Mr. Perfect(3)

No one uses the golf carts because we actually have a train that goes to the main building. Like, our own subway system. The campus here at Stonewall is so damn big—one hundred and fifty acres, to be accurate—we need a train to get around.

But Brutus refuses to use the train. I roll my eyes just thinking about it. Germs, he said. It’s not New York City, for Pete’s sake. It’s a private train on a private billion-dollar corporate campus.

Ming thinks he’s obsessive-compulsive and the germs are part of it. She read that online.

Whatever his excuse, it’s not enough to make me happy about being inside a rolling plastic tent in the middle of summer. I sigh loudly.

“Well,” Brutus says. “You’re cuter than I expected.”

“Excuse me?” Ignore, ignore, ignore, Ellie.

“You sounded so wound up on the phone. I thought you’d be some thirty-something matron. It’s a nice surprise,” he says, like that will dull the sting of the insult.

All he talks about when we get inside the mobile tent is the heat. Apparently he loves the heat and this plastic-covered golf cart is his idea of bliss.

“I’m very excited to hear you sing,” I say, pushing the start button on the cart. It hums to life and I press my designer shoe down on the power pedal, eager to get this over with.

“People usually are,” he says.

I nod, doing my best to smile and ignore. “I’ve got you all set up in the green room. There are plenty of snacks and drinks for you as you wait. And everything you asked for is waiting.”

“It better be,” Brutus huffs. “That’s why I came.”

I nod. Sure. That and the paycheck, which is outrageous, and the jet, which is nicer than his own, because I checked. And the fact that Daily E! is the highest-rated nighttime entertainment show for six years running. But sure, we can all pretend he came for the M&M’s and wool socks.

He starts coughing and breathing heavy like he’s suffocating. Maybe it’s this plastic sauna we’re rolling around in when it’s the middle of summer? “I hope you’re not getting sick, Mr. Brutus?”

But he’s too busy hacking and gasping to answer. “Brutus? Are you OK? Do you need some water?” I flip the little console box open between our seats and take out the bottled water I stashed there earlier. It’s a little warm, so there’s one more thing for him to bitch about.

The rock star waves the water off. “I hope,” he croaks out, “there are no peanuts in the green room today.”

“Oh, no, I took note of your peanut allergy. We had it professionally cleaned just for—” I stop short. Oh, fuck.

“I don’t think”—he coughs again, clutching his throat—“you’re telling—”

Oh, my God. He’s turning red. “Brutus?” I ask, my little two-inch pump pressing down on the power pedal as I try to make it over to the health building. “Brutus?”

“—me the truth.” And then his eyes bug out and he makes another mad grasp for his throat with one hand and my arm with the other.

Oh, shit. How the hell, Ellie? That’s all I keep asking as I race my way over to the medical building. How the hell could you forget to take your peanut butter sandwich out of your purse?

“Hang on!”

“You’re trying to—”

“No, sir!” I say.

“—kill me.”

“No, sir! I’m so sorry—”

But my words are cut off as his head flops back against the seat and he gasps for breath.





Chapter Two - Ellie





“What the hell happened?” Ming asks.

I flop down in my desk chair and pick up the landline phone. “Hello? Miranda? Yeah, can you let Shawna and Greg know Brutus won’t be able to make the song at nine?”

I shake my head at Ming while Miranda rips me a new one on the phone.

“Well, he went into anaphylactic shock on the ride over to the studio and I took him to health services for—” I hold the phone away from my ear as Miranda screams at me.

“What the hell?” Ming asks again.

I mouth, Peanut butter, while fishing out my lunch from my clutch and waving my baggie of peanut butter sandwich. “Yes, thanks, Miranda. And sorr—”

She hangs up, so I just put the phone back on the cradle.

“I really do quit,” I say, looking up into Ming’s smiling face. “What? Why are you smiling? I almost killed a rock star!”

Ming makes a big deal of straightening her smile. “Will he live?”

“Yes, but he’s mad as hell. He actually accused me of doing it on purpose!”

“Oh,” Ming says, rolling her eyes. “That jerk can just get over himself.”