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“Right! On every social!” and he points at me, full of pep.
A car horn comes from downstairs, interrupting our conversation. My new phone rings once with a text message notification and, when I check, it’s Brody.
Even though my purse and phone were retrieved, Brody felt like it would be better to get a new phone and number.
“Time for me to go.”
I stand, grab my purse and my guitar and head for the door. “I guess you stay here until the next guy comes to surrender you?”
“U-hum, should be any minute,” Chavez replies, looking through the binoculars.
“Leave the key—”
“We have your key!” He waves, bidding me goodbye.
Feeling invaded yet again by the repercussions of my public life, I leave my place and walk downstairs, shaking my head slowly.
But all the thoughts go away once I see that smirking strongman look at me from the driver’s seat.
It had been over a week since I asked him to leave my dressing room that night. It had rubbed me the wrong way that he had questioned my friendship with his sister.
She was an extremely important person to me. She gave me a chance over a year ago and is a big part of the reason my dreams are coming true now.
“You were supposed to come down escorted!” Brody says with exasperation as I approach the car.
“Tell that to Chavez,” I open the back door. “He was more worried about his stand-up comedy career then with his bodyguard duties.”
Brody shakes his head and starts the car, “Sometimes I hate young blood.”
“You seem like a very stern kind of boss, don’t you?” I say, teasing him.
“Eh, when I used to deal directly with them, I was more the ‘no forgiveness’ kind of guy. But now it’s HR that takes care of the problems. I’ve gone soft,” he says.
We’re heading to the local Channel 9, where I’m supposed to make an appearance at a morning variety show. It’s early, almost dark, but being this is New York, there’s already traffic.
He brakes the car and I feel sick to my stomach. I bring a hand to my mouth and say, “Please don’t break so harshly.”
Brody looks over his shoulder, seemingly annoyed. “I’m sorry,” he says, clearly conforming to my whims. “Anything wrong?”
“Just feeling nauseous.”
I can see him wincing, “If you want me to stop the car, just say.”
I nod in agreement, still holding into my mouth. The fact is that the motions and the smell of exhaust fumes are making me feel worse.
We go the entire drive like that, him trying to drive more carefully and me trying not to heave. Brody parks the car a block away, and we walk towards the building side by side, his hand on my shoulder,
“Still feeling sick?” He asks, worried.
“I just need some lemon water,” I smile.
“I like to see you smile,” Brody says under his breath.
I look at him from the corner of my eye, “Don’t start. I’m still angry with you.”
And he simply nods his head, choosing to remain silent. I can’t tell if that’s a wise move or if I’m annoyed by his silence.
We enter the building. Channel 9 has an enormous space in New York. It seems almost too big for a network that’s just an affiliate. After identifying ourselves at reception, we’re guided to the dressing room, where makeup and wardrobe will be taking place.
