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“All right.” I push past a few people. The scent of fried dough hangs in the air. My stomach growls. When was the last time I ate? Maybe that’s why I’m feeling all sweaty and shaky.
“Miss Shelby? Can I have your autograph please?”
I glance up, seeking the source of the question. A man, probably older than Dawson, on the other side of the waist-high fence thrusts a black marker at me. Something about him seems familiar and I squint, studying him for a second. Tall, round in the middle, graying hair, black polo shirt tucked into neat khaki pants. Brown plush bunny backpack hanging off his shoulder.
Okay, that’s weird. Unless it belongs to his kid. My gaze searches the area behind him. Families, kids, adults, and teenagers. This tour draws fans of all ages.
“Shelby?” he prompts, waving the marker at me again.
“Oh, sorry.” I work some extra Southern charm into my voice. I fan my hand close to my face. “The heat’s gettin’ to me today.”
“We can’t have that. You’re going onstage in a couple hours.” He pulls the plush bunny backpack off his shoulder and unzips it. “Here, take this.” He hands me a miniature, battery-operated neon-green fan.
“Oh! I can’t take that from you. You’re gonna need it.”
“I have another one.” He thrusts it into my hands. “Go on. Take it.”
Easy, Mr. Pushy. I accept it, flicking on the switch and holding it close to my face and then lift my hair and run it over my sweaty neck.
“Better?”
It’s a drop in the bucket but I don’t want to be rude to this stranger who’s been nothin’ but nice. Even if he is a bit odd. “Much. Thank you.” I flick the switch off and hold the fan to him. “Are you sure you don’t need it?”
“Nope.” He pulls a pink T-shirt out of the bunny backpack and pushes it at me. “Would you mind signing this?”
Must be for his daughter. “Sure. Back or front?”
“Anywhere that makes you happy, Shelby.”
My mouth twitches into a half-hearted smile as I search for a way to smooth the material out enough to sign it without making a mess.
“Here.” He turns around and points to his back. “Use me.”
“Uh.” His dark shirt’s stained with sweat. Not exactly the most appealing surface. Suck it up and get it over with. He’s a fan. Don’t be rude. “Thanks.” I press the shirt against his back, trying to ignore the moist sensation soaking into the edge of my hand and arm as I quickly scrawl my signature.
“Thank you.” He faces me and takes the shirt from my hands. “I can’t believe I got you alone and all to myself.”
Yeah, me either. Sure, people are everywhere but no one’s with me or even paying attention to what I’m doing.
“Do you mind taking a selfie with me?” He waves his phone at me.
“Oh. Sure..”
I turn and try not to cringe when he drops his arm across my shoulders. Thank the lord for the fence keeping us somewhat apart.
“Smile.” He sticks his arm out and struggles to get both of us in the frame and take the picture.
My smile’s so big and fake, it looks like some propped my mouth open with a toothpick.
He digs his fingers into my shoulder. “Let’s try that again. Nice smile, Shelby.”
This is ridiculous.
Finally, he seems satisfied and tucks his phone into his bunny backpack. “That was nice. Can I cook you dinner?”
“Shelby!” Trent shouts before I have a chance to process the question. I turn and find him jogging up to me. “What are you doing?” He glances at the guy. “Greg found a fan for you. Come on.”
I hand the marker back to the man. “So nice meeting you. Enjoy the show!” I hold up the little fan. “Thank you so much for this.”
“Wait! Trent, would you sign this for me too?” the man asks.
Trent hesitates for a second. He doesn’t get asked to sign stuff often. “Sure, man. Then I really need to get her backstage.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I yank it free.
Rooster: How’d rehearsal go?
“Shelby?” the man’s voice interrupts and I shove my phone back into my pocket.
Trent takes my hand, cutting the man off. “We need to go. Nice to meet ya. Enjoy the show.” He tugs me away without another word.
I wave over my shoulder and breathe out a sigh of relief. Once we’re backstage, Trent pushes me in front of him as we navigate our way to my dressing room. “What the heck’s wrong with you?” he seethes. “Don’t go runnin’ off talking to weirdos like that.”
“He’s a fan.” I elbow him. “I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Sometimes it’s okay to be rude, Shelby.” He grabs the fan out of my hand. “He give this to you? Shoot, dude probably wiped his balls all over it. Or dosed it with something.” He swipes his shirt over every inch of the little plastic fan.
