Thank God the Detroit gig had gone well. Thank God it was only a one night stand. Thank God the savage fans hadn't gotten their hands on the guys, and they and the costumes had survived intact.
Bonnie was doing her usual final cruise of the stadium lobby area, scanning the merch tables as they packed up and counted out. She often glanced at inventory records to get a feel for the take but she never touched the money; the one and only tour member from the accounting department took care of collecting, recording, and depositing the money by wire transfer from every city.
The lobby area was always the last place to empty out and close... last minute t shirt purchases, of course, and beyond all logic the odd fan(s) who believed for some reason the band not only lingered after the show but actually wandered around the stadium's public areas. For what, Bonnie wondered. Suicide, maybe.
As she wished the last t shirt vendor a thank you/good night she heard a voice over her shoulder asking, "Are you Bonnie Morris?" She was wearing her "Boss Lady" tour shirt, so it was a natural question.
Not looking up from the inventory sheet she handed back to the vendor she answered, "Yeah that's me. What can I do for you?"
Before she could fully turn Bonnie was grabbed by the shirt and spun around. A very angry teenaged girl with long red hair and a "I love Mike" t shirt (homemade, obviously) shook her hard.
"You can keep your hands off Mike!" she shrilled, and without further comment punched Bonnie full in the face, just missing her nose.
The force of the blow knocked her to the floor, and the girl piled on. Stunned, Bonnie heard someone yell "Rico!" to summon the head of security as several of the remaining merch staff dragged the screaming harpy up and away.
"You bitch!" the kid continued to scream. "Leave him alone!"
One of the maintenance workers who had been sweeping up helped Bonnie to her feet.
"You all right lady? Want me to call a cop?"
She shook her head, as much to focus as to tell him no. "That's okay we got our own security." And as if on cue Rico and three of his biggest "gig goons" came dashing up to take the attacker in hand.
"You wanna press charges?" Rico asked.
"Hell yeah. Call the cops and give them my number. Let this little psycho chill out in jail for a while." She said it mostly to shut up and scare the shit out of the kid. It worked well on both counts. The maintenance guy offered her a clean rag, which she used to wipe the blood from her cut and swelling lip.
"Thanks. Oh this is just great, I gotta hide from the press until I heal up," she complained to the guy, who really didn't know much about who she was except with the band.
Stomping away to find a limo to the hotel, the last words the stadium crew and merch staff heard were muttered over Bonnie's shoulder in a bitter snarl:
"Jesus Christ, I hate Detroit!"