by Lauren Rowe
Aloha: I love your swagger, Zander! Keep it up. Screw Daphne! You’re the bomb diggity. The little engine that could!
Zander: Wow, thanks for the pep talk, Mom. Very sweet of you. But, trust me, I ain’t no little engine that could. I don’t “think” I can. I KNOW I can. Also, my engine ain’t little by any standard of measurement. #BigEngine #NothingLittleAboutIt #NoPepTalkNeeded
I laugh out loud again. Oh my God. Zander is freaking hilarious. Barry said he had a great sense of humor, and, man, was he right. I begin tapping out a flirty little reply, but before I’ve sent it, a text from Zander lands on my screen:
Zander: Ignore that last text, please. Did I mention I’m drunk and stoned? We’ve been getting along so well, I forgot you’re not actually Keane in a female body or some awesome girl I met online or in a bar. I’m reeeeally sorry if I crossed a line with that last text and made you feel uncomfortable in any way. #BadZander #DrunkAndStonedZander #ToForgiveIsDivine #SorryBoss #Oops #FlirtyWhenDrunk #ForgiveMe
Aloha: No worries! I thought your text was hilarious! Just be yourself with me, Z. No offense taken.
Zander: Promise?
Aloha: Promise. Would it offend you if I said Daphne was a damned fool to dump you? You really ARE the most adorable person ever. #charmsicle #swaggy #BigEngine #swoon #FuckDaphne #GimmeMoreBadZander
Zander: Holy shit, AC. In all seriousness, I feel like I won the lottery getting this job. Barry said we’d get along, but I didn’t think it would be this easy and comfortable between us so fast.
Aloha: Agreed. What else did Barry say?
Zander: Nothing much.
Aloha: Spill, Zander.
Zander: Nothing too interesting, I swear. He just said you’d screw with me and I had permission to be myself and push back. And he said you’re not my job, you’re my “fucking mission from God.”
I drag my teeth across my lower lip. My clit has been pulsing for a while now, which makes absolutely zero sense. Am I really that tipsy? I think it’s the mismatch of his confidence and looks that’s got me so intrigued. How’d he get this confident, looking the way he does? Does he have the world’s biggest dick or something? Maybe he wasn’t joking when he said his engine isn’t little... Shit, this throbbing I’m feeling between my legs... these butterflies in my stomach... None of it is making any sense. The boy looks like he could fall through his ass and hang himself. And yet... there’s no denying what I’m feeling. With a big, naughty smile, I tap out a text to Zander that’s got to be fueled by three martinis and a year without sex more than Zander himself:
Just for clarification, because the English language can be so dang tricky... When you said I’m your “fucking mission from God,” how did you mean the F word in that sentence? As mere emphasis... or to define the endgame of your mission... from God?
Without a sober thought in my head, I press send... and then instantly freak out. Bad Aloha! Bad, Drunk, Flirty, Always-Seeking-Male-Validation Aloha! What have I done? I’m pretty sure I just gave Zander the green light to sext me!
Shit.
There are three wiggling dots underneath my stupid text.
I have to cut Zander off at the pass before his drunk and stoned ass replies.
With clumsy, hasty fingers and a racing heart, I tap out a message to Zander and press send before his reply lands on my screen:
Haha! Thank you, three martinis. All drunken kidding aside, I’m going to crash now, Zandy Man. I’ll see you on Thursday at the arena! Nighty night, my friend!
The three wiggling dots underneath my text vanish and three seconds later, a brief and highly appropriate text from Zander appears:
Zander: Good night, hula girl. Slay your rehearsal tomorrow. Roger?
Aloha: Good night, Shaggy Swaggy! I will!
Zander: Noooo! When someone says ROGER to you, you MUST reply with RABBIT. This is the law.
Aloha: Oh, crap, I had no idea. #lawbreaker
Zander: Now, let’s try it again. Goodnight, Aloha. Slay tomorrow. ROGER?
Aloha: RABBIT!
Zander: Good girl. *pats the pop star on the head like a puppy*
Aloha: LOL. Night, Z. Sleep well.
Zander: You, too, hula girl.
Aloha: XO
Zander: XO
With a happy sigh, I put my phone on the nightstand.
Wow. I’ve got to hand it to Barry. He sure can pick ’em. He thought Zander and I would click, and he was one thousand percent right.
I close my eyes, a huge smile on my face.
Happy Aloha.
Happy, Drunk Aloha.
Yay.
Ping.
I open my eyes and grab my phone. It’s another text from Zander.
Hey, Aloha, before I pass out in a puddle of my own drool, I feel the urge to confess something to you. Deep down, I’m not actually a skinny, pasty, bearded hipster. I’m actually a six-foot-four black man. Just thought you should know.
I burst out laughing, suddenly picturing a Chihuahua looking into a mirror and seeing a Rottweiler in his reflection. Giggling, I tap out a reply:
Well, that would certainly explain the big engine. Sweet dreams. Mwah!
Ha! It’s a good thing Zander isn’t a big ol’ twenty-four-year-old black man. If he were—if he actually had a studly, hunky body to go along with his adorable personality—then there’s no doubt in my mind I’d wind up jumping his bones the first week of the tour, simply because I’ve got a particular weakness for that flavor of man candy and I’m already finding him kind of irresistible as it is. Shoot. A six-foot-four black man with the personality of Zander? Now that would have been a fun tour.
With that happy, silly, naughty thought swirling around in my tipsy head, I roll onto my side and pass the fuck out.
Chapter 8
Zander
I want to modify AC’s route from the dressing room to the meet and greet.”
That’s Brett talking—the ex-SEAL who’s going to be my immediate boss and mentor for the next three months. But he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to a squat Latino guy named Javier, the head of security for the Staples Center. Brett and Javier, trailed by Barry and me, are in the midst of a walk-through of the empty arena before tonight’s kickoff show of the tour.
Brett continues, “Make sure the tunnel is cleared twenty minutes before AC is set to head backstage, and notify Zander when you’ve got it cleared.”
A female voice blares over the speakers in the large arena. It’s the same booming voice that’s been doling out instructions to the production crew on the other side of the arena throughout our entire walk-through. “Okay, that’s it for lighting cues,” the woman says. “Let’s run the opening montage while we await AC’s arrival onstage for soundcheck.”
At the woman’s command, the large jumbo screens mounted on either side of the expansive stage flicker to life and begin showing rapid-fire video images of Aloha Carmichael working the camera. She’s alternately dancing, laughing, blowing kisses, whipping her gorgeous hair...
“You got that, Zander?” Brett says.
I tear myself away from Aloha’s face on the screen and stare at Brett. “Sorry, no. Could you repeat that?”
Brett tells me a logistical detail about the venue-supplied security guards who’ll line the stage during Aloha’s performance, and I assure him I understand.
Barry leans toward me. “Shadow Brett during every walk-through in every city, Zander. This is where you’ll learn the nuts and bolts of the job.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hey, everyone, let’s do this ish!” an upbeat female voice says through the overhead speakers. It’s a different female voice than before—a much younger, spunkier one.
I look toward the stage... and there she is. The Package. The woman I’ve seen on countless TV commercials for shampoo and facial cleanser and bottled water. The woman I watched shake her ass in skimpy outfits in at least a dozen music videos the other day. The face I’ve glimpsed hundreds of times growing up as my sister sat
glued to the TV or, nowadays, as I’ve mindlessly flipped channels.
Aloha Carmichael is standing front and center on the large stage, dressed in a white tank top, black leggings, and flip flops. Her dark, unruly hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head. She looks smaller than I was expecting. During training with Barry, he told me Aloha is only five-feet-four, so I should have known. She just seems so much taller than she actually is—larger than life—in all her music videos.
“Can we check the live-feed?” the earlier female voice booms. And a second later, a live video feed of Aloha appears on the jumbo screens, gifting everyone with the up-close-and-personal sight of the woman’s makeup-free face.
Wow.
After seeing Aloha’s painted and airbrushed image on screens and in advertisements so many times, I guess I’d started to think she actually looks like the marketed version of her—like a perfect doll. But standing there now, Aloha looks real. Accessible. Slightly tired. Like any normal, albeit strikingly beautiful, twenty-three-year-old woman I might see at the gym after she’d rolled out of bed for an early-morning spin class. In short, the real Aloha Carmichael is far more attractive to me than the marketed version of her.
“You guys wanna do ‘Pretty Girl’ for soundcheck this time?” Aloha says brightly into her microphone, addressing the band standing behind her. And, seconds later, she’s singing the song.
I stand and watch, mesmerized. When I’ve heard this song at the gym, I haven’t given it much thought. I don’t love it or hate it. But now that I’m watching Aloha sing it and I’m seeing that big voice come out of that tight little body and beautiful face... I fucking love this song. Why doesn’t Aloha sing just like this on the recording—with no special effects added? This girl can really sing.
I suddenly realize my group of four has almost reached the stairs to the stage while I’ve been standing frozen in place staring at Aloha, and I sprint to close the gap. Just as I catch up to the group, Aloha stops singing and signals to her band. The blaring music stops on a dime.
“Everything sounds great,” she chirps. She waves to the sound booth at the back of the arena. “Great job, guys! The levels in my ears are purrrfect!”
“Let’s do intros now,” Barry says to Brett, and our group begins ascending the stairs to the stage.
Oh, shit. I’m suddenly nervous. During training with Barry, I told him about the photo of Fish I’d sent to Aloha on Monday night. I told him I thought I should send Aloha a real photo of me before meeting her in person at the arena on Thursday.
But Barry wouldn’t hear of it. “If you send Aloha a real photo of you, you’re fired,” he said, laughing.
And since I wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious, I played it safe and obeyed his direct order. But now, as I walk toward her across the stage, I’m getting the distinct feeling that might have been a very bad idea.
Chapter 9
Aloha
Aloha.”
I turn from chatting with my music director to find Barry standing with three guys—the cyborg plus two dudes I don’t know: a stocky Latino guy and a fine-as-fuck black man in a black button-down shirt. Hot diggity damn, that black dude is one sexy hunk of muscle-clad dark chocolate. High cheekbones. Two diamond studs in his ears. And those lips! Good lord. They’re full and gorgeous. But, of course, as sexy as this man is, he’s not the one I’ve been excited to meet since Monday night.
I look beyond Mr. Sexy, hoping my shaggy, swaggy babysitter is bringing up the rear. But, no, Zander is nowhere to be found.
Shoot. I can’t wait to meet Zander. When I woke up Tuesday morning feeling fine and dandy, I had the urge to send Zander a text asking him if he was feeling hung over from his prior night of partying. But then I remembered I’m not actually Zander’s bestie, no matter the chemistry we seemed to share during our drunken text conversation. Indeed, I remembered I’m just a job for the guy. And so, I refrained from texting him.
But then, on Tuesday night, it happened again: I felt the urge to text Zander—this time, when I crawled into bed after a long rehearsal at the arena. I wanted to ask him if he likes watching documentaries and/or live comedy specials and/or horror flicks as much as I do... and if so, would he be down to watch each other’s favorites during long travel days? But, again, I refrained, for all the same reasons as before.
And then, last night, I had the overwhelming urge to text Zander again, this time to invite him to my hotel room to hang out. Not to do anything salacious, of course. I just thought it might be nice for us to meet in person for the first time in private, rather than at the arena today, when hordes of people would be bustling around us. But again, I refrained, deciding to leave the guy alone until his job officially started. And now, dammit, after all that self-restraint, it seems I’ll have to wait to meet Zander just a bit longer. And I’m not happy about it.
“Hey, Big Barry,” I say, melting into his embrace.
“Hey, hula girl,” Barry coos, giving me an extra tight squeeze. “You sounded great during soundcheck.”
“Thanks. You look awfully dapper today.”
“It’s a new suit. You remember Brett?”
I disengage from Barry and dutifully shake Brett’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Brett. Welcome to my tour.” My eyes drift to the fine-as-fuck man to Barry’s right. Who the hell is this sexy man with the world’s sexiest lips? Damn! Every cell in my body wants to climb that man like a tree and kiss the hell out of those gorgeous lips.
“And this is Javier,” Barry says, drawing my attention away from Mr. Sexy to the chubby Latino guy. “Javier is head of security for the Staples Center.”
Ah. So Mr. Sexy must be Javier’s right-hand man. “Nice to meet you, Javier,” I say politely, shaking his hand.
“It’s such a thrill!” Javier replies exuberantly, his dark eyes sparkling. “My daughter is a huge ‘Aloha-nator.’ She knows every word to every song and she’s seen every episode of your TV show. For a full year when she was eight, she insisted on wearing a flower in her hair, just like you do.”
My eyes flicker to the hottie again, ever so briefly, even as I’m shaking Javier’s hand. Why the heck is he smirking at me like he’s got a naughty secret? Hot diggity damn, the devilish grin on that man’s exquisite mouth is making my skin buzz. I peel my attention away from him and smile at the venue guy. “That’s so sweet. How old is your daughter?”
“She just turned twelve yesterday. My wife is bringing her and her best friend to the show tonight as her birthday present. It’ll be her first concert ever.”
“How sweet. What’s her name?”
“Amelia. Funny story, though. When Amelia was in kindergarten, she made everyone call her Aloha for the entire school year.”
I laugh. “Oh my gosh. Well, in that case, Amelia and her friend—and you and your wife—will have to be my guests at the pre-show meet and greet. Barry, can you arrange that for me, please?”
“Sure thing.”
Javier thanks me profusely—and as he speaks, my gaze drifts to the hottie again. His dark eyes are positively blazing at me. Oh, my. Does this fine man get off on random acts of kindness? It sure looks that way. Well, all righty then. Let’s see if I can make his dark eyes blaze even hotter.
“What’s Amelia’s favorite song?” I ask, returning to Javier.
“‘Pretty Girl.’”
I address Barry. “Can you ask Shannon to cue me in my ears tonight to give Amelia a little birthday shout-out, right before we launch into ‘Pretty Girl’?”
“You got it.”
Predictably, Javier thanks me again, this time like I’ve just offered to donate a kidney to his daughter. As Javier showers me with praise, I sneak another peek at Mr. Yummy. Oh, man. He’s buying what I’m selling. In fact, he’s looking at me like he wants to bend me over the keyboard behind us and fuck me raw. My nipples harden at the mere thought. Yes, please. Okay, that’s it. I can’t wait a second longer to find out who this sexy man is.
I look strai
ght at the object of my desire. “And you are . . ?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Aloha,” Barry butts in, before the guy can speak. “This is Zander Shaw. Your new personal bodyguard.”
In rapid-fire succession, my brain does a double-take and then comes to a skidding halt... and then crashes down a flight of stairs until, finally, exploding into a gigantic ball of flames.
Zander extends his hand, grinning like he just gave me a wedgie. “Hi, Aloha.” His voice is a low baritone. Sexy. Just like him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I glare at Zander’s extended hand for a moment before pointedly snubbing him. “Can I have a word with you, Barry?” I grab Barry’s forearm and pull him away from the group, every cell in my body vibrating with anger.
“Is there a problem?” Barry asks when we’re away from the group.
“I want him gone,” I whisper.
“Why?” Barry smiles. “Zander told me you two really hit it off the other night.”
“He sent me a photo of himself that wasn’t him. He’s a liar.”
Barry crosses his mammoth arms over his chest. “The man sent you a photo of the bass player for 22 Goats—an indie rock band signed to your label. And you wanna know why I’m not the least bit pissed he did that? One, because nobody in their right mind would think I’d hired that skinny guy as your bodyguard. And, two, because you had no legitimate reason to request a photo from him in the first place. You think this is some kind of beauty contest? You think this is Tinder and you get to swipe right or left on the bodyguards I assign to you? Well, it’s not. The man has a job to do and I’ve specifically told you he’s qualified to do it. That’s all you need to know—not whether he’s going to set your girly bits on fire.”
