“It’s fine, Patty,” she says.
Reluctantly, I step out of the way and let the fans approach her one at a time, but I keep my body in between her and the crowd, unwilling to risk something happening.
Because she’s my meal ticket, obviously.
Nothing else.
Lou takes a selfie with a girl of maybe twenty.
“I love you!” the girl cries. And I mean actual tears.
“Don’t Go Faking My Heartis my favorite,” another woman says. Also with tears.
“I didn’t think I could love anything more thanLovestruck, but then you wroteOff Script, and I’ve never felt so seen,” another says as she takes a picture with Lou.
I take mental note of both songs, as I haven’t heard either.
For her part, Lou is professional and way too warm.
“Between us, I wrote that at a really emotional time in my life,” Lou tells the gushing fan, putting her hand on her shoulder. “I’m so glad you connected with it.”
“I did. I felt like a screw up, butOff Scriptwas a kick in the pants that I could change the path I was on. Thank you for writing it.”
Lou gives her a hug, letting the girl cry on the shoulder of her T-shirt.
I don’t know Lou well, but seeing her hug crying fans while her own eyes water feels authentic, like this is the girl she is at heart but won’t let herself admit.
She’s a natural performer—I saw that last night—but this doesn’t feel forced. She’s signing people’s scrubs and taking pictures, and the grin on her face is captivating.
And all the while, more and more people are flocking to her.
Lou doesn’t show any signs of stopping.
We don’t need to be in Charleston for four hours, but the energy is shifting from excitement to desperation, and people are starting to get pushy.
Including a man in baggy jeans who comes from the sidewalk, not the parking lot.
There’s no way he works here, and that makes a siren go off in my head.
“Time to go. It’s about to get ugly,” I say just loud enough for Lou to hear me. She whips her head toward me, a question forming on her lips, but then her eyes widen as the newcomer pushes another person to try to get closer to Lou.
In a quick, firm motion, I grab Lou’s waist and shift her behind me, and then I hold my hands back out, blocking people from getting at Lou while she climbs the stairs.
“Hey!” a few people shout. “We haven’t taken pictures with her yet!”
“And you’re not going to,” I bark. “Ms. Williams is done.”
“Come on! Let us at least take a picture!” the aggressive punk in his stupidly baggy jeans says.
I don’t answer him. I walk backwards up the stairs, and Lou’s driver closes the door the moment I’m on.
A few of the fans smack the bus with the palms of their hands, and Baggy Jeans is screaming obscenities as we start to drive. Anger makes the blood rush faster in my veins, and something ugly tightens in my chest.
“Where is the bodyguard?” I snap at the driver.
To his credit, he was standing at the top of the stairs and looked ready to spring into action. His name tag says “Jimmy,” and, although he’s probably in his early fifties, he’s in better shape than I am, honestly.
“He’s in the lounge with Manny, going over security details,” Jimmy says with a snort.
