The audience with backstage access trickles in calmly enough, but the count must be off because at least sixty strangers are suddenly pressed together in a small area wanting to take pictures and touch the band. Girls push to get close to Bo or Emil. They get frustrated, and scuffling ensues. A drunk girl slaps another in the face, which fires up a strange-looking older man with a beer. I catch Troll muttering, “Backup security. Now,” to venue staff. Bo shields me with his body, a hand clamped around my waist behind him while he chats with fans. I have no problem decoding the tension in his voice. A few new guards take position at the door, efficiently blocking further entrance, and I notice Ingela by the wild hand gestures beyond them. She points at us, livid. “Ingela is here,” I murmur to Bo. “Troll, can you get them?” he asks. The tour manager lumbers off with a nod. Ingela’s annoyance dissipates as soon as they let her in, and she has no problem wheedling her way through the crowd, flashing smiles and sorrys at the huffs of disapproval.
