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A fluff of white appears over the break between the front and back seats, courtesy of Nosy Joe Driver, and I grab it with my free hand like the life of Brooke’s pretty white shirt depends on it.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I got something on the shirt, and I didn’t even have coffee. Or vodka! No coffee vodka!”
“Calm down,” I coach in a soothing voice I hope doesn’t suggest judgment. I understand why she’s freaking out. The whole appearing on a live news show is huge for any normal person without a history of celebrity. Add in a bodily fluid, and the ante really ups. “I’m going to fix this. When we get to the studio, I’ll get the stain out.”
“What? How? It’s blood, Chase! Blood! Not even that OxiClean guy is confident he can remove this stuff!”
“I’ll get it out, I promise. Just concentrate on stopping the bleed.” I rip off a piece of tissue and ball it up before lifting her lip and shoving it underneath. She’s shocked by the intrusion. “Here. Keep this under your lip, right there on your gums, so it puts pressure. I got elbowed in the face playing high school basketball, and the athletic trainer taught me this trick for stopping a nosebleed.”
“You were a basketball star in high school?” she asks, amazed. I can’t help but laugh at the insinuation, as well as how easily her mind is distracted.
“Star? Uh, not so much. I played, but that’s about it. I’m only six one, and I didn’t get to be that until my senior year. In the basketball world, I was practically a runt.”
Brooke looks me up and down, her lip sticking out like an adorable chipmunk, thanks to the tissue in there. “You don’t look like the runt of anything.”
My chest puffs up and my eyebrows waggle, but the truth is, I’m just lucky Brooke doesn’t have access to my high school yearbook. My growth curve was slow at best, and I didn’t get to the point of musculature I am at now without the help of a personal trainer teaching me how to use the gym when I lived in Nashville.
Both in literature and the real world, perspective can be faked. With a little effort, making people see what you want them to see is easy.
I don’t feel the need to mask my past with Brooke, though. She’s nervous often, but she doesn’t let the nerves stop her from being authentic. I don’t know that she realizes just how lovable that is, but I think the fact that I’m willing to put myself through several rounds of Stain Removal Medical School via Google and YouTube just to ensure her shirt goes unmarred on television speaks for itself.
“Gah,” she breathes, looking down at her shirt before covering her eyes with her hands. “I can’t believe this is what I look like before my very first TV appearance. I look like I got bad lip filler, punched in the nose, and stabbed in the chest with the world’s tiniest knife all at the same time.”
The drama queen in her is on full display. Any other woman and I’d probably be annoyed, but not Brooke. If anything, I’m fucking amused. “It’s not as bad as you’re imagining it, and it’s all temporary. When we get there, we’ll head straight for the bathroom, and you can give me your shirt. I’ll work some magic and bring it back to you within a couple of minutes, I promise.”
“Great,” she murmurs softly. “Undressing in the ladies’ restroom while you do triage on my blouse is exactly what I envisioned when I woke up this morning.”
“If that’s true, you might want to look into some facts on being gifted with a sixth sense. Because that’s pretty impressive,” I tease.
“I’m pretty sure that’s reserved for ghost kids and the Bruce Willises of the world.” She shakes her head. “But if I had it, I’m certain I would have used it to avoid a few things on this tour already. Benji would have a lover, and I’d have moved to New York before the whole hassle of divorce.”
“Well…it’s a new gift, maybe?”
“We’re here,” the driver calls, thankfully releasing us from this weird state of holding. As tempted as I was to rip her shirt off right there in the car and start working, somehow, I think that might have made things worse.
Just a theory, but I’d put money on it.
Brooke frowns as I hustle her out of the car and into the back doors of Good Morning, Chicago’s studio with a hand at her back and Benji at our side. I shield her as though there’s a gaggle of paparazzi flashing away with their cameras, even though there most definitely is not, and rush her toward the bathroom after hurriedly asking someone for directions.
