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“I have a brunch date with Cindy.”
Shock flits over his face. “Don’t you leave this afternoon?”
“Yes. But I need to knock one out before I get on this tour. I’m going to be busy, and I need a recharge.”
“I’m sure there’s plenty of willing women on tour.”
“Birdie is going to be my priority while I’m there. There won’t be any time.”
“Is she now…” Ben smirks.
“Not like that. Never like that.”I’ll never like you like that…
I shake my head to clear my mind of the memory from that day. I grab my wallet and my keys. “I’ll finish packing later. A car is picking me up and taking me to Jersey at one. A few more hours of freedom,” I force a grin.
Ben taps his fingers on his thigh. “Well, enjoy yourself.”
“I plan to.”
I hold my travel coffee mug as I stand on the curb of my Brooklyn apartment. It’s trash day, and the smell in the air isn’t pleasant. Summer + Humidity + Trash = Satan’s armpit.
After I got home from my tryst with Cindy, I packed up the rest of my stuff and said goodbye to Ben. Joke’s on me for thinking that sex with a random girl from the gym would make me feel any better. Sure, it was nice, maybe more than nice, but it didn’t do much to quell the anxiety of what is to come.
I keep thinking about what Birdie’s reaction will be when she sees me. Will she walk away? Smack me? Refuse to let me stay? So many options. I haven’t told her people that we know each other, they never asked anyway. And Ben didn’t say shit, so it’s most definitely going to be a shock for her. Hell, I have no idea how I’m even going to react. I will do my best to be professional, but the last time Birdie and I spoke face-to-face, it wasn’t exactly cordial. I try to forget that day a lot.
A black car pulls up, a huge Suburban that could fit at least seven people. The driver gets out and introduces himself as Gary. We load my stuff in the back of the vehicle and before I know it, we’re on the way to my new hell. I do my best to remember why I’m doing this—to ease my friends' minds and make some good cash—not to mention the opportunities this gig could bring me, but I know this is a bad idea.
I run my hand through my hair and bite back a sigh. We’re driving to Atlantic City, so I have over two hours in the car to think about this horrible life choice—then before I know it, I’ll be standing in front of Birdie. When I look beside me, I see a media pass and packet, which Gary tells me to read on the way down. Fuck; it’s a lot of reading. One of the reasons I stopped being a cop is because of all the red tape and paperwork, but I guess there’s a lot of details I need to know to do this job. It’s a big tour with a lot of moving parts. I’ve got to be on my toes if I’m going to keep Birdie safe at all times.
I flip open the packet and it’s full of pictures and profiles of everyone on tour, including tour dates and travel plans. Birdie is in it, but I skip her profile. I already know the basics. I go over the names of her bandmates: Kevin on guitar, Sarah on bass, Jane on drums, Marta on Violin, and Jenny, Lorraine and TJ on backup vocals. Then I see her team’s profiles, Eric who I spoke to on the phone, Gia who I just met, and her assistant Shea. It’s going to take me forever to remember these people’s names, but I suppose I have two months to do so.
Normally I wouldn’t give two shits about these people, but I also want to do background checks on each of them. Make sure their records are clean and none of them have a motive to scare Birdie. Oftentimes stalkers are people that the victim knows. I wouldn’t put it past a jealous bandmate to make Birdie’s life a living hell just for fun.
After I read over all the tour stops, I get to the info I care most about: the stalker situation. The pages outline the beginning of the ominous letters in L.A. and everything that’s followed since. There are copies of the letters too, but not much else to go on. So far, the creep hasn’t shown their face, or approached Birdie in public. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of them following her either, minus the letters.
I take a sip of my coffee, relishing the bitter notes of it. I wonder if Birdie still drinks her coffee black or if she’s turned into one of those girls who drinks Starbucks frappes. It doesn’t seem like something she would do, but like I told Ben, I don’t know her anymore. And why the fuck am I thinking about what Birdie likes and doesn’t?Get a grip, Liam.
I turn my focus back on the letters. At the gym the other night I didn’t want to read the latest one, but now that it’s my job, I have to study them like some sacred tome. The words and style could give me insight on what type of person this stalker is. Male/Female, Age, Location, etc.…
The first one she got in L.A. is tame. Essentially claiming their love for her. It isn’t too weird; it reminds me of a high school love letter or diary entry. But the latest one gets straight to the point of their desires.
Dear Birdie,
At night I lay in bed and dream of you. I wonder what it would feel like to hold you in my arms. Do you wonder, too? Your curves against mine, my tongue on you. I hope I get to taste you soon. If I don’t, I don’t know what I’ll do…
Don’t let anyone touch you while you wait for me… bad things happen when I don’t get my way, Birdie Wilder. Bad things...
The urge to crumple the paper in my hands is strong. I feel my face heat and immediately open the window. Suddenly this giant car feels like a coffin, and I need to breathe.
“You okay back there, Sir?” Gary asks.
I wave him off. “Fine. Just need some fresh air.”
“Want the air on higher?”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Gary stops asking questions, which I’m thankful for. The coffee feels like acid in my gut, and I wish I could go punch out the wild emotions I’m feeling. I shouldn’t care this much about the damn letters. This is a job and that’s it. It doesn’t matter that Birdie used to be someone I really cared for. She’s a woman I’m protecting. The buck stops there.
