3. LAX, the Home of Waiting
3
LAX, THE HOME OF WAITING
ARCHER
“You know,” I said as I stretched my legs into the aisle, “as far as airport-gate waiting areas go, this one isn’t so bad.”
“Move your feet, Archer,” Mal said. “You’re blocking the whole aisle.”
“I’ll move when someone comes. The LA airport probably has one of those swanky VIP waiting rooms where celebrities are protected from all the little people. One day soon, we will know that room. We’re not going to be in coach for much longer, guys.” I crossed my arms behind my head, neatly avoiding elbowing Ian in the face. He grunted.
I was keeping an eye on a guy waiting in line. His flight to Sacramento was about to board, but he kept looking back at us. Yeah , I thought with a smile. He’s a fan.
The Sacramento announcements started up. He wasn’t in the preboarding group or a member of the military in uniform, and since he couldn’t board yet, he made up his mind and trotted up to us .
“Sorry, man—sorry. Are you guys, um, Aftermath? With the dog? You’re awesome, man! I saw you at the Independence Festival this July. You rocked the place!”
I preferred to be recognized by pretty women (some of whom asked me to sign their boobs, thank you), but any fan was a good fan. We explained that Charlotte was at home, took a selfie with him, and talked to the guy until he was in danger of missing his flight.
“Thanks, you guys! You rock! I love your dog!” He was yelling back to us as he was ushered down the jetway, so now we were being checked out by everyone waiting in multiple waiting areas.
“See what I mean?” I signed an autograph for the bucktoothed guy who came up next, and a crowd began to form. “We’ll be in the VIP area in no time.”
Ian had been cornered by a teen with terrible acne. They were discussing guitars. But Mal was with me. “What, did you pay for this little riot to boost your ego after last night’s charity date?”
I posed for a selfie with a cute lady—a little long in the tooth, but nice eyes—and answered Mal. “That date was amazing. I totally rocked her world.”
The last supplicant returned to his seat. No one else?
Oh well. Next time we’d be mobbed. I sat down again with Mal. Ian was still debating Fender versus Gibson with the dermatologist’s dream patient, but Mal hadn’t forgotten the topic.
“I can’t believe Opinionated O’Connor bought you.”
“For nine thousand dollars,” I said. And why wouldn’t I be proud of that? The most paid for any musician. Dinner with Stanley Tucci had only gone for twenty, and he’d been around longer than me. Plus, I’d beat him next year.
“You’re not afraid she’ll write about the date? She’s pretty popular.” Mal had a warning in his voice, but his concern was unfounded.
“We should be so lucky. She had a great time, and the publicity would only help us. I took her to Venice Beach for fish tacos. Told her I’d buy her anything she liked in the booths—if it was, you know, like, under a hundred bucks.”
“Big spender.” Mal was mocking me, but he could kiss my ass. He and Ian had checked out the stars on Hollywood Boulevard. Big whoop. “She as cute in person?’
I wrinkled my nose. “I wouldn’t say cute. She looks like, you know, one of those paintings.”
“What paintings?”
I fucked around on my phone until I came up with the image I was looking for. “Pre-Raphaelite. Ever seen this one?” I held out my phone to show Mal. “Red hair, long face, creamy skin. She’s more, um, traffic stopper than cute.”
“So . . . gorgeous.”
“Nah. Not gorgeous.” Gorgeous implied big tits, and O’Connor was pretty skinny. “Like, hot. Attractive. In a hot way.”
“Nice. She funny?”
“Not even a little bit. I had to do most of the talking. She had a good time, though.”
“Don’t tell me. Knowing you, you got her to give you a blow job at the end of the evening.”
“I was a perfect gentleman.”
“What, just a hand job?”
“Shut up, man. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“That’s all you do.” Mal was laughing at me, but I could handle it. He was just jealous of how much tail I got. It had been that way since high school.
“I know the truth,” I said smugly. “She liked me.”
Ian, freed from his guitar nerdery, flopped into the chair on my other side. “Who? ”
“Opinionated O’Connor. Look at this. It’s a Pre-Raphaelite. Nice, huh?”
“She write about you?”
“I haven’t checked. Look, this one guy painted that same woman a bunch of times.”
“Yeah, here it is. Opinionated O’Connor just posted. Here you go.”
Ian held his phone out to me, but I went back to my kicked-out pose, relaxed and ready to hear her praise. “Read it to me.”
“Uh, okay. Headline is ‘Archer Armstrong’s Handsome But.’ ”
“She wrote an entire post about my butt? Well, who can blame her?” Satisfaction washed over me like golden sunlight. The squats always paid off. I knew she liked my body. Ahh. “Keep reading.”
“I don’t want to read an entire post about your—no, it’s not B-U-T-T. It’s B-U-T.”
“Typo. Keep reading.”
Ian didn’t keep reading—out loud, anyway. His eyes darted to me and then back to his phone.
“What? What’s it say?” A silver cloud of concern darkened my brilliant day.
Ian wouldn’t answer. In fact, he hunched over and turned away from me as he read. Wide-eyed, Mal pulled out his own phone. “Shit. It’s not good, Arch.”
“What do you mean, it’s not good? That date was amazing! Give me that!”
Mal let me take his phone, and my eyes flew down the screen.
archer armstrong’s handsome , but
The lead singer of the hot new band Aftermath is possibly the vainest man I’ve ever met.
What the fuck !
I feel comfortable saying that since I now know him quite well. He, on the other hand, knows nothing about me since he talked about himself for two and a half hours straight. He was still talking about himself when I made my grateful escape.
“She said she had a call with Tokyo! She lied to me?”
As far as Archer Armstrong is concerned, I have breasts smaller than the average rock-band groupie —I’d been totally subtle when I checked her out— and like my fish taco with hot sauce. This completes the entire inventory made of Opinionated O’Connor by the man.
Admittedly, Archer Armstrong is probably the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. The guy received a genetic gift from the gods when he was born: golden hair, deep blue eyes, a square jaw, and a saucy grin that’s probably melted many a pair of panties.
Not to mention a voice that grabs every listener by the ovaries—or the gonads.
But it would take a quick punch to that talented voice box to shut the guy up. That would be the only way to make a date with him tolerable. He’s good to look at—very good—but as soon as he opens that mouth . . . kill me now.
“That bitch!” I hunched over, hiding from the world, unable to look away from the nightmare flowing through the phone’s screen.
And take special note: in order to bring you the complete and honest story, I let Archer Armstrong kiss me good night so you would never have to. Because Armstrong has no idea how to kiss a woman. If you’re reading this, Archer, you’re not supposed to bump your teeth into your partner’s. Easy does it, you novice.
You’re welcome, America.
Horror paralyzed me. Every muscle in my body was locked. Fight or flight. Preferably fight.
Or flight. When would our damned plane be called? I had to get out of this huge waiting area, sun blazing like a prison searchlight. Every person in the place was looking at me. Laughing at me.
“I do too know how to kiss women!” I meant for it to be a firm rejection of a laughable lie, but it came out of me in a strained whisper. “I’ve been pleasing women since the sixth grade!”
“I know, man.” Mal patted me on the back like I was a toddler with a skinned knee. Anger bubbled up under the horror. Embarrassment added a harsh tone to the symphony of emotions paralyzing me. What if people believed this shit?
Ian didn’t speak, but he gave me the baseball cap he was wearing. I tugged it down gratefully. I could hide behind the brim. No one would know it was me.
“Brother Ianacus,” I said to him. “You know this isn’t true, right?”
“I’ve never kissed you myself,” Ian replied in his deep voice. “But I know you’re not the vainest person on the planet. I mean, there are so many people, the chances of you being the most vain?—”
I glared at him and hissed to keep us under the attention of those around us. “Are you trying to help?”
“Well, you are maybe a little . . .” His phone rang and he grabbed it gratefully. “Nicky. Hang on.”
He got up to pace along the concourse.
I turned to Mal. “You want to beat me up too? Take a shot at me?”
“Nah. Wouldn’t be any fun after you got shredded like this.” He waved his phone at me. “It’s already up to almost four hundred thousand views. Shit, this is going viral. It’s been up for nine minutes.”
“Oh my god.” I shrank lower in my seat. Maybe I could hide in the men’s room.
Ian returned. “Nicky said we should call Phil. She’s getting requests for comment from reporters across the country. ”
“Tell them! Tell them all she’s a damned liar and a bitch!”
“Shut up, Arch,” Ian said calmly. I hated his calmness. Didn’t he know this would ruin me? Ruin us ? “I’m looking up Phil’s contact.”
My phone rang. I fished for it. “It’s Phil! He’s going to fire us!”
“Answer it,” Ian said, and again I wanted to bury my fist in his calm face.
“At least say hello.” Mal was more encouraging.
I took a breath and swiped the call. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” I hissed into the phone instead of screaming, but only because I was hoping no one would notice me. Ever again.
“Mr. Armstrong.” The yacht-club captain was also annoyingly calm. “I gather you’ve seen it.”
“ Seen it? She fucking assassinated me, man! And this was your idea! You made me go to that damned charity thing!”
“Stay calm, please. According to your schedule, you should be at LAX waiting for your flight to New York.”
“And we’re surrounded by people who know who we are. And every single one of them is looking at that bitch’s article! What are you going to do about it?”
“Mr. Armstrong, I’ll remind you that every single person in an airport waiting area is looking at their phones. Not all of them are reading Opinionated O’Connor . Plus, there is no such thing as bad publicity.”
“There is if it says you don’t know how to kiss a woman!” My hiss had become a powerless shriek. Ian took the phone out of my hand.
“Hey. It’s Ian. Yeah, he’s kind of worked up. Sure. Sure, we can.” Ian looked across me and nodded to Mal, who nodded back. Oh, like you know what they’re saying. “That sounds smart. I’ll tell Nicky too. Oh yeah? You think? Okay. Okay, we will. Not a word. I got you. Let us know what she says. What? Should be in about fifteen minutes. We will. Right. Right, okay. Bye.” He handed me my phone.
“Well? What?”
Ian was texting. Nicky, no doubt. “We’re all saying ‘no comment’ if anyone asks.”
“No comment?” My voice rose and people looked over. I hunched down again. “But she called me a—” novice , I mouthed. No profanity could be more shocking. “Me! A novice!”
“I saw it. He’s going to call her.”
“Call who? The bitch? I’ll call the bitch!”
“Stop calling her that, man.” Mal put his hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged him off.
“She didn’t call you a bad kisser, Mal. No, I was the one who got that. Am I supposed to just take that? I’ll kiss the fuck out her. I’ll kiss any woman here! We’ll see who’s a bad kisser!”
“Sit, Archer.” Ian put a hand on one shoulder and Mal got the other. They held me down, and my rage and shame was so huge that my eyes began to prickle.
Fuck. I wasn’t about to cry, was I? The humiliation would be complete.
“He says he has a plan he thinks she’ll go for.”
“A plan?” The only plan I would accept was one that involved the ritual and very public humiliation of one Stuck-Up O’Connor. “What plan?”
“He didn’t say, but let’s give him a chance. He’ll call us when he hears something.”
“That’s not good enough! What am I supposed to do now? I mean, can we call the press or something?”
I tried to find the article on my own phone, but Mal’s big hand lifted the phone away entirely.
“Don’t dwell on it, man. It won’t get any better. Shit, Ian. We’re going to have to sit next to this guy the whole way home.”
“Oh, fuck you, Mal.” Even as I said it, I knew he didn’t deserve the venom I wanted to spit. But he and Ian were the closest targets. “Christ, this place is so fucking bright, you know? I hate California.”
“Yeah,” Ian said loyally. “All that fucking sun.”
He was a great friend. So was Mal. I wanted my fucking dog.
And I wanted to know what Phil’s plan was. How was he going to pull this one off?