“I’ll do everything I can to protect you, your identity, your job.”
“I know that,” she says, but we both know there’s only so much I can do. The media hounds can be ruthless. “I just don’t think me flying to California on Tuesday is going to work.”
“I understand,” I say and lower my head.
Gently, she tilts my chin up with her fingers. “I might need until Wednesday.”
My eyes dart to hers. “Mae, I won’t have you put everything you worked for on the line for me.”
“Not for you,” she says. “For us.”
*
“Looks like someone drank from the I need a man Kool-Aid,” she says to a caller.
I watch Mae through a window that looks inside the radio booth, while listening to her show on a pair of headphones. Though she’s alone in the booth, it’s like she’s conducting a symphony orchestra—there’s a crispness to her words, a rhythm to her movements, occasionally grabbing the microphone, controlling other equipment before her, giving signals to Amy during and in-between callers. She’s literally running the show.
I imagine this is the way she used to look when she recorded cassette tapes for me—smiling, eyes sparkling, in control.
This is her set, only she does it mostly on her own. I need a director, writers, costumers. She does it all on the fly. Well, I know that’s not true. She does prep work and research, but her show is more like improv – you’re never quite sure where it’s going to go. Still, she’s in total control.
“My advice is, don’t worry about falling in love with a man. The person you need to fall in love with is you!”
I feel a light poke on my shoulder and look over, seeing Mae’s call screener, Amy, practically floating in the air, seemingly amazed that I’m real, that she just touched me. Slipping one headphone to the side, I smile at her.
“That was good advice, don’t you think?” Amy asks me.
“Mae’s very good,” I say, trying to position the headphone back over my ear, but she starts talking again.
“I’ve got some ideas for topics for the show.”
“Do you aspire to be behind the mic?” I ask.
“Me?”
“Why not?” I ask, seeing her skin turn bright red.
“Amy?” Mae says, sticking her head out of the booth during a short commercial break. “That last caller wanted financial advice.”
“Sorry,” Amy says.
“My fault,” I say. “I think I’m distracting her. Maybe I should go.”
“No, don’t leave,” Amy cries out.
“Amy, get real callers!” Mae says then rolls her eyes at me. “And trust me, Amy, he’s just a guy like any other. Bad breath in the morning and everything.”
Mae gives me a little wink before returning to her place behind the microphone. “I don’t believe you have bad breath,” Amy says, and I chuckle, putting my headphone back on.
I listen to Mae take caller after caller. It’s almost like speed therapy, if there was such a thing. She’s funny and empathetic and, most importantly, what she says makes a lot of sense. I often think common sense isn’t so common these days. Take the current caller, who thought it was okay to propose with the same ring he gave to his ex-fiancé. Hasn’t this dude seen enough bad romances to know that’s never a good idea? Mae set him straight real quick.
“The only acceptable used jewelry to give is a family heirloom,” she says.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I reach for it, placing it down beside me. It’s only my agent, Heath, giving me the schedule and itinerary for tomorrow’s round of interviews. I don’t want to think about any of that. Mae’s driving me to the airport when her show ends, and I’m not entirely sure when I’ll see her again. Hopefully, she can work things out with her bosses, and it will only be a few days. I don’t even want to think about her losing this gig because of me. She belongs behind that microphone.
“Do you believe in second chances?” the caller asks.
Mae’s eyes catch mine through the glass. “I never used to,” she says, “until I gave one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mae
It’s a bit of a surreal experience to watch the man you had sex with yesterday on a news show the following morning, especially when he’s wearing the tie he used to bind you to the bed.
It’s not an official watch party, but Timothy has the television in The Tune Up tuned to Knox’s interview. Every time one interview ends, Timothy changes the channel to catch him on the next show. I’ve been sitting at the bar the entire morning, just watching.
I’m not sure how Knox does it. He’s smiling and bright eyed, even though he couldn’t have gotten more than a couple hours sleep. He must have an IV of coffee pumping into his veins. Or maybe Everly and Timothy sent him with some of their finest whiskey to get him through. If it wasn’t so early, I’d be asking for a hit. But damn, he looks handsome. Most of the questions are about the movie releasing in a few weeks. A couple interviewers try to slip in questions about his brother, but Knox always deflects.
A part of me wonders how he would answer if asked about his personal life. Would he freeze up? Would he say he’s single? Would he do that to me again? Would I want him to tell the world about me? Would he keep it vague, but acknowledge there’s someone in his life? We haven’t discussed any of that. We’ve simply been living in our little sex bubble.
But I get the feeling it’s about to burst. He’s been here a lot, and we can’t keep our relationship a secret forever. Then there’s the reporter that was hanging out down the street. I just know I’m going to see my face on the grocery store magazine aisle one day soon.
Before things go any further, I have to talk to the station. It’s the professional thing to do. I can’t afford to lose my job. If they are blindsided, my job is over.
A cup of whipped cream slides under my nose. Gigi is the one feeding my sugar craving this morning. “Looks like you’ve got something on your mind,” Gigi says.
I swipe a biscotti stick from a container behind the counter. “Knox asked me to come to California for the week.”
I look back up at the television, and Gigi does the same. “And?” she urges. I shake my head, the uncertainty weighing on me. I know I told Knox I’d talk to my bosses, but it’s not going to be easy. “You talk for a living, but it’s like pulling teeth to get you to open up.”
“Knox literally said the same exact thing. Look at him, Gigi,” I say. “I’m not sure I want that life. Cameras, people following me. Having to make announcements to the world about our marriage, or the birth of our children.”
“Marriage and children, already?” she asks.
“Maybe? I don’t know, but I have to think about this long term,” I say. “Being with someone like Knox can’t just be casual. It will change my whole life.”
“You’ve already done it,” she says. “You’ve already made the decision to be with him.” She places her hand on top of mine. “Let me fill you in on a little secret. Sooner or later, all love involves loss. The two go hand in hand.”
I have to think about that for a second. Love does inherently mean loss. You lose some of your free time, and a certain amount of freedom, in general. You lose always getting to eat what you want for dinner. Some people lose themselves in their partner—lose their identity. And like Dad and Gigi, you will eventually lose the person you love.
“The question to ask yourself isn’t what you will lose, but what you will gain,” she says, turning my head to the television. “Do the losses outweigh the gains?”
“I could lose my job,” I say, turning my eyes to her. She knows it’s a requirement that I keep my identity a secret.
“Walk away, then.”
“What?” I cry, my eyes darting to hers. “How can you suggest I put my career before . . .”
“There,” she says, pointing her finger at me. “Your gut reaction. Mae, honey, I hate to break it to you, but you love him.”
She says i
t like she’s not sure if she’s giving me bad news or good news. I can only laugh. God help me, I’m not totally sure which it is, either.
*
“I wish you’d let me charter a plane for you,” Knox pouts on the phone.
Late yesterday, after a brief talk with my bosses, I finalized my plans to visit Knox’s turf. Since then, we’ve already discussed this private plane thing at least three times. I want to be a normal, economy class person as long as possible.
“I thought we agreed that you buying me the ticket to come see you was more than enough.”
“You only agreed to that in hopes I’d shut up about the private plane. Otherwise, I know you would have insisted on buying it yourself.” He’s right, but he’s being a total baby about this. “It’s safer if you fly privately. I could pick you up at the private hanger then. There’s no way I can show up at LAX to get you.”
“That’s fine. I’ll take an Uber.”
“The hell you will,” Knox barks.
“What’s wrong with Uber?”
“It’s a poor man’s chauffeur driven Town Car.”
“Snob.”
“It’s not about being a snob. It’s about keeping you protected. You don’t know who is behind the wheel. Haven’t you heard the stories about . . .”
“I happen to have a five-star passenger rating on Uber.”
“Proud of that?” he asks, snidely.
“Yep, it got down to four point nine once, and I couldn’t sleep. I took several more trips just to get it back up to a five.”
I listen to Knox make his argument against Uber. I should give him a coronary and tell him I’ll take the bus. That would really make his gorgeous head explode. Instead, I just let him ramble, while opening a suitcase on my bed. I’ve only got a little while before I leave for the Denver airport. Knox would be happy to know that Amy is driving me. I asked her to take care of a few things for the show while I’m gone, and she offered to drive me to the airport. It was sweet. She was going to be in the area anyway, continuing her apartment search, and would be heading back to Denver around the time I needed to head to the airport. So I figured we could knock out some work on the drive.
I’m only planning on being at Knox’s place for four nights. Normally, I would pack an extra pair of socks and panties. So if I’m going for three nights, I take four. But I think I’ll mostly be hanging out at Knox’s house, and I doubt I’ll even need panties.
This is what a long-distance relationship comes down to: panties or no panties.
I know I’m packing too much, and it’s silly to check a big suitcase. I should probably just take a carry-on bag, but shoes take up a lot of room, and I’m packing five pairs. Yes, one for each day and an extra!
“Mae, are you even listening?” Knox asks.
“Stopped at least five minutes ago,” I say with a smile.
“I can’t wait to see you,” he says sweetly.
“Me, too.”
“You’ll get here faster in a private car,” he says.
“Knox?”
“Limo!”
He’s sweet, but I get the feeling that if I start giving in this early, he’ll only get worse, probably demanding private security follow me around.
“This is part of it,” he says. “This all comes with being with me.”
“But you know I don’t want that stuff.”
“I know that,” he says. “I know you aren’t impressed by private jets and designer clothes. But some of this stuff is necessary for privacy and safety.”
I exhale and begin to consider his offer. “A limo, huh?”
“Black, stretch, fully-tinted windows.”
“That’s a lot of room just for me,” I tease. “But if a certain man was waiting for me in the limo. . .”
“Done!”
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” I say.
“You never told me how it went with your bosses. How did they react when you told them about me?”
“I didn’t tell them who you are,” I say. “Just that I was seeing someone in the public eye, and that it is a real possibility that my identity as Mother Superior could get out.”
“How did they take it?”
“They were appreciative of the heads up,” I say.
“And?”
“And they didn’t make any promises. Basically, we have to wait and see. If ratings tank because I refuse to talk about you, or my name gets out, or for any other reason, then the writing will be on the wall.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s really no different than how things are now,” I say, but that’s not entirely true. “I have to perform. If my show isn’t good, and ratings go down the toilet, then I lose my job. That’s just the nature of the business. Anyone who does this kind of work knows you live with an axe over your head. You know that, maybe better than anyone.”
“Your listeners love you,” he says. “They’re loyal. You’ll be fine. I believe that. You need to believe it, too.”
“Thanks.”
“No matter what,” he says, “I’ll always be listening.”
*
Baggage claim is the worst. Hundreds of people all standing around, waiting for their bags. It’s hot. Everyone is ready to be out of the airport. And there are never enough bathrooms in the baggage claim area. I always seem to have to pee when I get off an airplane, no matter how short the flight or how many times I went on the plane. Maybe Knox has the right idea about flying private.
Then there’s the wondering if you are at the right baggage carousel. Searching the faces of the other people waiting, hoping you recognize a fellow passenger from your flight, any indication you are in the right place. Then you have the people that position themselves right at the front where the luggage comes out, in such a hurry to get their bags.
Then there’s the anxious feeling in the pit in your stomach when the belt has gone around a few times, and you haven’t seen your bag. I’ve only got one bag today. It’s bright yellow so I can find it. This is not my first rodeo. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why anyone would ever purchase black or navy luggage. And I have no clue why luggage companies would continue to manufacture those colors. Let’s not make it any easier for the airlines to lose our luggage by creating another anonymous-looking black suitcase.
Still waiting for my bag, I text Knox that I’ll be out shortly. He’s supposed to let me know where to meet the limo. LAX is huge, but how many limousines can there be at an airport? Looking up from my phone, I spot my suitcase coming out.
Suddenly, everyone around the carousel starts to snicker and laugh. When the bag gets closer, I realize why. My suitcase is vibrating, making a loud noise against the hard shell. It’s obvious what all these perverts are thinking. Another reason to hate baggage claim. Hashtag, things that only happen to me.
With attitude, I pull it off the belt, laying it on the ground to unzip it. I feel the need to defend my honor. I shuffle around some items then pull out the offending object. “Facial brush!” I call out, holding my Clarisonic over my head so everyone knows I’m not traveling with my vibrator.
And so what if I was? Put the judgments aside and mind your business, people!
My phone rings, but I ignore it, trying to stuff everything back in my suitcase. I’m sure it’s just Knox letting me know where to meet. I’ll call him when I get outside.
I’m not one of those women who look like a supermodel when they travel. I’ve searched high and low for good travel clothes, but even the stuff that is recommended on websites doesn’t look as comfortable as my yoga pants, t-shirt, and cardigan. Yeah, it’s slouchy and makes me look like I’m shaped like a puffy cloud, but it’s comfy. Who are these women traveling in heels? Hats off to you.
And I know Knox isn’t going to care one bit about what I have on. Hopefully, he undresses me in the backseat of the limo, anyway. Pulling my luggage, I make my way through the airport doors and outside to the drop-off and pickup area.
“There s
he is!” someone screams, and I turn around, looking behind me for whoever they’re talking about.
That only gives them time to get their cameras right in my face. I find myself instantly surrounded, encircled by vultures. My heart starts to pound, my legs feel weak, and I’m pretty sure I just started shaking. Bulbs start flashing, and I struggle to see past the glare and the crowd.
Click, click, click.
What the hell is happening? People are yelling questions about me and Knox. I can’t hear myself think, much less think of a way out of this.
“Please,” I say over and over again, trying to make my way through them, but there seems to be no end to the mob. “Let me pass.”
I’m not in Haven’s Point. I’m not on my front porch. I can’t shoo them away. I’m trapped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Knox
This is not a drill. This is the real deal. The shit just hit the fan. Our relationship will be front page news tomorrow.
Hopping out of the limo, I rush toward Mae. I can’t see her, covered by a sea of paparazzi. As soon as they spot me, I become their prey, which is fine by me. I know how to maneuver around them, make my way through, and that’s just what I do.
Mae’s eyes find mine, a mix of surprise and fear. All I can say when I reach her is, “Sorry.”
Wrapping my arm around her, I lower her head, trying my best to shield her. This is bad, but I know it can get much worse. How did they know she was here? Who she was? Which flight she was on?
Not answering any questions being hurdled at me, I guide Mae to the car, helping her inside. Some asshole literally places the camera right up against the glass, trying to get one last shot. At least the windows are fully tinted.
The driver hops out, taking her suitcase and placing it in the trunk. I hop inside, slamming the door shut, and the driver quickly does the same, speeding off. Thank God, the privacy shield is raised. We don’t need any more spectators.
I glance over at Mae, who looks exactly like you’d expect someone to look after their whole life just changed.
Lost.
Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel) Page 17