Chapter 6
Sarah had help—the guys had security, all enormous and dopey puppy dogs with intimidating game faces—plus a handful of the JackRabbit guys, not that that idiot Tyler would do any good.
Sarah was pretty sure that Scotty had slept with one of the security guys, but that was none of her business.
Lars was a freckly redhead with a body like a gladiator, and she understood.
She didn’t need the beefcakes for this, though—it was broad daylight, and no one had had the time to get wasted. Sarah went alone to greet Corey.
“Send him over,” Sarah said. She stood on the deck and watched as a Cruise Terminal employee, blushing, hurried to keep pace with Corey West as he strode up the metal walkway.
Sarah was surprised to think of him that way—first name, last name—even as he was walking toward her.
Professionalism would have kept her from admitting it, but Corey was different than the other guys, even to Sarah.
They dressed terribly, Boy Talk, like suburban dads or Miami club douches, depending on the time of day, and it was refreshing to see a middle-aged man who knew how to put clothing on his body.
Corey West was tall, with long legs in a pair of faded blue jeans, and he looked good.
More to the point, he knew that he looked good.
It wasn’t fair that someone who had done as many drugs as Corey West had no doubt done could make it to fifty looking this handsome.
For about thirty seconds, Sarah was the only one on board who could see Corey, and she felt a tiny surge of adrenaline.
It wasn’t brain surgery, what she did, or hostage negotiation, but this moment wasn’t nothing.
Sometimes Sarah thought about all the logistics that had to fall into place to make this weekend happen—any of the trips they organized—and it felt like getting a man to the moon.
At least astronauts always wanted to go.
Sarah stuck out her hand. “Hi, Corey—Sarah, from JackRabbit.” They’d met half a dozen times before, on this exact ship, but Sarah knew better than to expect him to remember her name.
She’d been an assistant when they first met, and Corey hadn’t looked her straight in the eye until the third cruise.
Speaking of assistants, where was Tyler?
He was supposed to be behind her, but she’d lost him somewhere en route.
“If you need anything, it’s me. Let’s get you to your room. ”
Corey stuck out a pinkie from the hand holding the phone, and Sarah shook it with two fingers as they moved quickly toward the closest elevator bank. She had one waiting for her and closed the door behind them. The screams stopped, and they were alone.
“How was your flight?” Sarah asked.
“Fine,” Corey said, and then offered a small puff of air, as if already exhausted.
Sarah excused a lot of behavior like this from the acts—they were performing, and it was tiring.
Sarah understood. She didn’t want to make them feel like they had to be on any more than they actually had to be. That was fair enough.
“Well, glad you made it,” Sarah said. “Shawn and Bobby can go over pretty much everything with you, and in your room there’s a list of numbers to call for food, drinks, anything you might need.
My number’s on there too. Here we are.” The elevator slowed and then stopped on Deck 7, and Sarah held out her hand, indicating for Corey to exit first.
“After you,” he said, pointing with his long arm toward the door, and so Sarah walked out before he did, which was good, because there were a few Talkers waiting outside the Sanctuary door, their bodies visibly vibrating with excitement, and one stone-faced security guard who was issuing them back toward the staircase.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Corey said. He approached the women, who each held out something for him to sign—a baseball hat’s brim, a piece of paper, an arm. “I can’t sign your arm,” he said to the last one, a small brunette who looked like she might burst into tears.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” the woman said, the words choking out of her throat, and then she did burst into tears. Corey spread his arms and gave her a quick hug, and by the time he was done, the Sanctuary door was open, and he hurried inside, Sarah behind him, blocking the way.
“Sorry about that,” Sarah said once the door was shut behind them.
“The guards are supposed to make sure no one lingers. That shouldn’t happen every time you open that door, we’ll make sure.
They must have just gotten there.” She expected Corey to be pissed off—this was part of the deal that the American Fantasy offered bands: privacy, space, safety.
Instead, he turned and looked at her with the first genuine smile he’d given her and said, “They don’t give a shit, do they? ”
The company had talked about this. Bobby and Sarah had talked about this.
It had been discussed repeatedly, all up and down the food chain.
The Talkers were probably talking about it too, and the gossip accounts and the Daily Mail.
The official line was that there was no official line.
Corey had posted an apology on his Instagram, and everyone else had been instructed not to comment.
The insurers were probably the most worried, but it wasn’t like Corey was driving the boat.
Sarah honestly didn’t think it was such a big deal—if anything, expecting perfection from human beings was more of a stretch. Marriage was a tool of the patriarchy.
“No,” Sarah said. “I don’t think they do.”
“Ha!” Corey said. “It’s the fucking twilight zone. I love it.”
Sarah watched as Corey brightened, as if a tiny light bulb had been switched on inside his body. If the Talkers had seen him then, they would have burst into flame.
There was a knock on the door, and Sarah pulled it open. Tyler stood on the other side, panting. He held up his key card as if it were a police badge. “Sorry,” he said. “I missed the elevator, so I just ran up the stairs.”
“Let’s go,” Sarah said, and waved to Corey as she zipped back to the other side of the door and pulled it shut behind her. As soon as the door closed, she gave Tyler a gentle flick on the arm. “Next time, keep up.”