To Hell in a Coach Bag Read online

  To Hell in a Coach Bag

  The Devilish Divas Series

  Book One

  by

  M. J. Schiller

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-954-2

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2017 M. J. Schiller. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Meet the Author

  Chapter 1

  Danielle

  Sure, Hell was stamped on my passport, but I was ready for a change of scenery. It was time for me to put the past behind me and move forward.

  On the other hand, after losing my husband, I'd been carrying around my grief for so long my arms were like spaghetti. A new fire may have started to burn inside me, or, at least a glimmer of it, but would the strength it took to begin my life again be equal to the desire to do so? This was the constant debate taking place in my head.

  "Hey. You okay?"

  I twisted to find my gal pal, concert buddy, and fellow lunch lady, Samantha, staring at me. I sat beside her in her ex-husband's convertible as we whizzed down the highway on our way to Chicago and the All State Arena. I'd agreed to attend a Chase Hatton concert with her. I'd be getting myself out there. Maybe that was a start.

  And the two of us always had fun together. In fact, our coworkers often told us we were going to Hell in a handbasket. If that's where I was going, I had the best travel partner ever. The thought gave my spirits a boost. I flashed her a smile. "Absolutely."

  She grinned. "Now, that's more like it." She switched lanes without bothering to signal, earning us a honk, and the honker a one-finger salute. "Lighten up," Sam muttered. She drove barefoot with her left leg crossed over her right casually like we were at a slumber party not on a highway going—I glanced over—eighty-five miles an hour. Good lord!

  I had to shout over the wind to be heard. "Why on earth did Bill agree to let you have his baby this weekend? He knows how you drive."

  She glowered at me. "Very funny, Dani." She zoomed past a school bus, a sedan, and a pickup truck before cutting over again. "I told him he owed me. He ruined my life."

  She waved those four little words around like a color bearer did the flag in battle. It had gotten her many an expensive bauble. "I still don't get it. I wouldn't put up with all the grief Bill gives you even if he bought me a whole fleet of these convertibles."

  She shrugged. "He's my kids' dad."

  This always shut me up, and she knew it. If I'd caught my husband in bed with—never mind. I wasn't Sam and I couldn't begin to understand their relationship as I had, thankfully, never been there before. I let the subject drop, relaxing back into my seat and closing my eyes to Sam's creative lane shifting for a bit.

  It was a beautiful early spring day. One of those days where the starched white clouds hung from the sky like clean laundry on a clothesline. Behind us, snuggled into the back seat, were two of the best little concert signs poster board and permanent marker could make. In a sea of people, signs helped you to stand out. They read, "Lunch ladies heart Chase Hatton!" and "We have access to government meat!"

  It was our running joke that doors would open for us with offers of government meat or pizza made with cheese substitute. After all, being lunch ladies had to have some perks, right? And who could resist Chicken Giggles? It was "a giggling good time" according to the packaging. Seriously, who else could claim a more legitimate in with the government commodities man than us?

  The thwop, thwop of the signs popping in the wind was both comforting in its steadiness and slightly annoying. Sam turned up the radio. The closer we got to Chicago, the more Chase Hatton music we started to hear. Our grins widened, and energy rose in us, surging like jolts of electricity. The thin straps of my tank left my arms bare. With the top down, the sun warmed my shoulders, but I worried about my 'do.

  "Is the wind ruining my hair?"

  She laughed, as my dark, curly hair was always a mess.

  "Nah. You look great."

  "Good. I have to look my best for Chase."

  Sam and I both had the hots for Chase and tried to ignore the fact that he was married to the very beautiful and talented Hope Hatton. As traffic slowed to a near stop, I picked up on an earlier conversation.

  "You know, it's just not fair. Why should a world-class photographer like Hope Hatton be allowed to wed a mega-rock-star like Chase? Shouldn't fame and fortune be spread out in order to keep the world in balance?"

  "No kidding."

  "You know, no more Nichole Kidmans and Tom Cruises—"

  "Or Angelina Jolies and Brad Pitts."

  "Exactly." I wracked my brain for any more celebrity couples. "No more Taylor Swift and... insert name of famous-person-of-the-week. It would be more equitable if Chase Hatton hooked up with, say, a lunch lady."

  "True dat. We should start a movement."

  "You know, we really should. Dani Hatton has a kind of ring to it. Don't you think?"

  "Beautiful."

  For the rest of the ride I let my fantasy play out in my head. Who wouldn't want a rock star for a husband? At least in fantasy land, where everyone was safe and rock stars were true to their partners.

  * * *

  After getting lost for a half-hour because we weren't listening to our GPS, we found our hotel. We checked in and went through the whole ritualistic reapplication of make-up and fluffing of hair. I brought the ingredients to make Nutty Irishmen and we both had glasses in front of us on the counter.

/>   Sam went shopping with me the week before and helped me pick out a sheer black shirt to wear over a black cami. I had on the pair of jeans that made me somehow look tall and skinny. Yep. I turned sideways, admiring myself in the mirror. I'm looking good.

  My gaze shifted to Sam's reflection. She was gorgeous. Blond, stacked, and vivacious—a dangerous combination. She could be wearing a nun's habit and still inspire men to drool and women to come unraveled; that was just Sam. I don't know how many times women threatened to kick our asses for speaking to their boyfriends. Or how many men I needed to talk off the ledge when they discovered she wouldn't be going home with them after last call. I was, in a word, my friend's keeper. It was a job I both loathed and loved.

  I returned my gaze to my reflection. In those few seconds I'd gone from hottie to hopeless. I sighed and picked up my drink, downing it.

  "What's wrong?" She could always read me, but she'd blow it off if I told her. Tell me I'm crazy.

  "Nothing. I'm getting myself another drink. Want one?"

  "You finished your first already?" She added another quick mist of hairspray. "Nah. I'm good."

  She was more of a beer-drinker anyway. But she'd always try whatever concoction I'd come up with. She was the best as a friend. Funny, willing to be silly at the drop of a hat, and loyal, always there for you. But there's only so much I could take of having a male approach our table and act like he's talking to the group while still, physically, turning his back on me to ogle my best bud. It was irritating. And even those with the strongest of egos—which I would never count myself among—would feel like a dumpy housewife who couldn't raise the hottie meter above a zero next to her.

  Being thrown back into the dating scene with someone who was stunning was... nerve-wracking. How could I be expected to bring my game against the Serena Williams of the dating world?

  It's not a competition.

  Or is it?

  Somehow, in my mind, this concert had become bigger than a concert. It was my debut, or my re-debut or something. I knew it was silly, but I couldn't help but obsess over it. Everything must go well. I'm not saying men needed to throw themselves at me and offer me marriage proposals, I simply needed to feel like, after all this time, I still had it.

  And what if I didn't? I had a feeling if things didn't go well tonight, it would get harder and harder to put myself out there. Although I was a bundle of nerves, I felt something coming alive in me.

  * * *

  We caught a cab to the venue. Seconds before I handed our tickets to the person manning the turnstile, Samantha whispered in my ear, "Oh, and... Bill isn't really sure if these tickets are legit. But don't worry, we can buy some at the window if they're fake."

  My whole life, or at least the last six years, I'd been dreaming about seeing Chase Hatton in concert. And now, right before my dream became a reality, she told me this? I handed the lady my ticket as Samantha whispered those fatal words, and I only had a heartbeat, an eternal heartbeat, to find out if my hopes were dashed. I rushed through the turnstile, all the while expecting to hear the lady calling me back, but all I heard was the blissful hum of the crowd around me.

  I turned on Sam. "I can't believe you just told me that. We might not have gotten in at all."

  She grabbed my arm and hustled me forward. "It was because I didn't want you to freak out like you are. Let's get you a beer."

  We secured our brews and, as we turned away from the counter, twenty dollars lighter in our pockets, Sam urged me forward. "Come on. We need to get armbands."

  "Why?"

  "Because, babe, our seats are on the floor."

  "No shit?"

  She grinned. "No shit."

  Minutes later, armbands gracing our wrists, we headed along a hallway and up some stairs, juggling beer as people jostled us and jockeyed for position in the confined area. I'd been too nervous to eat all day, so my buzz came on fast. We stepped out into the auditorium, and the place pulsed with excitement. As my heart beat faster, I turned in a circle, drinking in the atmosphere. I realized after a second or two Sam was way ahead of me, so I jogged down the stairs after her. At the end of the seats was a half-wall. Security shined a flashlight on our armbands and we passed through an opening, wading out onto the floor.

  Sam looked around. "Let's get a feel for the crowd here. Are these people going to be fun?" she said loudly. A few people turned and gave us cursory glances, then returned to their conversations. "Definitely not. Fun factor, zero. Come with me, drunk one."

  She led me over to an area on the opposite side of the stage from where we entered. "What about you people? Are you fun?"

  At this we got a few cheers and assertions of "we're the funnest damned people in the whole fucking auditorium."

  "This is our spot," Sam said with a nod.

  By the time Chase hit the stage our signs were beer-soaked and mangled underfoot. But he was as attractive and endearing as he seemed to be on TV, and he was funny, to boot. I tried to forget he wrote all of his songs for Hope, and imagined, instead, that he'd written them for me.

  "Isn't he fantastic?" I yelled at Samantha.

  She grabbed my hand. "Come on, girl." We stepped over our signs, and she dragged me through the crowd, which didn't exactly part like the Red Sea for us. I looked back at the people she elbowed out of the way and mouthed an apology as she pulled me farther in. When we stopped, I could touch the stage. I couldn't believe it. This close to Chase Hatton after all this time. Perhaps it was wrong for me to have a crush on a rock star at the age of twenty-eight, but it was a whole lot safer than falling in love with somebody real, so I took my rock star fantasy for what it was worth. With the combination of alcohol and adrenaline pumping through my system, and the heat brought on by too many bodies squashed together, my head was swimming, and I suddenly felt faint. I thought, through my mush-brain, "This isn't good. I'm going to pass out, and then people are going to trample me to death." The sickly sweet smell of hops and barley clouding the air didn't help either. Luckily, I held it together.

  After the concert ended, Sam and I prepared to follow the crowd out. We overheard a couple of guys talking about partying with Chase Hatton. Naturally, we shadowed them, winding through corridors with scores of other people, until they sauntered through a gaggle of security guards and into a curtained off area. Chase was so close I could taste it.

  "Sorry, lady. Can't let you back there."

  "But you let those guys—"

  "They have V.I.P. passes." Too late, as the last one went through The Holy Portal, I noticed the clear plastic pockets with credentials hanging around their necks.

  I sighed. "Would it help to tell you as a lunch lady I have access to government meat?"

  He shook his head with a smile.

  "I figured as much." Some could be wooed by offers of government meat, some could not.

  In desperation, I searched for another way in. Beyond the main entrance, a little farther down the hall, was another curtain, not guarded, underneath the concrete of some upper level seating. I headed in that direction. Checking over my shoulder, I grabbed Sam and ducked under the tarp. We were in the lower bowl. On the floor, roadies scurried around like ants on a discarded potato chip, hundreds of them, it seemed. Some carried cables, some equipment, some disassembled the rods holding the stage together. Sam and I watched for a while, fascinated, then remembered our mission.

  I crept forward, peeling a vinyl tarp back a tad. In the middle of the five-by-five-foot area, a lone guard sat on a chair, but she seemed to be focused more on the main entrance to the room. I closed the curtain when she glanced in our direction, checking again after a few minutes. "She's still looking our way," I muttered to Sam.

  She nodded solemnly. Though usually the one calling the shots in situations such as this, she could tell I was zeroed in on the prize, and didn't question me. I was bound and determined to get backstage and meet Chase. It wasn't like I wanted to kiss him, or maul him, or anything—although I certainly wouldn't obj
ect to having the opportunity to do that—it was just... I was compelled to meet him. I felt like we'd really get along well together. I was... slightly deranged.

  I couldn't believe I was being so bold. I mean, I was Mrs. Rule Follower. I always stuck to the correct procedure when dropping my daughter Tabitha off at school or picking her up, to the consternation of all the other drivers. I never ripped off mattress tags and always counted my groceries to make sure I had less than twenty in the express lane. But in some situations, the rules didn't apply, and this was one of them.

  Seconds later, our golden opportunity came. "Come on. She's facing the other way." I ran on tiptoes right past the guard, into a little front room, with Samantha on my heels, tripping across the floor like Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble.

  We giggled quietly and scoped out the area. The room was empty, barren of everything save some computer printed signs for the opening groups, and one for Chase. "They must have had a meet-and-greet in here earlier," I surmised. It was stuffy and closed feeling. Seeing another exit out of the room, I tugged Samantha along. More signs and arrows with the bands' names graced the walls, and a gridded metal staircase descended into the bowels of the auditorium, turning 180 degrees at the landing. I followed this down, my heart rate soaring. It got cooler with each step and the air felt more alive. We were backstage. This was awesome! Awesome until...

  ...we were spotted by a roadie with a length of cable slung over his shoulder. He stood in a wide tunnel, of sorts, already filling up with equipment which had been lugged off stage. The roadie was good-looking and seemed rather clean-cut for a member of a rock-and-roll stage crew. His hair, however, was long enough to fall into his face, partially blocking his—I couldn't help but notice—fetchingly green-grey eyes. He was tan, and with his blond hair, more closely resembled a surfer-boy than a roadie. In fact, that image was so strong I could almost see a surfboard balanced where the cable was. Jeans and a black T-shirt graced his ripped body. Muscular arms shone with sweat as he peered up at us, frozen near the bottom of the steps. "Ladies..." he scolded, shaking his head. He laid the cable on a cart, which already had a pair of huge speakers on it, and crossed his hands over his chest as he turned back around. "You two are not supposed to be here."