Sing For Me

Chapter Nineteen: Escaping Reality

Wayne lifts me into the back of the unmarked van, because I can't step into it in this godforsaken ridiculous dress.

"Err, thanks," I mutter, my cheeks starting to burn.

Wayne pats me on the shoulder. "No worries, little lady," he says, though the panting and sweat on his brow do nothing but negate his statement.

Damn it, I really need to stop falling for the goods in the strategically-placed counter-top cookie jar...

Tim jumps up after me, and Wayne hops into the driver's seat.

As we pull out onto the road, I clear my throat, bracing myself to break the uncomfortable silence.

"I was kind of expecting more security," I say. "Or at least Red to show up in full fire-breathing regalia."

Tim cocks an eyebrow at me. "What? Red in mandala-printed harem pants?"

I shake my head. "No - not that kind of fire breather. I was more thinking the scaled variety."

Tim grins. "Well, now. That makes more sense."

He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing the perfectly slicked-back locks. "There's a bit of a process to get to our date, I'm afraid. We have several Operations Coordinators on full-time salaries, just so we can slip the paparazzi when we need to. A fake-out maneuver here, a body-double there, kind of thing."

In the front seat, Wayne grunts agreement. "Ain't that the truth! Took damn near three hours worth of hide and seek strategy to shake off the paps just to come pick you up. But what can you do? Tim here plain insisted he had to pick you up himself." Wayne slaps the steering wheel. "Almost sounded like he was afraid you might not turn up if he didn't - ha!"

"Dad!" Tim exclaims, in the quintessential tone of a kid embarrassed by their parent.

Wayne winks at me in the rear vision mirror, and I see a red flush rising up Tim's neck as he turns his head away, rubbing his neck to hide the burn and staring out the window like he was trying to erase the whole moment from his head.

Was that... did I just make the title holder of the 'World's Most Eligible Bachelor 2020' blush?

My toes scrunch in my far-too-expensive shoes.

Tim clears his throat. "And, um, I guess all of that is to say... I mean, I hope you're not hungry, because it's going to take about two hours until we finally get to dinner. The Ops Coordinators have one hell of a route tracked out for us, and there's, like, a few vehicle changes and we're picking up the photographer on the way and--" Tim fades out, kinda still mumbling something-or-other about the logistics of how we're going to get to dinner.

He's... babbling.

Tim, stage name Eric - one-fifth of the largest, hottest boyband on earth, has literally turned into a babbler in front of my eyes.

He even looks nervous -- far more nervous here in the back of an unmarked van with me than he was front-and-centre stage last night, that's for sure.

Despite myself, I smile. My chest feels all warm and tingly. I reach for his hand - the one that's white-knuckling the seat - and give it a quick squeeze.

"I'm pretty sure I'll survive," I say. His head snaps up and I see the tension in Tim's shoulders dissipate as relief floods over him in a visible wave.

"Oh. Right. G-good." He stammers.

And even if he isn't nervous because of me - even if it's just the whole weirdness of the situation, the pressure of single-handedly having to keep his album in the charts and his tour sold out over a year and a half in advance - even if it has nothing to do with me, I still feel this brief but wonderful spark of happiness just to be able to be there, just to be able to comfort him, like he had comforted me the evening before.