Manaconda (Hammered #1)(5)
Indie looked around and fisted her hands. “I don’t have time for this. We released more tickets this morning thanks to a few radio spots, and a last minute fan club thing. I have over two thousand fans waiting for these guys.”
“I’ll find him.” I held up a hand. “I’ve been babysitting actors and musicians for over five years. I can handle him.”
Wyatt pressed his lips together, but didn’t say a word. He just turned on his heel and went back to the couch with the stack of glossies waiting for him to sign. There were cases of actual records sitting on table, as well as a precious box of the Rolling Stone magazine.
I was tempted to snag a few more copies, but I didn’t. That box would build even more of a frenzy for fans that were salivating over getting a copy. And if Hunter had to scrawl his signature over his very flattering pair of jeans all night, he might as well get some happy faces to go with it.
I crossed the stage, down the stairs, and then back out to the theater seating. The seats were filling up. Fans were on their phones taking selfies and video. I snapped a few shots with my iPad and posted it to the Ripper Records Instagram as I walked up the aisle to the lobby.
Hammered was trending on Facebook and a bunch of hashtags were multiplying on Twitter. I checked Keys’s Instagram and saw that she was definitely killing it there. The band Instagram, however, needed work.
When I got through the lobby into the main part of the hotel, I spotted a harried man in his fifties. Had to be a manager. “Excuse me, sir.”
He turned to me, his face dotted with sweat at the temples and forehead. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“I’m working with the band.” I flashed my lanyard. “Could you tell me where the kitchen is?”
He took out a colorful red and blue handkerchief from his pocket. I had a feeling it had been a pocket square when the day started. He blotted over his lip. “Why do you ask?”
Okay, definitely getting warmer. I stepped closer to him and lowered my voice. “Hunter likes to cook. Fancies himself a chef of sorts.” I was ad-libbing my ass off, but when the man’s brow smoothed I knew I was on the right track. I glanced at his discreet tag. “Mr. LoBrutto, I just want to make sure he gets back to where he’s supposed to be without too much fanfare. If you could just let me know where he is, I’ll take care of it for you.”
I smiled brightly, widened my eyes just a touch so I looked as sweet and non-threatening as possible. It worked because the guy practically sagged into a puddle.
“Past the bar is a back entrance into the kitchen for the restaurant. I don’t know how he got back there, but he’s…” He trailed off.
Because he was a nightmare. My last client had a penchant for stealing cars. I could deal with this one, no problem. I patted his arm. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Bless you.” He pointed to the left. “Right through there.”
I tucked my iPad into my wide, slim purse, and took off for the bar area. I stopped at the bar and smiled at the bartender that was readying for the insanity of the night. I hadn’t quite thought my plan through before leaving the manager of the hotel. I glanced back over my shoulder and he was gone.
Of course he was. I was taking care of his problem.
Two of the waitstaff were laughing as they opened the door. I watched them key in a code. When the bartender disappeared around the corner, I rushed to the door. It took two tries to get the digits right for the code, but then I was in.
Clanging pots, shouts, laughter, and the most amazing scent of garlic blasted my senses.
Many of the people who lived in Los Angeles had spent time in the food industry, but not me. I’d worked my way up by picking up orders, doing errands, and being indispensable. But I knew my limitations. Cooking was definitely one of them.
I followed the laughter to the main part of the kitchen. Subway tiles lined the hallway, and a ruthlessly clean cement floor opened up into stainless steel-encased chaos. A few people were doing food-related things. I was so out of my element. There was a lot of chopping going on, and the sharp scent of onions permeated the back of the kitchen.
Near the stove there were a bunch of men clustered around someone.
I don’t make sucker bets, but right now I’d bet fifty bucks that it was Hunter. So much for that saying that a chef rules his domain. Or in this case, it was a rockstar playing at chef. And he had everyone’s attention.
My stomach growled the closer I got to them. I’d been rushing around all day and grabbing lunch had fallen by the wayside. The hiss of something hitting a hot pan made the group laugh.
“Guess that’s hot enough, huh?”
The deep voice made my toes curl. I’d heard that voice on a dozen radio shows today. I’d found my man for sure.
“That’s it. Good. Snap your wrist—perfect.” Another man’s voice was instructing.
I slowed to a stop and peered between a pair of white chef jacket-clad shoulders. Hunter was standing in front of a huge stove dancing between three different pans. A blue shirt swayed like a tail from his back pocket, leaving him in a white ribbed tank with a crimson apron around his hips. His left arm was sleeved in black ink ending in skulls and roses reaching for his neck. Rosary beads in a dark walnut color shifted under the white cotton.
Instead of a chef’s hat, he wore a slouchy knit hat that fell too far down his forehead. He looked up as a graceful arch of mushrooms flipped over in the pan. Dark fringed gray eyes zeroed in on me.