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“Don’t touch me,” I mumble and step away from him.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” the man who burnt my hand says in the nicest southern drawl I have ever heard. Not that I’ve heard many, but a few.
“I am. . . sort of.” My hand is burnt, and for some dumb reason, I show him where. He softly takes my hand over to the craft services tables and puts together a napkin with some ice.
“I am very sorry. I should’ve been watchin' where I was walking,” he tells me as he holds my hand gently in his.
I am completely dumbfounded by this man, and for the life of me, I can’t put my finger on as to why.
“It’s okay. I should’ve signaled before I left the room.” My joke is corny, and I don’t expect him to laugh, but he does, and soon I find myself laughing right along with him until someone steps next to me and takes my injured hand out of his and applies cream and a bandage. Before I can thank him, he’s disappeared, but Van is there to continue to ruin my day.
levi
Eight
I amas smooth as they come. Of course, I would be the one to spill my coffee on the lead singer of Reverend Sister, burning her hand in the process. With how my luck has been going this month, it’s likely the hand that she holds her microphone with and for all I know I’ve ruined the video shoot today.
That’s the reason I’m here, drinking coffee and trying to ease the pain of the beautiful woman who has cautiously given me her damaged hand. If it wasn’t for Stormy, who spent days gushing about the lead singer and her epically cool hair, I wouldn’t have a clue as to whose hand I’m currently holding and trying to ice.
Weeks ago, I held onto the promise that I made Stormy and made sure that she was at every single audition that had been set up for her. Some of them—mind you—made my skin crawl and we promptly walked out, but others seemed legit. At the end of each night, I wanted to dig Iris up and strangle her for committing our daughter to some of these auditions. My feelings toward Iris only worsened when Stormy told me that most of the time her mother didn’t even bring her, that she took an Uber or asked her dance teacher to accompany her. I wanted to ask Stormy why she didn’t tell me but knew that nothing could change what happened in the months prior so why even bring it up?
I apologize to the woman, whose name I can’t remember as I place a makeshift ice pack on the burn. Her hand, in comparison to mine, is tiny.
“It’s okay. I should’ve signaled before I left the room,” she says, trying to hold back laughter. I can’t and bark out so loudly that others are staring at me. She, in turn, does the same and ends up snorting.
She quickly covers her mouth in total embarrassment. “I can’t believe I just did that,” she says.
“I thought it was cute.” The words are out of my mouth and to her ears before I realize that I’ve said the dumbest thing ever. Here I am, holding this uniquely beautiful woman’s hand and I tell her that her snorting was cute. And Barbara wonders why I’m single.
Our moment, or lack thereof, is cut short when someone takes her hand from mine. They immediately tended to the burn I caused leaving me no choice but to head back to the waiting area. I think about looking over my shoulder to get one last look at her, but I don’t.
As soon as I’m back in the waiting area, Stormy’s eyes are wide, and words are tumbling from her mouth before I can even sit down. “Did you hear that someone burned Zara’s hand and the shoot may not happen today? I mean, how could someone do that to her?”
Two things happen here for me. The first is my mind repeatedly says Zara’s name, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why. The second is acknowledging the fact that I may be public enemy number one if this shoot doesn’t happen and by looking around the room full of dancers, they’d have no qualms about maiming me.
“I’m sure everything is fine,” I tell my overly anxious daughter. Never mind the fact that I’m shaking in my boots, wondering if I have ruined everything. I’ve been on the other side of production and can understand everyone’s disappointment when shoots get rescheduled. It’s nothing for a guy like me to move my schedule around, but for others, it can be a downright nightmare.
Not willing to divulge my involvement in the situation, I sit back and pull my cap down a bit farther and close my eyes. I really needed that coffee to stay awake. Since arriving in Los Angeles, I haven’t exactly been sleeping very well. Iris plagues most of my thoughts at night. Then there’s the lingering voice in the back of my head asking me what the hell I’m going to do with two teenage daughters. My mama will be on hand, as will Barbara, but I’m now in a situation that I never thought I would be in. Even with Iris being flakey, I always thought she’d be around to help me out.
The beauty of being here is that no one knows me. I’ve taken both girls to school, walked through their halls, and haven’t been noticed. I even ventured out to the grocery store and looked at all the rag-mags on the newsstands to see if I’m anywhere in there. I haven’t been asked once for an autograph or picture at any of Stormy’s auditions, but I have been propositioned by a few of the other mothers. You know, these nice ladies are very sorry for my loss as their fingernails trail down my arm. Honestly, though, it’s been nice to stay under the radar and just go with the flow.
“Shoot’s on, I gotta go,” Stormy says. By the time I lift my hat to watch her leave, she’s in the mix of a sea of other dancers heading into production. This soundstage isn’t anything that I’m not used to, although most of my music videos are shot in airplane hangars or warehouses.
It’s not long before the music starts and I swear my ears are starting to bleed. For a brief moment, I feel like my mother used to when I would strum my guitar and sing out of tune. God bless her for putting up with me.
I sigh when the music stops, only for it to start up again, this time it’s much smoother. If I had to guess, someone was way off-key with the first go round, but not this time. From the first beat of the drum, I’m tuned into listening and the riffs that follow on the guitar really have my attention, but it’s her voice that has me sitting up and listening a bit more. I won’t even talk about the goose bumps that have formed along my arms or the fact that my heart is racing a bit more.
“I take it this is the first time you’ve heard her sing?” A woman across from me says. I glance at her and smile.
“It is. This isn’t my type of music,” I tell her.
“Where are you from?” she asks. “I like your accent.”
The inner boy in me turns bashful. I have no doubt that if the lighting was better, she’d see that my cheeks are red. I don’t even know why I’m embarrassed by her question.
“Nashville,” I tell her, hoping that my answer doesn’t give away anything. I’ve rather enjoyed no one knowing who I am.
“That was your daughter with you earlier?”
