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Chapter Four

"To increase your security, we had to hire a new bodyguard," Eddie was saying that evening as we watched some guys working on fixing my tour bus. I frowned in disapproval at the different color formica being put on my table. My old blue table top had matched the counter of the kitchenette, but and this one was green and didn't match at all. "The company is flying out their best." He caught me frowning at the table top. "What?"

"It's green," I said.

Eddie raised an eyebrow, "So? You like green." I pointed at the counter top. Eddie rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a woman."

I scowled.

It took awhile for the guys to wrap up their work, and by the time the new table was installed on my bus it was nearly seven o'clock and I had to start getting ready to go on stage. I'd skipped VIP because I was scared that the batshitcrazy guy with the gun would sneak in somehow, but there wasn't a thing I could do to avoid the stage. I imagined the guy rushing the pit with his shot gun aloft and putting a dozen or so bullets through me. My death would be immortalized by thousands of illegal fan videos uploaded to YouTube and Twitter before the night was through.

What a way to go.

"Your new bodyguard will be on the bus when you get off stage," Eddie promised as I dillydallied by the door. "No need to be a'scared'a the dark." He smirked. Everyone was being so mean about this whole affair. It's not like I was afraid of the boogey man, for crying out loud.

"What's his name?" I asked.

"The guy on the phone said they were sending Charley out," Eddie answered.

"Charley," I mused. "That sounds like a good, strong name." I pictured Mr. T.

"Break a leg," Eddie said.

"As long as it doesn't get shot off, I'm fine with breaking any body part," I answered, and I ran across the lot, flanked by Markus and Q, to the venue. Fans shrieked from the fences that surruonded the parking area and normally I would've rushed over to say hi to them and sign some autographs, but with my luck Billy the Kid was crouched among them clutching his rifle like a duck hunter. Maybe he had an electronic fan - a decoy - to lure me in with. A quick image went through my head of that old NES game Duck Hunt. I pictured a computerized bitmap me being blown to shreds while Billy The Kid's High Score flashed in the top corner.

Game over for me.

Inside, I felt like apprehensive and easily fell into the routine of prepping for the stage. People were running everywhere, and I was quickly squished into my costume and smacked in the face with a pouf of powder. Brian was humming nervously to himself and beyond our dressing area the hum of people and conversation was getting louder and louder as the time neared.

Before I knew it, we were gathered together in our huddle for preshow prayer. "Thanks God for everything you do for us, for the fans, and each other... for the management and security teams... and for everything. Help us to give it our best out there on stage tonight, help us to keep our feet and remember the lyrics. Be with our band, with our photography crew, with the light crew, sound crew... Keep your hand on this show and bring smiles to the fans' faces..."

"And let Charley kick Billy's ass if the need arises," I tossed in.

Brian looked up, "You can't say ass in a prayer, Nick."

"Sorry," I apologized. "Let Charley kick Billy's keister, then, if the need arises."

Brian sighed. "Amen."

"Amen," we all chorused.

I tried not to be neurotic on stage, but it's hard when you're on display in front of thousands of people and can't see more than the first 300 or so in the crowd. When the pyro went off towards the end of the show, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I would've hit the deck except I'd been coaching myself for a good fifteen minutes that the bang was about to come and not to be scared by it.

After the show was over, I ripped my tie off from around my neck and chucked it in my stylist's general direction and handed off my microphone and headset battery pack to the first technician I passed. I was out the door and halfway to the bus before the other guys had even finished undoing all their microphone wiring.

Eddie trotted up beside me, "We gotta talk," he said briefly.

"About what?"

"About Charley," Eddie said, "There's something I gotta tell you about Charley."

I grabbed the door handle of my bus and yanked it open, "What about him?" I asked as I climbed the steps. Eddie followed me up them. I came to an abrupt halt at the top of the steps.

Sitting at my green formica breakfast booth was a woman. She was damp from a shower, her stringy wet brown hair hanging to her mid-back, her eyes the color of honey and skin to match. She'd clearly been tanning. She wore a tank top, giving me a pretty good birdseye view of the dip in her cleavage.

"He's not a he," Eddie answered.