Watch Over You

Through the Ghost

I sprinted up the gravel driveway, half a bagel hanging out of my mouth. I knew I was going to fucking oversleep. Stupid jet lag. Taking a moment to catch my breath and transfer the bagel I’d snatched up on my way out of the hotel to my hand, I knocked on the door.

“I was wondering if you died.” Michael Baskette, better known as Elvis, said as he opened the door. His long hair was tied back into a ponytail, exposing the faded band shirt he was wearing. I’d probably drop dead from surprise if he was wearing anything else.

“Nope, just overslept.” I pushed my hair back from my bloodshot eyes. “Goddamn jetlag.” In Santa Barbara, it was barely six o’clock.

“Well come on in, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.” He led me past the control room where Jef and Dave were already setting up the monitors. I said hello as we went by. Elvis was letting me stay in the basement of the house, where he’d set up another bedroom. We went down a cramped set of stairs to a small room with a bed and a dresser.

“Kitchen and bathroom are upstairs; I’ll show you once you’ve settled in.”

“Thanks again for letting me do this.” He really didn’t have to hire me. He could do most of the work himself, plus Jef and Dave to help. I was a spare, essentially.

“Hey, I’m the one getting the good deal out of this. Capable labor for a low price.”

“Yeah, yeah, show me where the bathroom is.” I dumped my bags on the bed, deciding to unpack when we were done for the day. He led me on a short tour of the house, pointing out where he was sleeping.

“And this is Myles’s room.” He pointed to a closed door. I felt my heart skip a beat in the most terrifying way possible. Elvis peered at me, a concerned look on his face. “Are you okay Mina? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I might have.” I muttered, more to myself than him. Just as we turned to go back down the hall, the door opened. Out stepped a man with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen and brown hair that just brushed his shoulders. There was a sudden rush of blood to my head and I wondered if I was about to pass out. I was going to leave a very angry voicemail on my father’s phone. Did he not think it was important to mention that the older man I’d fucked around with was going to be here?

“MJ, this is Myles Kennedy, Myles, MJ Hawkins, my assistant.” Elvis said, completely oblivious to the way we were staring at each other.

“Nice to meet you.” I managed to say. He echoed the sentiment faintly. It had been four years since I’d last seen him. He’d aged like a fine wine and I hated it. I hated that my palms were sweating and my knees were shaking. I hated that I was dying to hear his voice again. Why, oh why, did I decide to leave my apartment? I could have stayed there by myself all week gorging myself on Firebird pizza and writing music, but no, I had to have a job during spring break. This was supposed to be an easy gig: be Elvis’s slave for a week and then go back to college to finish up my senior year. Unfortunately the one man I didn’t want to see ever again was here.

That was a lie.

I did want to see him. I could hardly restrain myself from staring at him openly. Some small, stupid part of me still wanted to throw my arms around him and never let go. It was like every emotion I’d buried was bursting back to the surface like bats out of Hell.

 “Slave?” Elvis called over his shoulder.

“Yes master?” I answered in my best Igor voice, trying to focus on the task at hand. All I had to do was play it cool and I could make it through this week. I had to believe that.

“Could you get some coffee started? I know you probably need some too.” Elvis was well acquainted with my caffeine dependency. By now I should have been on my second cup and I’d be paying for it later.