanks the door away from me and my fingers release just before it clanks shut.
“Wait!” I shout. I pound on the door, kick it with the toe of my high heel, but he doesn’t come back.
Cursing my choice of shoes, I jog around to the front of the building, where the glass doors emit a blinding glow of white florescent light. There are several people inside dressed in black uniforms, talking casually among themselves, and I approach one of the women standing in front of a poster of Tate’s unsmiling face. She barely looks up at me. “Ticket?” she asks, holding out a hand.
“I don’t have one,” I start. “I’m supposed to be on a list.”
“Did you pre-purchase your tickets?” she asks, still not looking at me directly.
“No. I’m on a list,” I answer more firmly.
She finally looks up, squints at me. “Sorry, there’s no list here.”
“Please,” I say. “Is there someone I can talk to?”
“Not at this entrance.”
“There must be a backstage list, or something—someone you can call?”
She scrunches up her nose, then lets out an exaggerated huff. “Name?” she asks, irritated.
“Charlotte Reed,” I respond quickly.
“Wait here.” I watch as she meanders—painfully slowly—over to a man standing by the escalators and he lifts his cell phone to his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying but he’s definitely checking my name. This will be it; finally they’ll let me through. After what feels like an hour, he ends the call and the woman walks back over to me. I feel like my skin might tear open along imaginary seams if she doesn’t move faster. I can hear Tate from here: onstage, singing, his voice unmistakable, a voice that’s whispered words against my ear, now echoing through the Staples Center...and I can’t get to him.
“You’re not on any list, anywhere...in any part of the building,” she says dramatically, as if trying to make a point.
This isn’t happening.
I leave through the front doors, marching back around the building.
I’m almost back to the metal double doors when I see a group of girls—five or six—standing in front of it. The man with sideburns appears again, the hallway behind him casting a florescent glow over the girls’ faces. I wait to see them turned away.
But then he lets them through.
They shuffle inside, all long legs and bouncy hair and heels twice as high as mine. The door starts to swing closed behind them but I sprint forward, grabbing it before it slams shut.
I’m about to sneak through when a hand grabs my fingers and pries them away. “I don’t think so,” the man says, holding me by my wrist and forcing me back from the doorway.
“But those girls,” I protest. “You let them in.”
“Look, darlin’, I can’t let you in. It’s my job to keep out the crazies.”
“I’m not—” Then I swallow, composing myself. “I’m not trying to sneak in. Tate told me to come to this door and I would be on a list. So I don’t know what bullshit list you’re looking at, but there’s no way those chicks are on it and I’m not.” My throat tightens against the last words. “So look again.”
His face tugs backward a half an inch, surprised by my tone. A little smile quirks across his lips and I actually think he’s going to check the list again, or better yet, just let me through. “Persistent little thing, I’ll give you that.”
“Look, could you at least find Hank? His bodyguard? I’m sure he’s here, and he can come vouch for me.” Why don’t I have Hank’s number in my phone? I’m going to make Tate give it to me so nothing like this happens again.
The man’s smile flattens. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Don’t knock on this door again or I’m calling the police.” And he pulls the door closed behind him with such finality that it actually makes me jump.
Shit.
I turn and lean against the door, tilting my head back beneath the halo of light and grating my fingers across my scalp.
A wave of screams erupts suddenly from inside the stadium, and then settles as an acoustic guitar begins to play. I press my hands over my eyes and squeeze. I can’t be here, listening to this from outside. It’s torture. So I stand and wind my way back toward the parking lot, beneath the beams of light from the streetlamps, past a security guard, past the last few ticket-holders hurrying toward the front doors of the stadium.
I can’t believe this is happening.