“It’s one girl. Go say hi, and then she’ll be on her way.”
“That’s not how it works.”
More people converge because someone screaming is not normal.
It honestly looks like a scene from a zombie movie. Only, instead of blood falling from their mouths, it’s drool, and it’s contagious. My name is echoed in harsh whispers around the store. As recognition kicks in, everyone’s faces drop, and the shock starts.
It’s a goddamn epidemic.
“Way to go, Rambo. You’re supposed to protect me, and you’ve walked me into a zombie horde.”
“Let’s get out of here.” Brix ditches the cart and takes my upper arm, guiding me through the crowd of fans trying to get my attention.
I smile at all of them and shake the hands that reach for me, although with how fast Brix is dragging me, it’s more like quick touches and high fives. I try not to cringe at all the germs but make sure to keep my face public ready. All these people taking photos on their cell phones will no doubt post them to social media, and God forbid I look like a psycho, tired, high, or anything but perfect. Otherwise, I’ll get a phone call from Joystar’s PR department.
All the while, Brix doesn’t let go of my arm and guides me through the ever-growing audience of people wanting to get a glimpse of me.
It goes from a handful of people to seemingly everyone in the store. They all want to see the famous person.
Some even block the exit, knowing I have to pass them, but Brix bowls right through them.
We leave without buying anything, and once we’re outside, we’re quick to make a break for the car.
No one follows us, but there are a few who stand outside the store and watch us with their phones permanently attached to their hands as we drive away.
“You got hand sanitizer in here?”
“As per ridiculous rule number six hundred and eighty-five that I must be able to supply Mr. Valentine with hand sanitizer at any given moment, I put some in the glove compartment.”
“I swear someone sneezed on me in there.” I take out the small bottle that claims to kill ninety-nine percent of germs and wish I could bathe in the stuff.
“Question. Is your germ phobia about all germs, or do you just hate people touching you?”
“I don’t hate people touching me,” I argue. “It’s more in situations like back there where I’m touching people’s hands and I don’t know if they’re sick or not. I’m not germophobic, really, I’m … flu-aphobic. One bad case has scarred me for life.”
“Ah. Got it. A fan could theoretically lick you so long as they didn’t have flu symptoms.”
“Eww, no. But theoretically … yes. I’m not pedantic or obsessive over it. I just feel better if I’m able to wash my hands frequently. Anyway, I want to say I told you so because that was far from a successful shopping trip, but seeing as you didn’t get your precious protein, I think that says it clearly enough.”
Brix shifts gears. He looks all badass with his lips pursed and a concentration line across his forehead. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“The mania. It’s not like you’re a Beatle.”
“I think you’re about thirty years too young to understand Beatlemania and not Eleven fandom. When Iris said you didn’t know who I was, I thought he was fucking with me.”
Brix side-eyes me. “I know of you … well, Eleven. I’m not dead. I just didn’t know any of your names or …”
“Or any of my solo songs.”
“Sorry.”
As refreshing as it is to be next to someone who can’t even fathom my fame, I can’t help the small seed of disappointment—as if all the work I’ve put in these last eighteen months to broaden my horizons and gain new fans outside of twelve- to seventeen-year-old girls and their moms hasn’t been enough.
Which is bullshit because Brix isn’t even my target demographic. Twenty-something females? Sure. The queer community? Definitely. Hardass ex-military tough guys who look like they could break a person in half with their bare hands? Not so much.
“You shouldn’t be offended,” Brix says.
“I’m not.” Okay, that came out defensively.
“When you first became famous, I was doing my first tour overseas. Music was the last thing on my mind. Not dying was the first.”
Wow. Perspective.
“When did you get out of the military? Let me guess. You were a Marine.” For some reason, he screams Marine.