“Thankyoufor the tickets,” Dr. Reed replies with a grin. She carefully injects the soft impression material into Lou’s first ear, pressing gently to ensure a good seal. “My daughters haven’t forgiven me since I told them I couldn’t get tickets to the show inColumbia. They’re going to lose their minds when they find out we have tickets for Charleston.”
“What will they say when they find out you’re my new audiologist?” Lou asks as Dr. Reed moves on to the next ear, the first mold beginning to set.
“They won’t,” Dr. Reed says, smiling as she carefully removes the first mold from Lou’s ear, placing it in a small tray to harden. “I don’t mess around with HIPAA.”
“If you wanted to ensure I’ll be your patient for life,” Lou says with a relaxed smile, “you succeeded.”
When we’re through, Dr. Reed puts a rush order on the IEMs with my contact from NECM.
“Thanks again for the help,” I tell her.
“Really is my pleasure,” Dr. Reed says. She escorts us toward a back door. “Anything to redeem myself to my daughters.”
We say our goodbyes and step out into the bright morning light. I put on a pair of sunglasses to mute the glare bouncing off the buildings and the tour bus waiting for us at the edge of the medical complex.
“So I’m stuck using the garbage earpieces for my next couple of shows?” Lou asks.
Cars are starting to pull into the lot, which tells me at least a couple of the offices in this complex must open at seven a.m. instead of nine, like I assumed.
“Nah, Dr. Reed gave me a couple of different brands to try while we’re waiting. We’ll test them on the bus.”
“Oh, thanks,” she says, sounding surprised. “That was thoughtful of you.”
I give her a wry smile. “That’s what you pay me for.”
“That’s what Manny pays you for.”
“And what you payhimfor.”
She snorts. When she reaches the door, it opens with a hydraulic hiss.
Lou starts climbing aboard when a noise cuts through the sounds of early morning traffic.
“Oh my gosh, is that Lucy Jane?” a young woman in scrubs cries.
Lou spins to wave, but her boot catches on the step.
For a second, she’s weightless, tilting back, arms flailing. My arms shoot out instinctively, and I plant them on her back, catching her. I hold her at an angle that allows her to grip the railing and pull herself back up.
“Whew,” she says, sounding out of breath as she turns her head toward mine, which is close because of my rush to save her. “Nice catch.”
“You sure you weren’t out drinking last night?” I say, my hand on her back as she steps up into the bus.
“Hilarious,” she mutters.
At the top stair, she waves at the fan, who’s still calling her name and walking this way now. A few other people in the parking lot have their phones out as they run over.
I step back down and hold my hands out in front of the stairs, like I’m her bodyguard.
Where is her bodyguard, anyway? Did Manny not book security for the road?
“How do you wanna play this?” I ask Lou.
She puts her thin hand on my shoulder. “There’s only a half dozen people. I don’t mind signing stuff and taking a few quick selfies.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, shaking my head so my dark brown hair falls in front of my face.
I’m glad I have my sunglasses on. I hate the spotlight, hate social media and tabloids. The last thing I need is my face on any of the images these superfans will post or, worse, try to sell.
