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Della glanced out the window. “Nope. It’s a fancy bus, but it doesn’t say anything. Hm, maybe the White Stripes?”
“No, you said two guys.”
“Twenty One Pilots?”
“Oh, my God, Dell, I don’t know. I only know you’re going to be alone with them. All night. I am not good with this.”
“Well, it’s too late now. I’m stranded in a gas station somewhere outside of Idaho Falls.”
“It’s never too late. You can catch a cab to the airport, buy a ticket, and go home. Or…” Micky drew out the single syllable. “You can stay right where you are, and I can come pick you up.”
“Nope.” Excitement buzzing through her, she set her four Frappucinos, a bag of mixed nuts, gum, and a Caramello bar on the counter and pulled out her wallet. “I’m doing this.”
“I know you are.” Micky exhaled in frustration. “Well, did the manager look skeezy? Was it a cheap suit?”
“I’ve spent the last six months cleaning for the wealthiest people in the world, and I can tell you that man’s underwear is probably silk. Trust me, his cologne, his watch…I mean, his overnight bag probably cost as much as first and last month’s rent on my next apartment.” Although, since she’d be living in Bixby, that wasn’t saying much.
Finished paying, she shoved her wallet back into her purse and grabbed her paper bag.
“I really wish you’d reconsider,” Micky said.
Heading out the door, Della knew one thing: she didn’t want to go back home without her best friend. And let’s be honest. Micky’s the event planner. Not me.
Of course, Della would go all-in and make it one hell of a successful business, but she’d only gone along with the idea because she wanted to work with her friend and didn’t have any real goals of her own.
Well, there was one thing. But poetry wasn’t a career.
In any event, delaying the launch by a few days wasn’t a hardship. “Nah. I’m throwing the dice on this one. And, you know, worst case scenario, someone tries to make a move on me, and I give him a rabbit punch.” When her friend was quiet, she tried to break the tension. “How glad are you right now that we took those self-defense classes?”
“It’s not funny.”
“Look, if anything bad goes down, I’ll tell the driver to pull over, and I’ll get off. I’ll be fine.” She’d reached the bus. “Okay, I’m here. I’ve got to go.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
As Della climbed the steps, the driver closed the doors behind her.
“Beyonce and Jay-Z?” she asked him.
As he pressed the accelerator, he shook his head. “I already signed my NDA.”
“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. Martin didn’t say anything about a rock band. So, I’m thinking it’s either a Chippendales dance troupe or The Flying Wallendas.”
“If you promise to sit your ass down, I’ll tell you.”
Dropping the handle of her carry-on, she pulled down the jump seat. “Promise.”
He drew in a breath, looking solemn. “It’s a Journey tribute band.”
She stood abruptly, making the seat snap shut. “Whoa. Let’s not build our relationship on a bed of lies.” Just as he braked before turning out of the lot, she held out her hand. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Della Swanson.”
“Warner, but they call me Scat.”
“Scat?” That didn’t sound very nice.
“Yes, because everyone’s always coming up here to jaw with me, and I tell them to scat. Can’t stand drunken fools. Now, will you go on back and settle down?”
