3. Hailey
CHAPTER 3
HAILEY
M y head spun with one thought, Oh shit. Oh shit. Those girls. They’d spotted me. Oh shit. Oh shit.
I had to get out of here. But which way was out? The door I’d come in by was too far to run, all the way past the dance floor. Oh shit. Oh shit.
They were taking pictures. Flash in my face. Why hadn’t I listened?
“Over there! Isn’t that?—”
I cast about for the exits. Red exit signs. Hadn’t I spotted one down past the bar?
“Ooh! Get a selfie!”
Were they going to mob me? Crush me into the bar? I’d heard of that happening, like in fires. The first wave hit the door but the tide didn’t stop. The door wouldn’t open and that first wave got crushed. I was a little boat riding that wave. The tiniest boat. A kayak. A dinghy. They’d shatter me on the bar like a boat on the rocks. I would be driftwood. Oh shit. Oh shit.
I twisted my purse strap, searching for calm. If I only kept cool, I could still make it out. One step, then another. No sudden moves.
“HAILEEEEEEEEE!” A dark shape flew at me, a shape with a phone. I jumped to avoid it and the tide rushed in. They all came at once, from every side. Someone grabbed hold of me, a hand on my arm. Nails digging in. A coarse, callused palm. I screamed and my shades flew off, and?—
“ It’s her! ”
He was up in my face, huffing bad breath. Whiskey fumes strong enough they stung my eyes. I slapped at his hand and he dug in deep. He pushed up on me, his hip bumping mine. I flapped around blind and snatched someone’s drink, and flung it straight in his face. He spluttered and fell back and two girls shoved in. They pressed up on each side of me, and one at my back.
“Selfie!”
“Hey, smile!”
I gasped, short of breath.
“No, over here! Come on, give me?—”
A scream rose, a shout. A yelp of outrage. The crowd flew apart and a huge man came charging — charging straight for me like a mountain gorilla. His face was contorted with effort or rage, his lips peeled back, his eyes slitted tight. He tossed the drunk guy aside like he weighed nothing and lunged straight for me. I drew breath to scream.
“It’s all right,” he said.
I made a strangled sound, Guh?
Then somehow, I had air to breathe. A bubble around me. The girls were gone, with their phones and their selfies. The drunk with his blunt nails. The crowd pressing in. All I could see was this guy’s broad back, his arms so thick his muscles had muscles. He was holding the mob at bay. Walking me back.
“Hailey! Hai-leeeeeeee! ”
I shrank back, and the big man bent close.
“You’re okay,” he said. “Just stick close to me.”
I did as he said, cozied up to his side. He slung one arm over me and turned me to the wall. Sheltered me with his bulk as he made for the door. I didn’t think we’d make it at first, but he cut through the crowd like a swimmer through water, breaststroking one-armed all the way through. He kicked the door open and we burst out into lights — cameras, microphones, a whole news crew.
“Get your head down,” he said. Then, “Out of the way!”
A boom mic went flying. Somebody yelled. Then we were sprinting top-speed down the alley, a block straight ahead, then up to the street.
“I’m parked just up here.”
“Up— up where?” I was out of breath, panting, but my rescuer wasn’t. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“Right here,” he said. “Go on. Get in.”
I piled into his car, kind of a beater, and pushed a fast-food bag off the front seat. He jumped in beside me and drove round the block. A KPOX news van followed at first, but he merged into traffic and left it behind.
“I’m Jackson,” he said, as he slowed for a light. “You always get in cars with strangers?”
“Almost never.” I rolled down my window and stuck my face in the crack. The night air was warm and it stunk of exhaust, but it was still air. I sucked a deep breath. “I’m Hailey,” I said, when my head had stopped spinning. “Hailey Frye? I don’t know if you?—”
“From the billboards, right? With the pink butterflies?” Jackson smiled, and he went from scary to sweet, from Rottweiler to retriever in two seconds flat. He kind of did remind me of a big, grinning dog, the kind that never quite knows its own strength. Except, from how he’d handled himself, I guessed he did.
His brow furrowed as the light changed and he drove on. “What were you doing out by yourself?”
I bit my tongue on the urge to snap back. He was just asking, and he had a point. I’d lasted all of ten minutes alone. Then, they’d swooped in from all sides, the vultures.
“I mean, you must have people. Managers. Security. A shield from the crowd.”
Resentment rose up, sour in my throat. He sounded like Mina now, that same nagging tone. Like I was a toddler trying to kick down my baby gate. Sweetie, that’s dangerous. Can you say ‘dangerous?’ Aw, yes, you can. Who’s a good girl?
“Especially, you know. Places like that. Club D’s not the type of place your kind hangs out.”
I wanted to hit him. My kind? My kind? Just who the hell did he think I was?
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. Open mouth, insert foot? I’m not trying to imply anything. You’re just, you know…” He left the sentence unfinished. I leaned back in my seat.
“It’s not you,” I said. “You’re probably right. It’s just, I’ve been cooped up, barely seen daylight, almost six months recording my album. Then we flew back here and I thought I’d be free, but it’s been nonstop rehearsals with my tour coming up. I had tonight off and I thought… why not? I thought I could take this one night for myself. One night for me. I can’t have that?”
Jackson looked thoughtful. “Sure. There are places.”
“Places? Like where?”
“Museums. The opera. Classy restaurants. Anywhere most folks are fifty and up.”
I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or if he was for real. If the only safe place was around crowds my parents’ age. Had they seen my billboards? I covered my face.
“It’s not so bad,” said Jackson. “There’s places you can go where most people can’t. The Grammys. The Met ball. The cover of Rolling Stone .”
I laughed at the thought of me on the newsstands. Me on the cover of some magazine. Then I remembered, I already was — not Rolling Stone yet, but Stars . LA Beat . I let my hands drop from my face.
“Six months ago, I flew coach to Miami. Moved into this little place above a bookstore. Every morning, a driver would come and collect me, and I’d go to the studio and record all day. Or I’d meet my producer and we’d mess with new songs. Or I’d have a photoshoot, or some interview, or a meet-and-greet with, you know. Whoever. I’d get home around midnight and fall into bed, and wake up and start it all over again.” I clenched my fists. Thumped them on my knees. “What I’m trying to say is, I left here a person . A regular person with one viral hit. I dropped out for six months to finish my album, and when I came up, my face was on billboards. It had been on billboards. I never knew. I didn’t know , coming out tonight. How would I know?”
I warned you, said Mina, smug in my head. Jackson slowed, and I realized we’d been circling the block. Now he stopped for the same light he’d stopped for before.
“So, where am I taking you?”
I pulled out my phone. A zillion missed calls popped up, and a volley of texts. I cringed at the prospect of facing Mina, and worse still, admitting that she’d been right. And maybe I didn’t have to, or at least not yet. Jackson knew places I could be safe. And he was hot in his scarred, hulking way. Like a kid’s action hero made sculpted flesh.
“Let’s go to the opera.”
His brows shot up. “What?”
“You said we’d be safe there. So come on. Let’s go.”
Jackson laughed. “It’s almost midnight.”
“So?”
“So, you think the opera starts at midnight?”
I swatted the air upside his head. “I didn’t mean the literal opera . I meant, take me somewhere. I’ll buy you a drink. You saved my ass tonight. I owe you a drink.”
“You don’t owe me,” said Jackson. He slowed for a light. “Come on, where are you staying? I’ll take you back.”
“One drink, then I’ll tell you.”
“Are you serious?”
I flashed him my sweetest, most winning smile. “Don’t you want to come out with me?”
“Well, I, uh…” I could feel the gears turning in his big, buzzcut head. It struck me, this was new on him, getting asked out. Getting talked to at all, besides please don’t hurt me . He had that whole scary-hot thing going on, rippling biceps, scar down one cheek. A scowl like thunder when he stopped to think.
I touched his arm, just the lightest of taps. “Come on. One drink.”
“All right. Just one. Then I’m taking you home.”
I grinned — victory! One drink was a start. After that, well, we’d see.
Tonight was looking up.