She giggles. “I never noticed what you were wearing. But I certainly remember going to the community pool with you and Logan, and your body was perfect.”
“You didn’t notice I always kept my T-shirt on while swimming?”
She’s clearly blown away. “No.”
I nod. “I never took off my shirt in public back then. I was super insecure about my body. That’s why I started playing drums, initially. Because I’d heard it’s a good workout.”
“And here I thought you did it to impress girls.”
“Well, that, too.”
“Seems like your plan worked like gangbusters, on both fronts.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, it’s all turned out okay. Once I started getting into drumming, one thing led to another. I started hitting the gym to improve my stamina while playing, and that further transformed my body and attracted even more attention from girls.”
“And here you are—an underwear model.” She gasps. “Oh my gosh! This puts that underwear ad in a whole new light!” She turns her gaze to me, her green eyes blazing and her mouth wide. “You must have felt such a huge sense of accomplishment when they asked you to model underwear!”
She’s exactly right. Was I happy to collect the fat paycheck for that modeling gig? Hell yeah. I bought myself a ridiculous sports car with that cash. But more importantly, the young, insecure teen inside me felt like Rocky Balboa at the top of those famous steps.
“I did,” I admit. “When they offered me the gig, it felt like a giant ‘fuck you’ to everyone who’d ever made fun of me.”
“I hope every one of those bullies feels like an asshole now.”
I can’t help smiling from ear-to-ear. “One of them contacted my manager a while back, asking him to ask me for tickets to a sold-out show. He was like, ‘I grew up with Colin! Tell him the old neighborhood is proud of him!’”
“What’d you do?”
“Told my agent to tell the guy to fuck off.”
Amy cackles. “Atta boy!”
We laugh and reminisce some more. Until, finally, we arrive at the restaurant’s crowded parking lot. For a while, Amy drives her car in loops, looking for an available spot. But when it’s clear we’re not going to find one, I suggest we park on the street and hoof it back to the restaurant. And off we go, driving down the street.
“So, what’s next for you?” I ask. “Are you gonna join another tour?”
“Not any time soon. I couldn’t join the next tour on the schedule, like a bunch of my friends did, because of Logan’s wedding. And now that I’ve had a few weeks to decompress, I’ve realized I needed a break from the grind. I’m thinking I’ll look for a job in LA, doing what I did for Caleb.”
“So, what, you’d be, like, a celebrity personal assistant?”
“Yeah. A couple of my friends from the tour said I could crash at their place in LA, while I look for a job like that. Oh! There’s a spot.”
Amy parks the car, and we begin walking toward the restaurant in the cool night air.
“So, is law school off the table, then?” I ask. It’s a natural question. When Logan called me about ten months ago, asking if I could pull some strings and get his little sister an entry-level job with my label, he mentioned Amy was taking a gap year after college to “have some fun and find herself” before following in the footsteps of her father, mother, and brother by heading to law school.
“No law school for me,” Amy confirms. “That was always my parents’ dream for me. Not my own dream.”
“Good for you.”
She shrugs. “I’m only twenty-three. I’ve got time to figure out what I want to do.”
“Absolutely.”
“For now, I’d be thrilled to get a job in LA that pays the bills and allows me to have some fun along the way.”
“Have you asked Caleb to hire you? That seems like a logical place to start a job search.”
“I did. Unfortunately, he said he’d rather shove bamboo shoots under his fingernails than have me ‘bugging him all the time to be a better person’ while he’s ‘trying to relax like a sloth’ at home.” She giggles. “Luckily, he also said he’d ‘never forgive me’ if I worked for anyone else, when he goes back on tour. So, at least I know I’ll get to work for him again, one day.”
Holy shit. Now I know, for sure, Amy must have fucked Caleb! Because the C-Bomb I know would never tell any PA he wanted her to work for him again on the next tour, in advance, even someone as adorable as Amy, if he hadn’t fucked said PA six ways from Sunday while traveling the world with her. But since I can’t ask Amy about that without coming off like a douchebag, I take a deep breath and force myself to reply, “Sounds like Caleb enjoyed having you work for him.”
“By the end, he did. He was really sweet to me, in the end.”
Fuck.
Again, I take a deep breath to control my racing thoughts, as we walk silently down the sidewalk together. Finally, I say, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to land a PA job pretty easily with Caleb as a reference.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Amy says. “A couple friends from the tour said it’s almost impossible to break into the celebrity PA circuit. Apparently, celebrities like to hire people who’ve been referred by celebrities they know and trust, and, unfortunately, Caleb doesn’t have many celebrity friends, other than his bandmates.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, Caleb hates the whole celebrity thing.” I purse my lips, contemplating. “You know what you should do? Make it look on social media like rubbing elbows with celebrities is nothing to you—business as usual. LA is nothing but a gigantic game of The Emperor’s New Clothes.”
“That’s exactly what my friend said! She loaded up her Instagram with all her best photos with celebrities from the various tours she’s worked, and when she went to an interview with a fancy employment agency in Beverly Hills, they took one look at her Instagram and offered her a nanny position with a huge movie star, on the spot!” She names the movie star and laughingly adds, “And my friend didn’t even have any experience with kids!”
“See? I know how LA works. Okay, dude, here’s what we’re gonna do. At the wedding, we’ll take a shit-ton of photos of you partying with Dax, Fish, and me, and then you’ll post those shots, along with whatever ones you have with C-Bomb. And voila. When you get to LA, you’ll interview with that agency and get yourself a kickass job.”
Amy squeals with excitement and thanks me effusively.
“Oh! Wait! I just realized something else I can do to help you. Duh.” I palm my forehead. “You can work for me!”
“What?” Amy shrieks.
“Only for a week,” I quickly clarify. “I’m gonna be shooting a small role in a movie for a week in LA, beginning a week from Monday, and my contract says I can have a personal assistant on-set on their dime. Someone they supply to me or someone of my own choosing. So, duh, why don’t I tell them I choose you?”
Amy hurls herself at me like a missile, shrieking hysterically. And the minute Amy is in my arms, I feel a tidal wave of affection for her—a rush of the same sort of adoration I always felt for her when we were kids. Except this time, of course, my affection is accompanied by something new—unmistakable arousal triggered by the crush of Amy’s perfect, bountiful tits against my chest.