“Oh, wait up there, kid. I almost forgot!” He slaps his forehead in a ridiculous, cartoonish way, with his head shaking and eyes rolling. “This is for you.”
He thrusts into my hand a piece of paper that looks like any other ordinary bus ticket except for the sprigs of holly etched around the edges.
“Your return ticket,” he tells me. “It’s good for five days and five days only. Take good care not to lose it. It’s your only way back.”
“Can I use it now?” I ask, ready to turn it over and get back to Greentree.
“Nah. You and I are done for today. You just keep it somewhere safe.” He rubs his chin, casting a worried glance toward the limo. Then quickly replaces it with a mile-wide grin that exposes every shiny gold tooth in his mouth. “Five days, kid. ’At’s all ya got.”
I do a quick calculation. “So, Christmas?”
“When Christmas Eve turns to Christmas—one minute past midnight.”
I shove the ticket deep into my hoodie’s hidden inner pocket, wondering if I’m about to make the same mistake all over again by getting into a car with some guy I don’t even know. But when I shoot the driver a pleading look, he just shakes his head and shoves me down the steps into the stifling heat. Not knowing what else to do, I say a little prayer, shield my eyes from the glare, and head for the shiny black limo and the driver holding the sign bearing my name.
5 Days, 11 Hours, 2 Minutes, and 22 Seconds till Christmas
WE THREE KINGS
From the looks of it, I’m pretty sure the big hulking guy holding the sign with my name on it is not just a bodyguard but also doubles as the chauffeur. Which would explain the black suit, mirrored sunglasses, and hat.
He also looks strangely familiar.
Not that I actually know anyone with that many muscles who dresses like that, but there’s something about his mouth, chin, and jaw (which is pretty much all I can see on account of the glasses and hat) that makes me squint and think, Hmmm.
I slow my approach, not entirely sure what I’m about to get myself into. Figuring I should start by introducing myself, maybe saying something like Hi, I’m Nick Dashaway—the guy on your sign. Or better yet, the guy whose name is on your sign, since it’s not like I’m on his sign, which is how it sounded before. But I guess I’m overthinking it, because before I can say anything, he’s tucking the sign under his arm and swinging the limo door open, checking the inside before motioning for me to climb in.
I slide onto the smooth leather seat and drop my backpack onto the floor between my feet. As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness I notice the shadowy figure sitting just opposite, with big beefy forearms resting on his knees, slicked-back hair that looks like it’s been glued to the sides of his head using one of the sealants from my dad’s store, and a set of squinty eyes facing imminent invasion from a pair of unruly brows threatening to overtake them.
And just when I’m about to bolt, it hits me—it’s Ezer. Ben Ezer. Josh Frost’s manager.
“Nick, what the heck kinda stunt you pulling?” His gaze glints on mine, like we’re continuing a conversation I don’t remember starting.
My whole face squinches. Clueless doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.
“Keeping us waiting like that.” He makes a tongue-clicking-teeth sound, like he’s the headmaster and I’m the delinquent student about to be suspended. “You better not be letting your star power go to your head. You’ve been warned. I won’t stand for that kind of thing. Business is business, Nick. You need to keep it professional. Keep your ego in check. Don’t ever forget, I’m your manager, not one of your adoring fans.”
Fans?
I glance around the limo, trying to see beyond the tinted windows, but I only end up more confused.
“You’re my manager?” I gape, sure there’s been a mistake.
“Cute.” Ezer snickers as he leans back in his seat and steeples his fingers. “Real cute, Nick.” He shakes his head once, twice, then sinks a hand deep into his briefcase, only to resurface with a big fat pile of papers he shoves right at me.
“What’s this?”
“Contracts—product licenses for that line of sunglasses—that commercial in Japan—your new book deal. We’ve been over these already. Just sign where I’ve tagged ’em.”
Japan?
But what comes out instead is “I’m writing a book?” Even though I know it’s not real—even though I’m pretty sure I fell asleep at that bus stop and have ended up in some kind of bizarre dream—the idea sends me into a panic.
I’m already maxed out on my schoolwork, not to mention the extra-credit projects I’ve taken on. And now I’m supposed to write a book?
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ezer shakes his head like I’ve said something stupid. “That’s what ghostwriters are for. They do all the work. You get all the glory. Now sign.”