“Deal.”
“What about her hands?”
Trish looks at mine; kid’s hands, with wide palms and short fingers. The blunt nails and mangled cuticles evidence I don’t indulge in manicures. Who would in my line of work?
“I brought gloves.”
Roz, who thankfully is done strapping me in, pulls what looks like a pair of lace stockings from a bag.
“Do not take these off,” she warns, pulling the first one up my arm. It goes up all the way past my elbow.
“What if I have to pee?” the practical side of me wants to know.
“There’ll be no peeing,” Sue says firmly.
Of course, I immediately feel like my bladder is about to explode. Nothing will bring on the urge like knowing you won’t be able to make a sanitary stop.
“Limo just pulled up,” Trish announces.
Thankfully Sue is heading down to tell Roddy I’ll be another few minutes; while I quickly dart into the bathroom and take care of business.
I leave Roz and Trish to clean up in Bobby Lee’s opulent master suite and head down the sweeping staircase. Roddy is waiting at the bottom. His white capped teeth sparkling in stark contrast with the artificial tan of his skin.
“A vision…”
He’s so full of himself he doesn’t even notice the eye roll I can’t hold back. Sue catches it and stifles a snicker. Guess she’s not a fan of the man either.
“No need for flattery,” I announce. “I assure you it’s wasted on me.”
I have to give it to him, the bright smile only slightly dims, but apparently the dog isn’t down yet, because the next moment as he leads me outside to the limo, his hand slides down to my ass.
Without breaking my stride, I turn my head slightly in his direction.
“Hands off,” I snarl, and his unwelcome touch immediately disappears. “Try that again and I’ll break every single guitar-picking finger on that hand.”
I’m not sure if the bodyguard—whose name is Sam and is part of Bobby Lee’s usual security detail—heard me, but his mouth quirks as he holds the door open for me.
If I were planning an elaborate ruse like this, intended to keep sensitive information hidden, I would’ve drastically reduced the number of people in the know. As it stands, in addition to record label management who set it up, and my PASS team, there are by last count five people in on the gig. That’s too many potential loose lips to control in my opinion.
Roddy makes the smart move to slide into the seat across from me rather than beside me. Guess the prospect of a mangled hand was the right incentive. Still, the look in his eyes is predatory.
“So…what is your real name?”
“None of your business.”
As the limo starts to drive, I stare Roddy down until his smile slowly disappears and he raises his hands defensively.
“Just trying to make small talk.”
“Stick to the weather,” I suggest before turning my gaze out the window.
Once in the city I start getting nervous.
“Champagne?”
Roddy, who’s been blessedly quiet for most of the drive, must’ve noticed, as he holds up a bottle he got from God knows where. I might’ve accepted had it been scotch, but I don’t do bubbles, and there’s that bathroom issue to consider.
“Not for me. Besides, we’re almost there.”
He pours himself a hefty glass.
“We are, but we’ll be stuck in a line of limos for at least half an hour. It takes time to unload them all.”
That’s great. I really look forward to another half hour with Roddy in the confined space. Especially if he starts drinking.
Luckily the wait is not quite that long, but when the limo pulls up to the theater and I see the throng of people assembled, I want to puke.
Smile without teeth and wave without moving your arm.
Sue’s words loop on repeat in my head as the bodyguard opens the door and I hear cheering.
Roddy is the first one out and holds out his hand to help me. I would rather be in the Amazon burning leeches from between my toes, or be held at knifepoint in a dark alley in the slums of Mexico City. I’m equipped for situations like those—I have my blade strapped to the inside of my thigh—but a knife won’t help with bright lights in the middle of downtown Denver that scare the shit out of me.
Nevertheless, I grab hold of Roddy’s hot and undoubtedly sweaty hand—suddenly grateful for the gloves—and let myself be pulled out of the shelter of the limo.
Smile without teeth and wave without moving your arm.
I’m sure I look constipated as I try to follow instructions while letting Roddy guide me along. Good thing too, because I can’t see a damn thing with flashes going off and hot lights aimed at me.
“Bobby Lee! Bobby Lee!”
My head automatically turns in the direction of the voice. I can barely make out a woman shoving a microphone in my direction, the camera behind her pins me with a bright beam blinding me.
“Are the reports you haven’t been well true?” she asks.
I’m unexpectedly grateful for Roddy’s presence when he wraps his arm around my waist and leans forward to answer.
“My girl has had a long tour and was advised by her doctor to spare her vocal cords. But as you can see, she is just fine.”
The innuendo is dripping from his last words and his fingers flex on my hip, but like a good sport, I smile without teeth in the reporter’s general direction.
Five feet farther down the carpet we’re stopped again, this time in front of a group of cameras snapping away. Posing for pictures is apparently something Roddy is quite at ease with. Me, not so much. After several calls to turn this way and that, I pinch Roddy’s hand resting possessively on my hip.
“Get me outta here,” I grind out between my teeth.
A few beats later we’re inside where it’s blissfully cooler, but no less busy. Roddy and Sam hustle me to a row of sectioned-off seats where I gratefully sit down. A few people stop by, some of whom I recognize, but Roddy plays his role well and explains the laryngitis, leaving me with nothing to do but smile and nod.
He tries to get me to join him for the after-party, but I’m done by the time the credits roll over the screen.
Sam is waiting for us when we get to the back of the theater.
“Home?” he asks.
If only. I have one more night in that hideous monstrosity of a house before I can hop on the first plane out in the morning.
“Please,” I whisper, ignoring Roddy who seems to be pouting.
I’m whisked out of a service door into an alley where the limo is already waiting. I slip in the back seat, followed by my unhappy companion.
“If you want to go to the party, go,” I urge him.
“I don’t have a ride.”
Great. Now he sounds like a put-out child.
“I’m sure there’s plenty of limos around to give you a ride.”
“You don’t mind?” He can’t keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Not even a little bit.”
In the front seat, I hear Sam’s deep chuckle as Roddy scrambles out of the vehicle.
“Do you have a knife?” I ask Sam through the open partition.
“Excuse me?”
“A knife, a pair of scissors, or anything to get me out of this damn contraption,” I grumble, trying to reach behind me to undo the laces.