I’m the exact opposite, in fact. I’ve never seen him in the papers, or even his movies, for that matter, with a woman who isn’t blonde and blue-eyed—maybe brown eyes, but never dark hair or skin. They’re always beautiful, delicate, pale flowers. I’m none of those things.
So, not only am I now whoring myself out to Buck, but I’m also being made over into something I’m not. I can hardly breathe; it chafes so hard against everything I am.
How the fuck did I end up here?
Aunt Delores. She needs me. I need money to help her. Buck has fucking money. He wants this, and here I am.
I follow him down the steps of the RV bus. Thugs One and Two flank him, holding the throngs of people at bay. A surge of bodies pushes closer.
Buck wraps his arm around me, pulling me against his side, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
I shrug him off. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Squaring my shoulders, I stride forward away from him. The crowd isn’t interested in me. They just want a piece of Buck.
A camera is shoved into my face as the flash goes off.
I throw my hand up, too late to protect my eyes. “What the fuck?”
His strong hand lands on my shoulder, dragging me back into his arms. “Damn it, Lou. Stay close.”
Once we get into the Rec Center, where Buck and I spent so many afternoons as pre-teens, the crush of bodies dissipates as the local cops close the doors behind us. Two of the three cameramen wait for us in the gymnasium, the third still outside, filming the throng of locals who showed up to see Buck.
Buck turns to Trudi. “How the fuck did they know I was coming today?”
Her eyes widen and she turns up her palms. “Beats me.”
He shakes his head. “Well, let’s try to keep a bit more of a watch on who gets our schedule, eh?”
He turns to me. “And you.”
“Me, what?”
“You need to listen to me. You’re not used to mobs and how the paparazzi work. They’ll eat you for lunch.”
I lean in to him and whisper, “As opposed to being eaten for breakfast?”
He breaks out with a loud laugh. “You’re something else, Lou.”
I cross my arms. “I can handle a few cameras and fans who don’t give even a half a shit about who I am.”
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “That’s the thing. You’ve been seen with me, so now they do care who you are. They want to know every last detail of your life.”
A rock sinks into my gut.
Every last detail?
Great.
* * *
Mrs. Trumball always did dote on Buck. Today is no different.
I sit on the folding chair in the corner. The Rec Center staff, some having long ago retired or moved on from their positions, all showed up today to gather at the feet of the now famous Buck Wylder. They act as though they’ve always known Buck would make good.
In reality, none of them liked him or me much back then, except Mrs. Trumball. Of course, she knew him better than she knew me. He did a lot of work around her house for her in the summers.
She shuffles over, pushing her walker. Back in the day, she was in better health. Her lavender hair reflects the fluorescent lights as Buck pulls a chair out for her. He leans in, dropping a sweet kiss on the back of her blue-veined hand. She pats his cheek and says something that makes the crew and all those loitering around laugh.
Her rheumy eyes glisten as she looks up at Buck, a smile playing at her thin lips. She takes a bit of Buck’s shirt, pulling him down, speaking into his ear. His gaze finds me and he nods. When he straightens and heads my way, one of the camera men follows.
As he approaches, he holds out his hand—not in a requesting sort of way. No, that hand is firm and, without saying a word, he conveys his demand that I join him and participate in whatever it is Mrs. Trumball wants.
I let out a slow sigh and place my fingers into his upturned palm.
Buck, having his best manners in place for the cameras, pulls out a chair for me next to the little old lady who was one of the few adults who took time for either of us when we were kids. However, I always got the impression her friendliness toward me was simply an extension of the affection she felt for Buck. Or it seemed that way to the eleven year old me.
Though, there was that one time when she paid for me to go on a field trip the Rec Center set up. Maybe she did like me.
The group takes turns talking to the camera about what kind of kid Buck was. Most of them recall a different version than the Buck I remember. Their stories have a lot of scrapping with the other boys, a lot of phone calls to his Pops, a whole lot of reasons why they thought he was the way he was, most of it to do with his parents’ exit from his life, and a lot of knowing someday, even though he had a rough start, Buck was destined for big things.