Page 13 of Love on the Tracks
“Don’t tease me.”
Ugh. It’s a good thing Stan is so good at his job and I know he’s kidding, otherwise I would’ve fired him a long time ago. “I promised Rowan I would be a gentleman. I’m not going to stick my tongue down her throat so we can end up on the front of tabloids, okay? I’ll see what I can do about a kiss, but don’t push it. She’s not a means to an end, you know. She’s a person.”
“A person who was willing to go along with this for the same reason everyone else is. Dollar bills, yo.”
“Stanley, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but don’t ever say that again. You are far, far too white for that. And yes, she consented to this, but she didn’t consent to being assaulted in public. I’ll talk to her and see what I can do. If you want this to last, you need to let us take it slow. Slow-ish,” I amend, because if I were to actually take it slow with a girl . . . Well, I don’t actually remember what that was like. “I gotta go.”
“Okay, but don’t forget about the—” I cut him off by hanging up before he can say something truly disgusting. Usually when the business is getting to be too much for me, I’d call my parents or one of my sisters to help me get my head on straight, but I’m not up for getting the third degree from them about what exactly is going on with the lady luger. I can hear it now, and no. Not until I’ve had a cup of coffee. Or three.
After thinking for a few minutes, I text Rowan. I don’t know exactly what her schedule is today, but she said something about having free time in the afternoon.
If you’re free this afternoon, I thought we might go over to 16th street. Good people-watching. Especially for everyone else who’ll be there ;)
I take a shower while I wait for her response, and when I get out it’s to her answer:
Sure. I have to be back for the ceremony, but I have a couple of hours at 1pm. Should I meet you there?
Girl’s not good at this, but why would she be? It’s probably the first fake relationship she’s ever had. I wish I could say the same.
No, I’ll pick you up. More photo ops that way. I’ll meet you in front of the village, black Land Rover.
Rowan
There he is a few hours later, as promised. I’d wondered if I’d have to search him out because it’s a busy place, but no. He’s standing there, looking impossibly hot leaning up against the black SUV he told me to watch for.
Jeans that are ripped just so, boots, half-buttoned cardigan under a down coat, with a scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, and some aviator shades. Plus his signature tousled hair. No wonder he’s surrounded. A crowd of twenty or so—mostly women—is churning around him, handing over things to be signed, thrusting hands toward him to shake.
It’s so much, I almost walk away. I don’t, though. This is good for my career, and it’s good for his. I just need to work up some mettle before I strut over, acting as though I belong. I am, after all, the only one he actually invited.
This is when he sees me. He smiles, and it melts a part of me that has no business being anything but icy. Feels and swooning not allowed. I raise my hand and start my way over. He clears a path between his admirers, greets me with a kiss on the cheek, and then tucks me under his arm as he shakes a few more hands, signs a few more scraps of paper—whatever people could dig out of their purses or pockets.
And then graciously excuses himself with that pop star smile, saying, “Sorry guys, I gotta go. I promised my girl Rowan I’d take her out before she has to get ready for the opening ceremony tonight.”
Which starts another flutter as people then ask formyautograph, which I don’t deny them. Even though Zane said we had to go, he stands by patiently with a satisfied half-smile on his face while I sign. He totally did that on purpose.
Then we’re headed over to Sixteenth Street, which is a pretty sweet pedestrian mall. I’m not in the market for anything, but it’s nice to walk among the stores with everyone and pretend to be a normal person. Zane’s pulled a hat over his hair, which makes him less recognizable, but it’s not so long before we’re being trailed by a few photogs. Even though that was the point, it still makes me uneasy. Being followed, even knowingly, is creepy.
I think Zane can tell I’m feeling edgy, because he pulls me into a small crowd that’s gathered around a busker. The guy’s good, playing guitar, with an open case full of dollar bills in front of him. After he wraps up the pop hit we’ve been listening to, I toss a few dollars into his case. The busker bows and thanks everyone before sitting on his stool again and—hilariously—launching into an LtG song.
Turning my gaze to Zane, I wonder how he’s going to react. I know some artists get tetchy about this. While I don’t blame them, I’m still glad Zane seems tickled instead of annoyed. In fact, he peels off his hat and doffs his sunglasses, handing them to me with a wink before slipping through the crowd and standing next to the guy, picking up the beat with a hand clap and joining in on a harmony.
The busker’s eyes go huge and he looks like he’s about to stop but Zane twirls a finger in the air and tells him to keep on keeping on, which the guy does with a huge grin. They jam it out for the rest of the song, and flow straight into a second one. The crowd’s gotten twice as big, and while it’s thrilling to listen to them, the swarm is starting to get overwhelming. I feel pushed, pulled, surrounded.
All I can offer Zane the next time he makes eye contact with me is a tight smile. His own doesn’t fade, but he drops a nod that seems to be only for me. When they come to a stop, Zane takes a bow.
“Thank you, thank you all for humoring me. Especially John here. Give him a round of applause, and show him some love in the form of dollar bills.”
Zane plucks the hat from John’s head and holds it out to everyone who’s gathered around. They’re only too happy to throw money in it, especially in exchange for a high five or a fist bump from Zane. By the time Zane dumps it out in the guitar case, it’s full, and then he hands it back to John, who settles the porkpie on his head with a tap.
That done, Zane tries to leave with a wave, and beckons for me to join him in his escape, which I do. He takes my hand in his and squeezes.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just a lot.”
And continues to be a lot, as people follow us. Not just media now, but people with their phones, and those who want to touch. Zane tries to politely keep them at arm’s length, but some of them are persistent. Between polite requests to give us some space, Zane takes out his phone and texts his driver, asking him to meet us at one of the cross streets. When he’s done, he leans down to me.
“I’m going to get you out of here, okay? We’re going to make a break for it. Half a dozen blocks down and on the right, there should be an alley between stores, and Tony will be waiting. When I say go, you run. I probably won’t be able to keep up with you, but I’ll be right behind you, swear. Got it?”
