The Resistance(102)

My job as a celebrity is over. I need to protect my wife. Without making a big deal of it, I nod toward the door and our team is on the move. I direct security to cover her first, me second, and keep my eyes on her as much as I can, mindful of her whereabouts as I position myself a step ahead of Holliday with security taking the tail. She doesn’t notice she’s being sandwiched for safety. I’d be happy if she never had to deal with this, never had to have a second thought about her safety or mine, but with my fame and her growing fame, we have to be aware at all times.

I hear my name being called, then some guy yells, “Outlaw,” which gets my attention. He’s wearing a T-shirt with our band on it. It’s from our last tour when Cory was still alive. The reminder makes me want to escape the scrutiny I feel I’m under to keep producing. The break I’ve had has been good.

Holliday gets in the car and I quickly follow. The door is shut. The trunk is closed, and we’re off. The phrase ‘The silence is deafening’ is felt within the vehicle. These situations can go wrong fast, but there’s also a rush that comes from fans wanting a piece of you. I know it’s Johnny Outlaw they want, but it still takes time to come down from the high. Since I’ve been out of the spotlight, it’s gotten easier to separate my job from my real life. It also helps that Holliday gets me. She always did, and gives me the space I need when necessary, but is also there when I fall. She slides her hand across the leather seat, and asks, “You okay?”

Back at LAX, she was called a gold-digging whore twice and accused of using me to further her business. Yet, here she is worried about me. I take her hand, and ask, “Are you okay?”

Shrugging, she says, “It is what it is.”

“Don’t listen to them.”

“It’s kind of hard not to when they’re yelling at me.”

I angle my body toward her, and say, “Don’t ever believe what they say. Believe me.”

Squeezing my hand, she smiles. “That’s easy to do.”

I lean over and kiss her before sitting back and staring out the window the rest of the ride. My parents aren’t expecting me. I thought it was best this way, but now I’m having doubts. This could backfire and it will be humiliating if it does in front of Holliday.

We check into the hotel and go up to the room. As soon as the door closes, she drops her purse on the bed and walks to the window, checking out the view. With her arms crossed, she asks, “Does it get easier?”

The drapes frame her body, her curves highlighted from the outside light. Walking up behind her, I touch her shoulders. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want the truth.”

“No, it doesn’t get easier, but you do get more used to it, if that makes sense.”

Her voice is soft, too quiet. I hear the sad realization in her tone. “When you have a good day, the paparazzi turn them bad.” Turning around in my arms, she says, “But your fans make it good, right?”

With a small nod, I say, “Yeah, they make it great. They get my art. They understand what I’m trying to do.”

“So maybe one day, people will accept me as your wife.”

I touch her face, hearing the question deep down that she’s asking. “Don’t do that. You’re my wife because I love you. That will never change. Block the static and focus on the truth.”

She leans her head against my chest and nods as I hold her. “Block the static,” she repeats.





As we drive into town, I notice that Elgin has changed a lot since I left ten years ago. What used to be a small Texas town, stereotypical with its open fields, cowboy hats, and pickup trucks, is no more. Now it’s full of strip malls, coffeehouses, and a few more liquor stores. I pull up and park in front of one of them, cutting the engine. Looking at Holliday, I say, “No one shows up at my dad’s house without a twelve pack of Lone Star. Want anything?”

“I’m good. I’ll wait here.”

I walk in and straight back to the beer cooler. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Old Joe running the counter just like he did when I was in high school. He watches me as I walk and I’m pretty sure he recognizes me. I grab the beer and head back up. Just as I pass the sodas, one catches my eye and I go back to grab it for Holliday. I remember her saying one time that it was her favorite. “Joe,” I say, setting the drinks down on the counter.

“Jack Dalton, Jr. Long time.”

“Yeah. You doing okay?”

“Yep,” he says, typing on the cash register. “Holding down the fort like always. How bout you?”

Setting two twenties down on the counter, I reply, “Going good. Keep the change.” He hands me a receipt and bags the soda. “Thanks, Joe. Have a good one.”