Despite regrets, she’d planned her flight. It would be complete. And it would be tonight—while Carlisle and his henchmen licked their chops, counting the proceeds they raked in from her sold-out concert. Wesley pushed and pushed and pushed her to write more and better chart breakers. No more, no more, Miranda thought with astonishing relief as the audience went still. Perhaps the fans had seen her tears. She couldn’t stop them from running down her face.
One last bow. One last wave. She had nothing left to give.
Look at them. They all envied her fame and fortune. None would understand she’d never wanted to be a star. She loved singing, but…
This time when Misty passed her guitar to the kid holding Wes’s clipboard full of must-dos, he obviously sensed steel in her backbone. Still, he cautioned, “Wes won’t like that you only gave two encores.” Jogging to keep up with Miranda’s long strides, he panted. “Wes has you timed to the second. Now you’ll hafta sit in your dressing room until he frees up a bodyguard to escort you to your bus. So I better stay with you.”
Miranda’s steps faltered as she neared her dressing room. “Remind Wes I said at rehearsal that this sequence would drain me. I need to have some time to myself. He’ll recall the conversation, uh…Dave, isn’t it?”
“Hey, you know my name. Cool! Wes hired me for this tour, ’cause your new CD’s gonna be a smash. He gave me strict instructions, but hey, you’re the star, Ms…. Mis…Misty,” the smitten kid stammered.
Miranda hated that Wes would fire this boy for losing her. But it couldn’t be helped. Dave’s very inexperience played into her hands.
AS IT HAPPENED, her escape turned out to be ridiculously easy. Inside her star quarters, Misty meticulously transformed herself back into the nondescript persona of Miranda Kimbrough. First, she hacked her long blond hair into a short spiky mop—carefully storing the cuttings in a plastic bag to be tossed later. Then she dyed her hair black. Without her blue contacts she barely recognized the woman staring out from the full-length mirror. Add ragged jeans, a faded blouse and a denim jacket straight off a boys’ rack, plus run-down combat boots and an old army backpack she’d scrounged from a thrift shop, and her getaway ensemble was complete. Inside the pack, she’d squirreled away cash withdrawn from one of her accounts. Considering she had millions, it was a pittance.
She worried that the meager funds wouldn’t last. But because Wes scrutinized her bank statements, she’d been afraid to take more. Miranda hoped what she had would keep her fed and on the road until her disappearance became yesterday’s news. For good measure, she’d sewn a pair of diamond earrings into the lining of her jacket. She didn’t need diamonds. Only freedom. A chance to be herself.
While Dave guarded the front entry of her dressing room, Miranda slipped out a rarely used back door. Head down, she sped down a hall and merged with a teeming horde purchasing CDs from Wesley’s hawkers. Rick Holden, Wes’s right-hand man, even tried to sell her a compact disc.
Shaking her still-damp curls, Miranda popped a stick of sugarless gum in her mouth and blended with a group of boisterous teens leaving the arena. Once free of the building, she ran for six blocks. Only then did she haul in a lungful of crisp October air. But she didn’t relax until a Greyhound bus bound for Detroit left the glittering lights of Nashville behind.
Starting in Detroit, her plan was to hop a string of buses that would eventually deposit her in far-off L.A. She reasoned that if one small woman couldn’t lose herself on the streets of Los Angeles, she couldn’t find anonymity anywhere.
IT TOOK THREE WEEKS after she pulled her disappearing act for Miranda Kimbrough to reach her destination. She hadn’t reckoned on Wes suggesting to police that she’d been kidnapped, possibly for ransom. The band, all the staffers and roadies, everyone had heard her beg him for time off. But when her bus hit Kansas City, it was a shock to see headlines screaming KIDNAPPED! above her most recent promo photo now plastered on the front pages of major newspapers and magazines.
Panicked, Miranda had taken refuge on the streets with the homeless. Luckily she’d met some kind folks. And vowed that if she ever managed to access her bank funds again, she’d help the homeless in some manner.
When temperatures dropped into the twenties, Miranda began to feel guilty for taking up space at the cramped shelter. And guiltier still accepting a handout of food, knowing all the while that she could, with one phone call, return to a life of privilege.
Could. But she didn’t make that call.
Wes virtually owned her. He pointed out often enough that she’d signed an ironclad contract. He’d find a way to turn her disappearance into a windfall. Going back would change nothing—except that she could expect to be watched twenty-four hours a day.
In the aftermath of her dad’s death, Miranda learned that few people in the industry performed for the sheer pleasure of it. Her dad had been a rarity. Doug Kimbrough had placed family at the top of his priorities. He’d loved her mother and Miranda and successfully juggled work and his home life.
Since Wes had signed her, she hadn’t spent more than two nights in a row in her own bed at home. And she’d like to make just one friend who didn’t eat, sleep and breathe music at warp speed. Someday she’d like to meet a man who could see beyond her voice. Someone who really cared about her likes, dislikes, needs and fantasies.
Her murky thoughts turned inward as Miranda hitched her backpack higher and trudged out of the busy L.A. bus terminal, and headed for an inner-city park she’d scoped out on a seat companion’s map. Another helpful tip she’d picked up in K.C. was that the homeless congregated in parks. By mingling with them, a newcomer could glean information vital to survival. This particular park was maybe a ten-block hike away, but Miranda didn’t care. L.A. was much warmer than Kansas.
Pausing a moment, she slipped out of her lined denim jacket.
“Hi. Is that your dog?” A breathy voice spoke directly behind Miranda, causing her to whirl and duck sharply. A savvy homeless woman in K.C. had repeatedly warned Miranda about not letting anyone come up too close behind her.
“Uh…no. I don’t have a dog. I just got off a bus.”
“Oh.”
“Do you live around here? If so, maybe you can help me get my bearings.” Miranda extracted a pack of gum from her pocket and offered a stick to the unkempt brunette—a young woman probably not even out of her teens.
With her face free of makeup, Miranda thought she probably didn’t look much more than a teenager herself.
“Thanks for the gum. I’m Jenny, by the way.” Shrugging, she said, “I guess you could say I live here. I caught some z’s last night at the bus depot. Sometimes the cops run us out. Last night I got lucky.” She stripped the paper off the gum. Both women cast sidelong glances at the scruffy black-and-white terrier now sitting placidly at Miranda’s feet.
“If he’s not yours or mine, then whose is he?” Kneeling, Miranda ran a hand around his neck in search of a collar. She and Jenny were alone on either side of the street for at least a block. “He’s not tagged.”
“Big surprise. He’s been dumped. This area’s well-known as a dumping ground for homeless people and strays.”
“So are you, uh, homeless?” Miranda asked hesitantly.
The girl’s grin softened otherwise hard features. “Depending on who you ask, I’m both homeless and a stray. You by chance got any smokes?”
“Sorry, it’s not a habit I ever picked up.”
“Lucky you.” Jenny continued to stare. “You have a smoker’s voice. Unless it’s your accent. Are you from down South?”
“Used to be.” Miranda rolled one