Page 57 of Dirty Like Me
CHAPTER 13
KATIE
The next day, the day I joined Jesse on tour, was not much like I thought it would be.
For one thing, I didn’t see my new “boyfriend” all day. Then again, I’d never dated a rock star before. Much less fake-dated one.
I was picked up at my apartment, flown to Montreal with Maggie and Flynn, and driven to a hotel. I was told Jesse had flown out yesterday with Brody, Jude, the rest of his new solo band and key crew. At the hotel, I was given a key card to the room I’d share with Jesse.
His things were flung across one of the beds, but he was gone. And yes, the sight of all his stuff inourroom gave me a little thrill. But I tamped that shit down, stat.
Maggie had told me he’d be busy doing promotional interviews, then sound check at the venue before the show. And despite my best efforts not to get caught up in the incredibly weird, exciting, and/or overwhelming of all of this, I was looking forward to seeing him again.
A lot.
I mean, it was okay tolikethe guy, right? After all, he’d made me bacon and eggs, and in my books, that was fucking A. And there was no denying the man was incredibly easy on the eyes.
When I woke up that morning it all felt too good to be true, and for a split second as I blinked my way out of sleep I had an infinitesimal panic attack that it wasn’t real. Like maybe the entire weekend, everything that had happened from the moment Jesse showed up on my sister’s front steps, was another fucked-up dream. I’d fallen off my skateboard and whacked my head to shit, and was lying in a hospital bed right now, hallucinating this whole thing.
Two hundred thousand dollars to spend six weeks on the arm of a ridiculously gorgeous rock star?
Really?
But when I found the text waiting on my cell phone, it hit me all over again.
This was happening.
Good morning beautiful, it said.Pack light. Maggie will take you shopping in Montreal.
That was it.
I called my parents from the hotel room, to let them know I’d arrived safe. I’d told them I was working as Jesse’s “assistant,” but given the fact that I’d never expressed an interest in working in the music industry beforeandthe fact that they’d seen the two of us going at it in theDirty Like Mevideo, I kinda doubted they believed me. I called my sister, who definitely didn’t believe me, and who was taking care of Max; I heard my dog woofing happily in the background and already missed him like crazy.
I got off the phone feeling weirdly alone.
I allowed myself a few seconds to linger in the hotel room, and run my fingers over the clothes in Jesse’s open travel case. But I wasn’t gonna be a weirdo and snoop.
I wasn’t going to swim in his pool without an invite, so to speak.
I tore a page out of the sketchbook I’d brought and drew a little caricature of myself, adoring hearts shooting out of my eyes as I gazed at a little caricature of Jesse Mayes, who was holding a guitar in the air. It was a damn fine sketch. I signed it with the words,I’m here!
Then I left it on the bed for him, in case he came back to the hotel before I saw him.
◊◊◊
I spent the afternoon with Maggie—and Flynn, by default—on Rue Ste-Catherine.
While it was incredibly weird to me that Flynn escorted us everywhere but didn’t actually talk to us, I had to admit being babysat by an ex-military tough guy, who looked something like James Bond in a motorcycle jacket, had its perks. He carried our bags, opened doors, and drove us around when we got tired of walking. He even got us seats in a busy restaurant for a late lunch when we needed a break.
By late-afternoon, though, Maggie had several new outfits and I’d picked out only one item for myself—a pair of jeans from a sale rack.
“It’s on your new boyfriend,” she told me. “Don’t be shy. Trust me, he can afford it.”
That didn’t help.
I still wasn’t keen on feeling like an escort, and being asked to dress differently than I normally did, which was at least being implied by this shopping spree, made me want to revolt. I’d thought shopping would be fun, but bottom line, every time I tried on some item Maggie handed me and stepped out of the fitting room for her perusal, I felt like a whore.
“Hon,” Maggie said when we walked out of the umpteenth store empty-handed. “This isn’t a criticism. No one’s telling you how to dress. I just want you to think about the image you put out there. You’ve seen Jesse, right? In photos? On stage? And how does he look? What does he wear? He’s oiled up, his pants are undone, his shirt is off.”
