Page 6 of Animal Beats

Luke pulls the documents toward him. When the door closes, he says, “That boy needs a babysitter.”

“Not a bad idea,” I agree. Frankly, he needs a leash, but I keep my opinion to myself and develop a more robust PR campaign.

When Luke signs the last document, he tosses the pen onto the stack and leans back into his chair. “Will you do it?”

Deep in thought about massaging the riot incident, it takes me a couple of moments to realize the manager was speaking with me. “Huh?”

“I said Río needs a babysitter and you agreed with me. Seems like you’re the most likely candidate.”

I look to my left and right. “No. I simply noted you had a good idea in getting him one. Why on earth would I be your most likely candidate?”

“Because,” Luke leans his arm on the table. “You have a level head on your shoulders and you did a great job with the press when they were after Bennett and Jenna.” He pauses. “She says hello by the way.”

“I like her. She’s awesome.”

“Great. Then it’s settled.”

My head tilts. “Excuse me?”

As if speaking with a child, Luke explains, “Río needs a babysitter. You’re not swayed by his antics. You win. He’s now your responsibility.”

I open my mouth to protest when the door opens again. The same cop approaches Luke and reviews the paperwork. “Everything seems to be in order. Signor Sullivan will be released to your custody. Follow me.”

Numbly, I trail behind the two men. This cannot be happening.

3

RÍO

One of my fellow detainees asks, “How hard is it to play drums for three straight hours?”

Thank God these Europeans all speak English. “I’ve gotten used to it. I do work out for at least two or three hours everyday to stay in shape. Being the beating heart of UC comes at a price, you know.” Everyone laughs.

Retying this dammed scratchy blanket around my waist again, my attention is drawn to another detainee. “Do you all write the songs together? I saw the movie, and it’s what it said you do.”

“Yeah, we all take turns writing songs. Sometimes one person will come up with the entire lyrics, but more likely one band member has the verse and someone else adds in the chorus. As for the music, we all contribute much the same way.”

The same guy asks, “What song is mostly yours?”

“I think I had the biggest hand in our second number one, ‘Make Me Feel It.’ The lyrics came to me in the shower.”

“Nice,” another guy says. “Tell us, is Jenna Hardy as bad as the press make her out to be?”

My head shakes. “No. She’s a doll.” Given their disbelieving faces, I say, “She really is. Listen, I’ve known Jenna for a while. She’s really good at physical therapy, but more importantly, she has a big heart. And she loves our boy Bennett. They’re a great match.”

Even as the words leave my lips, I pull back from them. My life has taught me better than to believe in that kind of thing. I hope it works out for Bennett and Jenna, but it’s not for me.

Exhibit A: My Parents.

Mother and Pop fell in love. Got married. Had a baby—me.

Pop worked his way up the ladder, promotion after promotion, until he landed as Senior VP. Then he decided Mother needed to be traded in for a younger model.

They divorced. Mother moved somewhere in the middle of the country. I stayed behind with Pop.

He married the Stepwitch. Had another kid. The golden child they fawn all over.

All before I hit my teens.