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Much to his confusion, Sandra and I begin to cackle, as I already told her about how boring and rigid Fryars was.
She gets off a floor below me, to go to Brody’s room, and I stay in the elevator and go a floor above for my room to go take a shower and eat something.
I watch the news in the meantime. The anchor gives the report about the incident this afternoon with the mechanical expression and tone expected of reporters.
But there’s footage of me and Brody right when it all happened - my first foray into national TV and it’s in the crime news.
I keep on distracting myself with my phone, unable to relax, but unable to focus on reality. I decide to call my parents, which I’d been putting off, but could no longer do so. I don’t want them to find out what’s going on by watching the news.
As I talked to them, I played it down and just told them there was an overzealous fan and that the police were helping me and that I had plenty of private security so there was nothing to worry about. I could hear the concern in my parents’ voices, but I kept my positivity up and promised to send them texts every day to let them know I was alright.
Soon, 10 pm comes, and I decide to head back downstairs for the press conference.
“You’re new!” I say, surprised, looking at the man who stands by my door now. He’s a burly man, as tall and wide as a door.
“Here to take over the shift, Miss Rockwell,” he says, in beautiful, limpid voice.
“Your name?” I ask, slowly heading for the elevators.
“Abrahams, miss. Christopher Abrahams,” he says, looking humbly at me.
“Okay, I like you, at least you talk. Do you know a guy named Fryars?”
We go into the elevator, and he accompanies me to the same conference hall where the stabbing happened.
The difference now are the chairs set on stage, behind a wall of microphones, tape recorders and small cameras.
“Lily,” The woman I assume is the event coordinator takes me by the hand. “There’s a space backstage for the talent. You can wait there.”
“Is Sweets there?” I ask, ignoring another wall, the one comprised of journalists, trying to call for my attention.
“Sweets got stuck at the arena, dear,” she says. “Some crazy hacker invaded the flat screen, and the press is all over her with questions.”
I look at her, weirded out. “Do you happen to know if the guy who stabbed my bodyguard was arrested?”
Now she’s the one to look at me oddly. “According to what I’ve heard around here, yes, they found the guy in New York.”
“He must have flown there,” I say, tsking my tongue.
She drops me by a set of comfortable chairs and a table full of candy bars and cucumber flavored water.
I grab a bar to nibble on, avoiding the water so I will not need to use the bathroom in the middle of the interview.
I lose track of time when Sweets comes walking in, from the back of the building. Her usual friendly glow is now completely gone, replaced by the angriest expression I’ve ever seen on a woman.
“He should have invadedyourshow, Lily!” she growls in between her clenched teeth, taking the seat by my side.
“I’m sorry, Sweets,” I say, disappointed with myself as if any of it were my fault.
“You better be,” she taps her foot in the air, over a crossed leg. Struggling to open a bottle of water with her long acrylics, I offer my help but am vehemently shunned.
This time I got to bring my phone and my earbuds, so I shove one of the little things inside my ear and start looking on the internet for any news about Sweets’ show.
And then, I find it.
‘SWEETS TYLER’S SHOW HIJACKED BY HACKER,’ says the headline, and there’s a brief article, but I skip it, favoring the video.
It all starts in the middle of one of Sweets’ most famous songs. Suddenly, the bass drops, and the musicians are at a loss at what to do. Sweets keeps on singing, prompting the crowd to applaud in place of the drums. All the while her gaze shifts from left to right, trying to understand what’s happening.
