by Lauren Rowe
As far away as...
Maybe...
Dare I say it...
At the risk of sounding silly or naïve
Or even flat-out crazy...
An eternity?
Chapter 44
Aloha
The production manager presses her headset into her ear and listens for a moment. “Okay, they’re telling me four minutes, Aloha.”
I’m sitting next to Zander in the green room backstage at the Billboard Music Awards in Las Vegas, awaiting my cue to head to the stage for my performance. So far tonight, I’ve won two awards and also had the supreme pleasure of introducing a performance via satellite by a hot new indie rock band from Seattle who was added to the show’s lineup at the last minute—a little trio with the number one song in the world right now who, unfortunately, couldn’t be here in person tonight due to their touring schedule. A little band called 22 Goats.
I look at Zander sitting next to me on the couch. He’s got his game face on now, but an hour ago, while watching Dax and the boys perform their monster hit on a jumbo screen, he looked like a little kid on Christmas morning. When I came offstage after introducing 22 Goats and stood next to Zander to watch the boys’ performance, it was hard for me to decide where to look: at Dax and the boys slaying it up on the jumbo screen or at Zander’s euphoric face. In the end, I wound up missing most of the boys’ performance.
But that was then and this is now. All traces of euphoria are gone from my bodyguard’s gorgeous face at the moment as he sits next to me in this green room staring stoically straight ahead, his expression telling the world he’ll throttle anyone who so much as looks at me funny. Which is wildly unnecessary in this secured green room filled with nobody but production staff and fellow music artists and their entourages. But, whatever. I’m not complaining. Whenever Zander adopts his “badass bodyguard demeanor,” it always helps calm me down in stressful situations.
Speaking of which... ooph... another wave of anxiety is crashing into me. God, I hate performing at awards shows. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing exercises. Surely, once I get onstage and start singing, I’ll be fine. It’s just the anticipation that gets to me at these things. The chaos that’s inherently part of the process.
As I breathe deeply with my eyes closed, I feel Zander’s index finger poke against my bare thigh. Boop. It’s what Zander always does when he’s officially on duty but senses I might need a little TLC. Boop. Just that little touch to my thigh—or sometimes to my inner forearm—and he always manages to wrangle my spiraling thoughts, at least temporarily. It’s like he’s giving me a physical spot to stow my anxiety for a minute. Put it right here, baby. Boop.
I turn my head toward Zander to find him looking at me, his dark eyes full of concern. I nod, telling him his boop helped, and he touches his chin, telling me he’s telepathically kissing me—and also, probably, knowing him, thinking a certain three little words. The ones he’s been banned from saying out loud until further notice. Zander let those verboten three little words slip out a couple times in Seattle a month ago, but, thankfully, after a conversation we had on the plane out of Seattle, he hasn’t uttered them since.
The conversation in question happened after I’d just awakened from a nap on the plane to find him holding my pink journal and looking at me like I was the freaking Virgin Mary appearing in a piece of toast.
“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“I read the whole thing, cover to cover,” Zander replied, holding up the pink journal, a huge smile on his face. “Three times.”
“Great,” I said, my heart clanging. “As I recall, I was the one who asked you to read it.”
He smirked. “You know, Aloha, for a girl who loves coming across like she’s got zero filter, you sure think a whole lotta interesting things you don’t say out loud.”
“Yeah, maybe you should try it some time,” I replied. “I know this is a new concept to you, Mr. Spill Your Guts, but it’s possible for a person to not say every damned thing they’re thinking or feeling at any given moment.”
Zander laughed heartily at that, grabbed my hand, kissed the top of it, and said, “I’m thinking something right now I’m not saying, actually. Something pretty cool—three little words. You wanna know what they are?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. Because, truthfully, as much as a part of me swooned hard when Zander declared his supposedly undying love for me those couple of times in Seattle, an even bigger part of me freaked the fuck out. “In fact, here’s an idea,” I said. “How about you not only don’t say those three little words out loud now, but you see how long you can go without saying them. Wouldn’t that be a fun game—to see how long you can go without blurting those three little words to me?”
Zander winked, patted the cover of my pink journal, and said, “Okay, baby. I’ll zip it. For now. Whenever I’m feeling the urge to spill my guts, I’ll just open this journal and read some of the words you think and feel but don’t say out loud.”
“Fabulous.”
And that was that. Zander hasn’t let it slip he loves me even once this past month.
And, oh, what a month it’s been. We’ve done all the same non-tour-related things we did before we started having sex: watching movies, talking, working out. But on top of all that, we’ve added a few new items to our itinerary. Sex, of course. Sleeping together in my bed every night. And, last but not least, what I call our “songwriting sessions.”
As a point of fact, I’m the only one who writes songs during “our” songwriting sessions. But Zander’s contribution isn’t insignificant. While I play my guitar and scribble lyrics in my sparkly green journal—a gift from Zander because, he said, it reminded him of my eyes—Zander hangs out across the room and makes me feel like a songwriting genius. Sometimes, Zander plays videogames on his iPad while I’m writing my songs. Other times, he does sit-ups or pushups or stretches on the floor. At times, he exchanges texts with Keane or Dax or his sister. Honestly, I don’t always know what the heck Zander is doing on the other side of the room when I’m lost in my writing. All I know is, I can count on him to look up from whatever he’s doing every few minutes and say something like, “Nice!” or “My baby is brilliant!” or “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, Willis!”
And if I want Zander’s opinion on something, he’s always right there for me. Like, if I look up from my guitar or journal and say, “Do you think this song would sound better if I go like this... or like this?”, then Zander will reply with something like, “Well, I’m no songwriter. You’re the genius songwriter here. But if you ask me, then I think I prefer it the second way you did it.”
Sometimes, when I’m struggling with where to go with the lyrics on a particular song, Zander will flip open my old pink journal, which he’s basically committed to memory by now, and he’ll suggest a stand-out line or two. Like, maybe he’ll say, “You could patch this line into what you’re doing over there, babe. I think that would be tight. But you’re the artist, not me, so follow your gut.” And you know what? He’s always right. And yet, even with Zander’s amazing track record of always having the perfect idea right when I need it, he never forces me in any particular direction with my writing. Never tries to take over or commandeer my creative process. Because, as Zander always says, he’s not my songwriting partner, he’s my hype man.
“It’s time, Aloha.”
I look up to find that same production manager with the headset standing before me.
“Will you follow me, please?”
With Zander in front of me, I follow her, winding my way through the sprawling backstage area to the wings of the stage... and then wait again. Typical.
At my new waiting spot, I close my eyes to block out the crush and chaos of people around me. The people wanting to pat me on the back and tell me to break a leg. Thankfully, Zander won’t let them get to me, even if they’re big artists themselves. He’s hunched over me, creating a little Zander-bubble nobody can penetrate.
“Box breaths,” Zander whispers across the top of my head, his massive body hulking over mine.
I begin counting the outline of a rectangle—the “box” of the particular breathing exercise he’s suggested—until the production manager gives me the go-ahead to take my designated spot onstage.
After a quick touch of my chin directed at Zander, which he returns in kind, I walk on rubbery legs to my mark, wave to my musicians behind me, and try to force air into my lungs.
The production manager’s voice sounds in my ear monitors. “Isabel, you’re on in five, four, three...”
On a nearby stage, Isabel Randolph, a movie actress, begins introducing me into a camera, her voice sounding in my ear monitors: “…the world’s favorite ‘Pretty Girl,’ Aloha Carmichael!”
The audience packed below me at the foot of the stage begins cheering and screaming. The light on the camera in front of me switches to bright red. The voice in my ear monitors says, “Cue Aloha’s band!” and my band kicks into gear.
I open my mouth and let my voice pour out and, instantly, my anxiety is gone. I’m Aloha Carmichael, once again.
As I sing, my dancers rush onto the stage, filling the large space with their gyrating, sparkling bodies. When I reach the first chorus of the song, I leave my dancers behind and begin strutting, as choreographed, down a long, narrow strip of stage jutting into the audience in a “T” shape from the main stage. At the midway point of the runway, I turn around, right on cue, to face my dancers gyrating on the main stage... and freeze. Oh my god. Some dude is pulling himself up and over the edge of the runway about twenty yards away from me! How did he get past the security guards lining the foot of the stage?
The interloper rises to his full height, looking me dead in the eye as he moves. And, instantly, from the deranged look on the man’s face, I know he’s not a light-hearted prankster. This is no joy ride for this man. This is something dark.
But the man has no sooner taken two bounding steps toward me than Zander appears out of nowhere, charging at him from behind. In a flash, before I can move or scream, Zander lowers his shoulder like a linebacker and body-slams the guy into next week, sending him hurtling off the stage like a monkey-sock-puppet flung out of a toddler’s crib.
At Zander’s beastly hit, the guy’s slack body flies through the air and lands smack on the ground below the stage, just inside a security barrier—the perfect landing spot for two security guards dressed in yellow to pounce on him like ants on a crumb.
My eyes return to Zander charging at me. He didn’t break stride when he bounced that fucker off the stage, and now he’s still coming at me at full speed like a man possessed.
Before I’ve even moved a muscle, Zander reaches me, scoops me into his muscled arms, and keeps on running toward the end of the long runway.
“Commercial break!” the stage manager barks in my ear monitors, just before I melt into Zander’s chest. Is it possible to swoon to death? If so, may I rest in peace.
Holding me in his arms like a bride, Zander shoots down a metal staircase at the end of the runway, marches straight past two yellow-clad security guards standing at the base of the stairs, and strides straight through the audience, parting it like Moses in the Red Sea.
“Not on my watch, motherfucker,” Zander mutters under his breath, a vein in his neck throbbing. He lowers his head and leans into my face. “You okay, baby?”
“I am now.”
He pulls me closer to him. So close, I can feel his heart thumping against me. “I’ll never let anybody hurt you, Aloha. Never.”
“Oh, Zander.” I let out a long, swooning sigh. “My shaggy, swaggy... bodyguard.”
Chapter 45
Aloha
Zander blasts through some double-doors and we’re suddenly being swarmed by frantic people wearing headsets.
I clamp my eyes shut, trying to block out the urgent voices and movement around me.
I feel Zander clutch me even more tightly and then turn sharply and veer off.
A voice is blaring in my ears and I rip my monitors out.
I sense the general ambience around me changing. There’s a sensation of relative calm.
I open my eyes. We’re in a small room. There’s a table with catered food laid out to one side. A bar with a bartender in a bowtie on the other. Security guards are standing at the door. We’re obviously in some sort of VIP room. I exhale.
Those same frantic people from before enter the room. I recognize them. They’re producers of the show. They want to know if I’m all right. I tell them I’m fine. That I just want to leave this place. That I need peace and quiet. I need to leave.
Zander still hasn’t put me down. He’s holding onto me like I’m the crown jewels. And I like it. I clutch his neck and whisper, “Don’t put me down.”
“I’m never putting you down as long as I live,” he replies.
There’s a commotion at the door. And then the members of my team in attendance tonight burst into the room—my publicist, my business manager, and Reed Rivers. The usual “suits” who attend awards shows.
I assure them I’m all right. Brief conversation ensues. They tell Zander he’s a badass motherfucker hero. Reed Rivers starts giving one of the producers holy hell. I tune everyone out.
After a moment, I realize it’s kind of bizarre Zander is still holding me, so I tell him to put me into a chair.
He asks me if I’m sure. I tell him I am. And he begrudgingly complies with my request.
Someone hands me a bottle of water. I drink the whole thing down and ask for a double shot of tequila. Conversation around me turns animated. Agitated. The double shot of tequila I asked for arrives and I throw it back. And tune back out.
And through it all, my gaze continues to be pulled to my hunky, heroic Zander. To his dark, blazing eyes and clenched jaw. To his strong arms and the way he fills out his dapper suit. To the palpable heat wafting off his body and the vein in his neck that still hasn’t stopped throbbing. To the pure goodness and kindness and fierce loyalty radiating off him.
I love you.
The words spring to my mind, unbidden, shocking me.
I love you, Zander.
Holy fuck.
I’ve never thought the magic words about anyone in my life. Not like this, anyway, regarding someone I’m having sex with and sleeping with every night. Yes, I say the words a hundred times a day to strangers and dancers and sound guys and crew. But I’ve never said them to a man who’s licked me between my legs. And yet, here I am, thinking them on a running loop about Zander.
My publicist touches my arm, drawing me out of my shocking thoughts.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Huh?”
“To head over to the press room.”
“Huh?”
“The world will be dying to hear from you.” She looks at Zander. “And you, too, Z, if you’re up for doing some interviews. The two of you will be king and queen of the prom.” She looks down at her phone and fiddles with something until her face lights up like the Fourth of July. “Ha! You’re already trending on Twitter! A clip of Zander knocking that guy off the stage and scooping you up is already going viral.” She looks up, her face aglow. “Okay, on second thought, let’s not go to the press room tonight at all. We’ll give the world a few days to whip themselves into a frenzy over the video. And then we’ll figure out our game plan—whether we want to do an exclusive with one of our favorites or more of an interview tour.”
I look at Zander. He’s trying to look impassive, but I can read him like a book. The man wants to throat-punch my publicist right now. And I don’t blame him. She’s not “reading the room” very well, as they say. But what Zander doesn’t understand, and I do, is that she’s only doing what she exists in my world to do. What she’s paid handsomely to do. Maximize publicity for me. Keep me on the tips of everyone’s tongues while always preserving my brand. What Zander doesn’t understand, but I do, is that this woman’s job isn’t en
suring my well-being. She’s not my friend. She’s not my therapist. She’s not my bodyguard. She’s the woman paid to sell me.
I continue staring at Zander, though I’m speaking to my publicist. “I’m not going to talk about this incident in the media, Claudia. Not now or ever. I want to put it behind me, starting now.”
Zander’s shoulders relax. He nods his approval.
“But, Aloha, the publicity—”
“I don’t care about publicity,” I snap. “I don’t care about giving the world what they want. I only care about giving me what I want. And what I want is to not talk about this in a goddamned interview.” Of course, since what I also want is to fuck my man and then, after that, party like a pop star with my good friends, I turn to Reed next. “I’m gonna take a couple hours to decompress and then Zander and I will hit your after-party in a bit. Sound good?”
“You sure you still want to come to the after-party?” Reed says. “It’s not a command performance, you know. If you’re not feeling—”
“No, no, I want to come,” I say. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away, actually.”
It’s the truth. But the reason I wouldn’t miss Reed’s party for anything isn’t because Reed Rivers’ parties are the place to see and be seen. It’s because a group of people I genuinely like—my new friends—will be there: Josh and Kat, Jonas and Sarah, Henn and Hannah, Ryan and Tessa, and, of course, my favorite duo in the whole world, Keane and Maddy. Plus, Big Barry will be there, too, overseeing security for the shindig. So, why wouldn’t I want to go, regardless of what just happened?
“Great,” Reed says. “I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”
I smile at Zander. “Ready, Mr. Bodyguard?”
“I was born ready, Miss Carmichael.”
With that, Zander scoops me up like a bride, clutches me to him even more tightly than before, and marches out of the room.
Chapter 46
Aloha
As Zander walks through the chaotic maze of the sprawling MGM Grand with me in his arms, people all around us stop and gawk and pull out their phones. They shout at Zander he’s “the man” and a “fucking beast” and tell me they love me. But Zander and I only have eyes for each other.
