Thing is, if my wishes are all coming true, then I ask yet again: Why is Mac Turtledove here?
“You have a need for caffeine, we’ll hit a Starbucks, bro.” Dougall pushes a hand through his hair and moves away from the counter as though it’s decided.
“There’s a Starbucks?” I search for a camera, wondering if it’s more product placement, like with Holly’s necklace.
This dream brought to you by Tiffany’s silver heart necklace and Starbucks’ Venti Caramel Frappuccino!
Just one day on the set of my reality show and I’m already becoming jaded and cynical.
“Yeah, right, pick a corner, any corner.” Dougall shakes his head and laughs like I made a joke as Plum flips through her magazine, scowling at a picture of me, only to settle on one of some skinny tattooed singer with a pained expression on his face, looking as though she’d be perfectly happy gazing at him for the rest of eternity.
“Plum, you coming?” Dougall asks, before I can stop him.
She just laughs and rolls her eyes.
“Next time,” he says, which only makes her laugh again.
“How far of a walk is it?” I’m trying to decide whether or not to bring a jacket.
“Walk?” Dougall looks at me like I said something crazy. “Ha! Good one.” He shakes his head and exchanges a look with Plum that’s clearly at my expense. “Why would we walk when Sparks loves driving us around?”
“Sparks?” Unfortunately I said it out loud, question mark included.
That’s why the chauffeur/bodyguard seemed so familiar—he looked like Sparks! If Sparks grew about a foot, lost a few inches of neck, and added a hundred pounds of solid muscle to his frame.
“Yeah. Of course. Sparks.” I try to cover but fail miserably. “I’ll just, um…I’ll just go and…tell Sparks to get the limo ready.” I pretty much bolt from the room so I won’t have to see the looks on their faces.
I’m not fast enough to miss the sound of them laughing.
EARLY RETIREMENT
“Dude, I swear, I don’t know how she does it, but every time I see her, she just gets better and better.” Dougall stretches across the long leather seat, feet propped near the dark-tinted window, turning the back of my limo into his own portable living room.
“Who?” I shut the divider separating us from Sparks. Partly so he can’t eavesdrop on our conversation, but mostly so I’ll stop staring at him. It’s so weird to see him looking all beefy like that.
“Who?” Dougall shakes his head as he takes out his phone and fields a couple texts. “Whaddya mean, who? Plum Bailey, that’s who!”
I lean back against my seat, trying to make sense of it. Sure, this version of Plum is a slightly better (if not slightly scarier) improvement over the Greentree Plum, but still, he can’t be serious, can he?
Does this mean the real Dougall back in Greentree has a real but secret crush on the real Plum? Is that why he insists on encouraging her to hang around like we’re still in the third grade and thinks it’s perfectly okay to be friends with people like her? Has he liked her that whole entire time without telling me?
I study him closely, trying to figure the odds, and instantly decide against it. The Greentree Dougall is immune to girls. This new version just must have really weird taste.
“I don’t know how you can contain yourself, being around her all day. She’s so aloof. Thinks she’s so much better than us. It drives me crazy!”
“She does? Plum Bailey thinks she’s better than us?”
Dougall abandons his phone long enough to grab a frosty can of Mojo from the refrigerated slot that runs along the side of the seats. It’s the only thing available, other than water, and I can’t help but wonder if I get them for free, since, according to Ezer, they pay me a lot of money to endorse them.
He flips the tab and takes a long sip. “Um, yeah.” He swipes the back of his hand across his lips. “I hate to break it to you, but she totally considers you the worst kind of sellout.”
“What—why? Because I don’t cover half my face with tattoos and black eyeliner?” I shake my head and roll my eyes. Leave it to Plum to not understand that I’m trying to inspire people with my music, not frighten them like the skinny rocker dude she was drooling over.
“No, because she thinks your music is ‘manufactured, inauthentic crap’—her words. She was just explaining her theory in depth when you walked in.”
I frown. I can’t help it. Even if I don’t give a flying flip about Plum, no one likes a bad review.
“Whatever, bro.” Dougall shrugs. “Let the haters hate. You’re crying all the way to the bank! Am I right, or am I right?”