Follow Me Back

by A. V. Geiger

  Those were the pit girls encircling the stage—the most fanatical worshippers of all, who’d lined up outside in the misty, gray Seattle rain since the wee hours of the morning. Anything to get a coveted spot along the railing, where they could hold out their hands in supplication and pray that he might reach down and graze their fingertips.

  Most of them would leave here disappointed. He tried to keep all physical contact to a minimum these days, as much as the girls loved it. He’d gotten spooked at a show last year in Melbourne, after some Aussie managed to grab him by the wrist and yank him off his feet. Only the quick reflexes of a nearby stadium security guard had kept him from being engulfed by the waiting mob. Eric shuddered just thinking what they might have done to him. He’d seen the way they treated his discarded sweat towels, ripping and clawing like vultures over a carcass.

  Safer not to touch the fans or even look at them too closely. For the most part, Eric tried to ignore their existence altogether when he played a venue this size. The key, he found, was to keep moving. Let them all blur together into one amorphous mass—one living, breathing organism with 50,000 gaping mouths, 100,000 upraised arms, and a seemingly infinite number of smartphone camera flashes, twinkling all around him.

  Tonight though, he couldn’t deny the temptation to sneak a glimpse at their eager faces. He felt oddly curious, and he knew the reason why. There was one face in particular that he kept trying to envision lately.

  He hadn’t seen her picture yet. Tessa didn’t seem like the type to tweet selfies, and he didn’t dare ask for one. But that didn’t stop his imagination from running rampant. The fact was, he knew what she must look like, more or less. He only had to look out into the crowd. He had 50,000 female faces surrounding him. No doubt Tessa would blend right in.

  Eric fingered the hem of his T-shirt, preparing to lift it over his head. He turned in a slow circle and ran his eyes across the faces of the girls in the front row—all completely interchangeable, aside from a few variations in hair color and skin tone. His gaze locked with a pair of pretty, brown eyes, peeking back at him from behind her upraised phone. He took a step closer to get a better look, all the while pulling his shirt up over his head in a single fluid motion. He watched as her phone dropped and the brown eyes widened. Then her face contorted into a mask of senseless hysteria as she opened her mouth to scream.

  Eric looked away. Better not to make eye contact. Leave Tessa’s face where it belonged—safely tucked away, somewhere on the fringes of his imagination. With one final jerk, he quickly tossed his shirt in the opposite direction.

  Pandemonium.

  Eric did his best to ignore the brewing scuffle where the shirt had landed. The opening chords of the song pounded through the stadium, drowning out the crowd. He held the mic in both hands and let his eyes drift closed as he sang the lyrics that he could’ve repeated in his sleep.

  Come on and soothe this sunburn.

  Baby, take away my pain…

  He slipped in his earpiece to hear the music, but his ears weren’t greeted by the sound of his own singing. Some other voice, half-concealed by static, buzzed instead. Security? What were they squawking about? How was he supposed to stay on key?

  Eric turned his head in annoyance, ready to flick the earpiece back out again, but something in the cross talk caught his attention.

  “Code Delta. I repeat. Code Delta.”

  He stutter-stepped, nearly tripping. Did he just hear that right? Code Delta?

  He knew what it meant. His security detail thought he didn’t understand their secret lingo, but he’d been through enough drills to figure most of it out by now. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta…

  At least they hadn’t said Code Alpha—not that he’d be around to hear that one. Code Alpha meant he’d been killed. Delta, as he recalled, referred to a breach of the perimeter.

  The stream of chatter continued in his ear. Eric’s own voice faltered, distracted by the growing urgency he heard in their clipped phrases.

  “Unit 32, report to your station. Come in, Unit 32. Code Delta. Unit 32, please come in. Code Del—correction. Code Charlie. Code Beta.”

  Beta? Which one was that?

  “Code Beta. I repeat. Code Beta. Unit 32, do you copy? Unit 32—Shit. Eric! ERIC! ERIC, TURN AROUND!”

  • • •

  And coming up at the top of the hour: It’s normally home to the NFL’s Seattle Seahawks, but this was no defensive lineman who jumped offside last night. Scary moments at Seattle’s CenturyLink Field…

  Tessa’s head swiveled at the newscaster’s words. She had her back to the TV, and she’d missed whatever image they’d broadcast to go along with their cryptic teaser. But the Seattle football stadium? It had to be the Eric Thorn concert.

  The Today Show went to commercial without explaining further. Tessa dropped to her knees in front of the screen and clapped a hand over her thudding heart as she waited for the segment to continue.

  She’d only switched on the TV a few moments earlier—a mindless distraction to occupy her time as she prepared for the day’s activities. She’d awoken this morning relaxed and refreshed, with a sliver of bright sunlight penetrating through a crack in the horizontal blinds, and the sight of it had filled her with an irrational sense of optimism.

  She’d felt so certain that today would go without a hitch. She’d forced herself to turn in early last night, and she’d set her phone to silent mode to ensure a peaceful night’s sleep. Today was a big day. Probably the most important therapy exercise Tessa had yet attempted under Dr. Regan’s careful guidance. Today, with her mother at her side, Tessa would set foot outside the house for the first time since she moved back home.

  At least, that was the plan until a few moments ago. She was supposed to be relaxed for this. She’d purposely avoided Twitter this morning, just to be on the safe side. Calm. She was supposed to be calm! Not sitting in front of the TV at 8:59 a.m. with her heart in her throat.

  The show resumed, but Tessa could barely follow what the news anchors were saying—not over the sound of her own pulse rushing in her ears. At last, a blurry image splashed across the screen. A concert. A circular stage, surrounded by fans. And there was Eric. Shirtless. Standing in the center, all alone.

  Tessa hastily read the caption at the bottom of the screen:

  Eric Thorn attacked onstage by fan.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. “Oh no! No, no, no, no, no…”

  The image began to move. A video clip but not professional quality. It had the jerky, pixelated look of a cell phone video, taken by someone in the crowd. Tessa watched in horror as a second figure appeared at the edge of the screen, running full speed in Eric’s direction.

  The fan looked tall for a girl, only a few inches shorter than Eric himself, with long, brown hair that streamed behind her as she sprinted up the lighted runway. Eric stood with his back to her. He sang into his microphone, completely unaware of her presence.

  There was no sound from the clip—only the drone of a female reporter’s voice in the background. “A fan from the general admission section climbed over the railing and evaded security long enough to—”

  “Eric, look out!” Tessa whispered at the TV screen. “Someone stop her!”

  The picture wasn’t clear enough to get a good look at the girl’s face, but Tessa could see something clutched in one of her hands. What was that? Something long and metallic, glinting beneath the concert spotlights as she came up behind Eric’s back.

  “What’s that in her hand?” a TV cohost interrupted. “Is that what I think it is?”

  The fan took a flying leap at Eric’s back and managed to wrap both arms around his neck. His face was out of focus—too fuzzy to make out his expression, but Tessa could see his whole body jerk backward in surprise. He dropped his microphone and side-stepped, grabbing at the girl’s wrists. The shiny object went tumbling to the ground.

  “What exactly was that thing in her hand?” the host’s voice asked again. “Do we have a
ny word on that?”

  “In the official statement from Thorn’s spokespeople, they say there was no weapon. It was apparently a metallic glitter pen. The whole incident appears to be nothing more than a fan trying to get an autograph…”

  The video paused for a moment and then skipped forward. Eric had broken the girl’s grip around his neck. He managed to turn to face her. He had one arm wrapped around her waist as the girl clawed wildly at his bare chest. Tessa saw him cock back his free arm and clench a fist. For a moment, it looked like he might hit her. Instead, he dipped one shoulder and grabbed the girl’s right hand, scooping her gracefully into a ballroom dance position.

  “Wow.” The newscaster chuckled in admiration. “Smooth move. I can see why the ladies go for this guy.”

  The image froze and then switched angles—this time to a video taken from closer range. Eric’s face appeared more clearly now: calm and serious, looking deep into the fangirl’s eyes. She’d stopped thrashing around. Eric’s lips were moving, but only a lip reader could have interpreted what he said.

  “Just look what he does now,” the reporter’s voice buzzed from the TV. “This part is so adorable!”

  The video zoomed out as Eric whisked the girl into motion, whirling her round and round in a fast waltz. The girl broke into a beaming smile as the pair of them made a full circuit around the circumference of the stage. Then, at last, a pair of burly men with walkie-talkies stepped into the frame, and Eric danced the girl straight into the waiting arms of his security guards.

  “Such a class act. That could have turned ugly so easily.”

  “A genuinely nice guy,” the cohost agreed. “You can tell he’s had his fair share of run-ins with overeager fans.”

  “And he’s funny too!” the reporter added. “Look how he had the whole crowd laughing afterward.”

  A new clip began to roll: Eric, alone again onstage. He held a white towel in his hands and dabbed with it at his chest. The girl must have scratched him deeply enough to draw blood. He knelt to pick up his microphone, and Tessa pressed a clammy palm over her mouth as she watched him address the crowd.

  “What the hell? I think I just crapped my pants!” He craned his head around and pretended to look down at his backside. “Uhhh, anyone have a spare pair of underwear they could lend me?”

  Tessa could hear the laughter in his voice, but it sounded false to her ears. Her own hands were shaking. She could swear she heard a matching tremor in his voice. Was she imagining it? Just projecting?

  A piece of pink fabric appeared at his feet, and he picked it up delicately, dangling it before him with one finger: a pair of women’s panties.

  “Men’s underwear,” he said with a wry smile. “I probably should have specified.” He tossed the panties back into the crowd and wiped a weary hand across his eyes.

  Tessa hit Pause on the TV remote to freeze the image. She knew she wasn’t imagining things. She could see the expression on his face now, clear as day. He might have put up a good front, but that look in his eyes had nothing to do with laughter. He looked like a cornered animal, watching its predator approach. Terrified and utterly exhausted.

  Tessa couldn’t bear to look. She forced her eyes away. The clock icon at the corner of the screen showed the time: 9:02 a.m. She shouldn’t be watching this anyway. Her mother would be home any minute. Tessa was about to click the TV off again when her eyes landed on something else at the bottom of the screen.

  Credit: Videos posted on Instagram by MET (@MrsEricThorn)

  At the sight of it, Tessa’s panicky tension gave way, replaced by a tingle of excitement. MET!

  Tessa took a step closer to the screen to make sure she’d read correctly. Was the Today Show really crediting MET like an actual media source? A fan account? Someone Tessa knew…even counted as a friend?

  Tessa automatically reached for her phone to send off a quick DM. Not that she expected an answer. MET obviously had bigger fish to fry. But to Tessa’s surprise, the other girl wrote back straightaway.

  Tessa H: Your IG is on Today! Are you watching this?

  MET: Yep. It’s all over the place. E News, MTV… Gained 10K followers since I got up this morning.

  Tessa H: That’s ridiculous! How did it happen? Do you know people who work on TV?

  MET: Who me? Nahhhh. Right place, right time ;)

  Tessa’s eyes narrowed at the other girl’s choice of emoji. Why the winky face? Did she mean…

  Tessa H: Were you in Seattle? Some of those videos looked like they were from the first row!

  MET: Yeah, people sent those to me. I just posted them.

  Tessa H: Were you there though? Do you know that girl who jumped onstage?

  Long seconds ticked by with no reply. For a moment, Tessa thought that MET might not answer. Probably distracted by one of the countless other DM conversations she must have going on…

  Or was she purposely dodging the question?

  MET: Was I there? Tessa, I’m EVERYWHERE!

  MET: LOLOLOLOL

  Tessa’s head drew back in surprise at the tone the other girl had taken. LOL? What was there to LOL about? Something truly terrifying had happened to the person they both professed to love. How could MET find it funny?

  With a shaky finger, Tessa clicked the Twitter app closed. Forget it, she told herself. MET could LOL about it with one of her other half million followers.

  But it wasn’t just MET’s laughter that disturbed her. A vague suspicion had entered Tessa’s mind during the lull in the conversation. Now she couldn’t erase the thought that made the hair rise on the back of her neck.

  What if the fan who’d jumped onstage was Mrs. Eric Thorn herself?

  11

  THINK FAST

  Eric sat in his trailer, perched on a narrow stool, trying his best not to scratch. There’d be hell to pay if he gave in to the maddening itch that burned across his chest. Wardrobe and grooming had just completed prepping him for his music video shoot, and they’d used some especially foul concoction to cover all the scratches—a thick, Crisco-like glop that smelled like motor oil and stung like iodine. Eric had to give them credit though. It left his chest looking smooth as a plastic Ken doll’s.

  He had to find a distraction. Anything to keep his hands busy…and keep his mind off what had happened last night in Seattle.

  He’d taken his private jet back to LA after the concert. Most nights, he slept like a rock after the physical exhaustion of a big show, but not yesterday. Not even in his Italian leather, fully reclining, heated airplane seat. Every time he tried to close his eyes, he felt those wiry fingers closing around his gullet once again.

  “Code Del—correction. Code Charlie. Code Beta…”

  He’d only remembered what the codes all meant after the fact. Code Beta: suspect armed and dangerous.

  He hadn’t turned fast enough. The fan jumped him from behind and put her hands around his neck. He managed to shake her off, and he heard the faint sound of something metallic clattering to the floor as they met eyes beneath the blaze of the concert lighting. Green eyes. Brown hair. Tall… From the look on her face, he knew in an instant that she’d completely lost touch with reality.

  The words she kept screaming didn’t help much either.

  I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!

  He’d somehow kept his wits about him. His mind remained clear and focused, almost like an onlooker watching the whole scene unfold from out in the audience. Only after the guards led his attacker away had he felt his knees start to buckle.

  The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds, but it felt like an eternity at the time. He could still hear the girl’s shrill yowls of protest as the guards removed her. “No, no! Let go of me. Stop it! Eric! Wait! He knows me! I’m telling you—he follows me on Twitter! He’s followed me for years…”

  A shiver coursed through him. He should have asked the wardrobe girl for a robe earlier. Eric flicked his eyes toward the trailer door, considering whether to stick his head
outside and call for one.

  Not now, he thought. He’d rather enjoy a few more minutes of precious solitude. He didn’t need a robe anyway. What he needed was to get that shrieking voice out of his head. Eric picked up his phone, pressing his lips together in a grim line as he typed out a direct message.

  Taylor: Hey sweet pea. You there?

  A shadow fell over his shoulder, just as he hit Send.

  “Think fast!”

  Eric’s back went ramrod straight. He swiveled on his stool, but his reflexes weren’t quick enough. An all-too-familiar hand darted out and ripped the cell phone from his grasp. Eric looked up to see his manager eyeballing the screen.

  “What the hell?” Eric lunged to grab it back, but not before he was blinded by the phone’s camera flash. “Goddammit, Maury!” Eric blinked, shielding his eyes. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! Try to have an ounce of sensitivity, would you?”

  “Sensitivity to what?”

  “I’m a little jumpy today, OK?”

  “Oh, give me a break. Are you still hung up on the concert last night?” Maury cracked a broad grin. “Nice moves, kid. By the way, Dancing with the Stars called—”

  “No!” Eric stood up from his stool with a lurch. He couldn’t believe that his manager would joke about this. The incident the night before was a wake-up call. The current security procedures had utterly failed to protect him. Anything might have happened if he hadn’t been so quick on his feet. “Maury, this is serious,” he said. “I want a twenty-foot perimeter between me and the fans. No more touching people’s hands. No more general admission either. Reserved seating only. Everyone in the first five rows has to provide a photo ID—”

  Maury interrupted with a dry cackle. “Eric, you know that’s not feasible.”

  “Somebody tried to assault me!”

  “Assault you? She tried to hug you.”

  Eric gave his head a violent shake. “She had her fingers around my neck. What if she had a knife? She could’ve slit my throat before—”