Page 13 of Animal Beats

“Why? You never wear them.”

She got me there. “Maybe I’ll start. I’m going in.” Not waiting to see if she follows, I enter the store where a pretty woman approaches. Not a minute later, my babysitter joins us at the rack.

The clerk helps me select three shirts and directs me to the dressing area. Good thing, as I was about to try them on in the middle of the store. Do I need to learn some decorum? Nah.

I go into the dressing room and put on the first shirt. As I’m buttoning it up, the PR chick yells, “How does it look?”

I bet Nese Dalton, the band’s stylist, would have something to say about her butting in. I check out my reflection from the couple of different angles afforded in the small room. Guess I could use a second opinion.

Exiting the dressing room, I seek out the clerk. Who is standing next to my babysitter. My arms go out wide. “How does this look?”

Both women approach. The clerk pulls the material in a few directions and gives her approval. On the other hand, my babysitter asks me to turn around. “I like the fit, but I’m not sure about the color. Do you have another to try on?”

Since I don’t usually buy clothes, this is foreign to me. One thing I do know, though, is my patience for it is wearing thin. “I’ll show you what I have.” See how reasonable I can be.

Hayden smiles, her blue eyes twinkling. Whoa. The mix combined with her shoulder length, strawberry blonde hair, is arresting.

What am I thinking? This is my babysitter for fuck’s sake.

I duck into the fitting room and pull out the two other shirts. Holding both of the hangars to my body, I give her exactly thirty seconds to decide which one I need to model for her. Lucky for her, she doesn’t take up her allotted time, and I disappear into the dressing room to put it on. The dark green does look better with my coloring. Who knew?

I step out and both she and the clerk await. “Oh yes,” Hayden claps her hands. “Looks great.” The clerk agrees with her, and soon I’m the new owner of an Italian shirt. Not to mention a navy and black one the clerk brought for me to try.

“Put it on,” my PR watchdog says.

“Don’t like me bare chested?” I prefer to go shirtless for several reasons. One, less laundry. Two, less packing. Three, and most importantly, shirts make me uncomfortable when I’m performing.

She gives me the side-eye. “In polite society, men and women wear shirts when out in public.”

“Who ever said I was polite?”

She sighs. “Not me.”

I leave the new shirt in its bag and reenter the Roman streets. The fact the PR chick is in a rush to get back to the hotel makes me slow down. I linger at windows selling pastries, novelty items, and gelato, in order to piss her off. When we reach a coffee shop, though, I’m not playing. Italians really make the best brew.

“Want a coffee?”

“What? No. We have to go to the hotel.”

Her words roll off my back, and my hand lands on the door knob. “I’m going in.” I stand with the door open for the split second it takes for her to huff past me. Perhaps having a shadow can be a diversion?

We approach the counter and I turn to her. “What would you like?”

Ignoring me, she looks at the clerk. “I’d like an Americano, per favore.” I raise two fingers, and the clerk nods.

“This is on you,” she says.

“Of course.” See how agreeable I am?

At the register, I pay while she scouts out a table. Once I’m done, I turn to find her. Naturally she didn’t take one outside. Or even by the window. No, she had to choose a table tucked away in the back. I walk over to her. “Seriously? Couldn’t you find a place in the backroom?”

Her head swivels. “They have a back room?”

I roll my eyes and sit. This strait-laced chick is a ball-buster. “Stay here. When our names are called, I’ll bring your drink to you. I’m finding a table in the middle of the action outside.”

“No.” Her hand covers mine. It’s surprisingly warm. “You stay here. Please. I’ll get the drinks. After all of today’s videos, we don’t want to cause more of a stir in Rome. Remember, the police want us out of the country.”

I complete her thought—because of what I did at the Trevi Fountain. I slink into the chair and watch as she approaches the counter. She has a nice ass. Frowning, I shut down my inner monologue.