What do you do when a teenage movie star makes it seem as if you've kidnapped him? After working two summers at his father's health club as a towel boy, Peter Fisk saved enough money to visit California. He literally runs into Lance Hardwood in his...
I was frightened and confused as to what to do next. Like the song says, "Do I stay, or do I go?" New York Pete would have called the NYPD and reported it. California Pete, only a day old, was clueless.
After an intense debate between my two POVs, I decided to ask the front desk to recommend a local private security service and put off calling the police. These were likely young girls I was dealing with. Delusional, possibly psychopathic and determined fan girls. How dangerous could fans be? (Mind you, I hadn't read Stephen King's MISERY.)
All plans were set aside as soon as I stepped into the lobby. Waiting for me was Tucker Chang, with a huge bouquet of yellow roses. For those of you who don't know the color language of roses, yellow roses signify friendship. "I am so sorry for last night! You didn't..." he began, but I surprised us both by interrupting him.
"By all rights, I should be furious with you. But you did what you did out of concern for this friend of yours, and late last night I thought that friend should consider himself a very lucky man to have someone he can count on like that. And here you are, offering me roses in friendship. I forgive you, Tucker Chang."
He hugged me and whispered in my ear: "I knew you'd understand. My friend wants to thank you as well. He's waiting for you in the hotel restaurant, to thank you in person. But first, I've got to tell you about a...oh, holy shit! Joy!!"
Three things began happening at once. Half of it I pieced together after the fact, and some is guesswork. First, an impeccably dressed woman, about 5 feet tall, stumbled through the hotel's sliding doors, with what appeared to be a crossbow bolt sticking through her upper arm.
"Mother****ing teenage b****es were already here," she growled and then fainted, blood pooling on the hotel's welcome mat.
Second, a girl wearing a very familiar Young Tesla jacket and carrying a pistol entered through the stairs and shouted, "Trina, Starman ain't upstairs, and n-neither is Tatum J-Junior!"
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Third, a person raced out of the hallway leading to the kitchen lounge in a blur and slammed into me, shouting 'Look out, she's got a gun!" knocking us both to the ground, landing so hard our skulls collided. His lips landed on mine, and locked. My first kiss with anyone other than my relatives. I couldn't see anything but stars. It was a guy's lips, because I felt a fashionable shadow of stubble. And Old Spice. There was the sort of electricity that's only generated by alternating currents, negative and positive. It energized me enough to snap out of my mental daze, and focus my eyesight.
I saw who just kissed me, and who I kissed back. Lance Hardwood, star of Young Tesla. He had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. Then, some neglected fangirl's voice – the one from this morning – crashed the party.
"Party's over. Lance, you've lost. Come quietly and your friends won't get hurt any more than they already have. All we want is for you to act in our Tesla fanfic short film. Do that, and we'll leave your friends alone. We'll even keep your secret boyfriend a secret, won't we, girls?"
"Ye...Yes, Trina." Zoe stuttered timidly.
"Absolute-a-men-tay!" chimed Jamie. "And maybe get a BVD or two?"
Her last comment sent Joy into a fit of raucous laughter. In the distance, police car sirens screamed.
In the confusion, Joy used her leg to trip Jamie. The girl fell and the weapon slid across the floor and Tucker picked it up.
"Did you seriously think I'd carry a loaded gun?" cried Zoe.
"Tuck," shouted Lance, "Get Joy to the hospital! We'll go with plan B."
The trio of failed fanfic film femme fatales had already vanished. "Argh!" groaned Joy, "He's right. We'll buy you as much time as we can. Go on, get out of here. My doctor bill is coming out of your royalties!"
Lance grabbed my hand and pulled me in the direction of the parking lot. He stopped in front of the 'Stang and let out a long, slow wolf-whistle. "So this is yours, huh? Tuck was right, she's a beauty!"
"James?" I said playfully, "Do you mind this dork calling you a 'she?''
"He can call me that, Peter. I won't guarantee I'll answer to it."
Lance chuckled. "An AI with an attitude – I love it!"
"Peter, I should warn you that one of the three females that assaulted you placed two tracking devices on me."
"Say, Pete – have you told James that your name is also Richard Handler? Or would you prefer the nickname to Richard instead? And who are you calling a dork, you dork?"
"I'll ignore that. Remind me an hour from now, okay James?"
"Yes, Peter. Where would you like to go today?"
Lance – who looked a bit like Henry Cavill – clapped his hands together and said, "Las Vegas!"
I could feel the presence of Chaos, ready to drag me under into a world of devil-may-care and continuous spontaneity. "Oh, no, absolutely not! I have meetings in the next few days, people to meet and things to prepare for. We are not..."
"Oh, come on. Plan B states specifically that we are both to have fun while the Lance Fans are dealt with – charges, trial..."
"What is Plan B?" I demanded, my patience growing thinner and thinner.
"I'll tell you if we go to Vegas! Don't you trust me?"
"Not one bit."
"You French-kissed a guy you don't trust?"
"It was only one kiss..."
"But I nearly broke my skull trying to save you from getting a bullet in your back!"
"And nearly killed me while doing it!" It was my turn to break out my shit-eating grin.
"I can see we're going to have to do a lot more kissing in order for me to gain that trust. Can you handle that, Mr. Handler?"
"James? Let's go to Las Vegas. And switch to privacy mode."
