Page 9 of Guarding the Rock Star
“Just so you know, if we run into Lila, none of the rumors are true.”
The elevator dinged as it opened into the parking garage. I started to walk out but Wanda put her arm up, pulling me back behind her while she scoped out the area. Seeing my driver idling a few feet away, she nodded and directed me to the car, her eyes scanning the area like she expected someone to jump out at us at any point.
Honestly, it felt like overkill. Sure, the letters were creepy, and I could certainly do without the dead animal pieces, but there was no way someone was going to snatch me when I left the house. At least I hoped not.
Once we were settled into the back seat of the Town Car and I’d introduced her to my driver Nate, Wanda turned in her seat to pin me with a hard look.
“Who’s Lila?”
I’d almost forgotten that I mentioned her a few minutes ago. “You know. Lila. The Lila.”
When Wanda just stared at me, I said, “Probably the most famous lesbian musician in the world?” I ended it as a question based on her blank look.
“Never heard of her.”
“How have you never heard of Lila?” I asked incredulously. “She’s been on every late night talk show and entertainment program there is.”
Wanda shrugged. “Tell me what I need to know about this Lila.”
The way she said Lila’s name somehow conveyed distaste even though her tone and expression both remained carefully neutral.
I sighed deeply. “Well, a few years ago people were shipping us.”
Another eyebrow raise.
“Shipping. You know, saying we were in a relationship. But we weren’t. We’re not even friends. I mean, we know each other, obviously, because there aren’t a lot of people at this level in music. So, sometimes we’ve been at the same events, that’s all. We’ve never done more than exchange hugs. And besides, she married her personal assistant a while back. But that didn’t stop the tabloids from saying we were fucking each other. Fortunately, the rumors died down after a while and the two of us got a good laugh over it.”
“Why do I need to know about your fake relationships?” she asked.
“Oh. Well. I just thought if someone asked you about it you should know, especially because the reporter is also interviewing Lila this week so her name might come up.” I studied her carefully. “Not that you’d be impressed by the idea that I know Lila, I take it.”
“I don’t listen to pop music.”
“Lila is more like rock than pop. Same as me,” I clarified.
“I don’t listen to rock music.”
“You mean you listen to music from when you were younger and not today’s music?” I clarified.
“No,” she said shortly, turning around to scan the road behind us.
“What do you listen to then?” I asked, fascinated.
“Classical.”
“What? Like Fleetwood Mac?” I asked. “CCR? The Eagles?”
Wanda turned back to face me again. “No, not classic rock. Classical music, like Beethoven. Mozart. Bach.”
“Hm. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone under eighty who listens to classical music,” I mused.
“Well, you’ve obviously never been to the symphony then because there are a wide variety of people there interested in music that is not drowned out by screeching or insipid lyrics.” Her tone was part defensive, part judgmental, and I didn’t like it.
“Insipid?” I asked, my voice raising. “Are you saying you think my music is insipid.”
“I have no idea, I’ve never heard it before.”
“I...”
