“Get up,” Danny said.
Marnie opened one eye, grimacing at the light he had turned on next to her nightstand. She scratched her cheek and mumbled a question about the time. He pointed to the clock near her lamp. 6:00 a.m. was illuminated in neon green.
“Get up,” Danny repeated as he yanked the blanket and sheets off her.
He'd given her a few days to relax after her meltdown at the restaurant. She'd kept to herself in her room. Perhaps the changes were too much for her? While any other girl would've liked the makeover, she despised the process. He still didn't understand her. No more than he had that day outside of Gary's. She was still a fiery ball of defiant energy that both excited him, and frustrated him, at the same time.
Emily was like that too. He'd come to realize it wasn't a normal love. She'd claimed him like a black widow, and he'd responded helplessly to her spell.
“Okay,” she whispered. She slowly raised herself out of the bed, but doubled and placed her head in her hands. “Oh!” she moaned. “I'm so tired… and hungry.” She bit her bottom lip and arched an eyebrow.
But she couldn't be Emily, and he couldn't be that pathetic little boy who followed her every whim just to get a kiss. He was tired of being the black knight; this time he'd be the rescuer. He resisted the urge to place a soothing hand on her back.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm not surprised you're craving a hit.” Post‐withdrawal was starting to take its revenge on her. But what would his kind words do for her? They hadn't helped Emily. “Get over it and get in the den. You have thirty seconds,” Danny barked.
He had to approach her with a firm hand. She needed discipline, not sympathy. He could see from the sweat stains on the sheets, she had a rough night, but sympathy would only give her an excuse to use, and try to get him to agree to it.
This was boot camp and Danny was the sergeant. He had slowly eased her into the lifestyle change, careful not to push her too hard. He had been patient and had listened to her moan and groan over petty things like food and hair, and had pretended to care. Now, boot camp was in session and there would be no more sugarcoating. She could either shape up or get out.
“Can I pee first?” she asked.
“If you can do it in twenty seconds,” Danny said looking at his watch.
She never respected him, but if this was going to work, she'd have to follow his orders.
She frowned at him. “With those odds, I'll have to hold it.”
“What? I can do it,” Danny said smiling.
“There are anatomical reasons why you have the option and not me,” she huffed, pushing past him down the hallway.
Once they were in the den, he tossed her a pen and notepad before sitting down behind a large L‐shaped glass desk. “So playtime is over, and it's time to put you to work. I'm a singer, and an actor. You're probably familiar with some of my older stuff. ‘She's Too Hot', ‘I Can't Get the Girl', ‘Cinderella's on the Runway',” Danny said, ticking off his fingers the hit songs he'd won Grammys for.
Her face remained blank.
“No? Well, I'm sure you've seen a few of my movies. ‘Danger in the Willows', ‘Girl on the Divide', ‘What's up, Susan? ‘and ‘The Occult—1, 2, and 3',” Danny said again, listing movies he'd been nominated best actor for.
She still looked dumbfounded to Danny's dismay.
“Alright, I'm famous and rich as a motherfucker and—you should be writing this down,” Danny said, glaring at her.
She quickly uncapped the pen and feverishly began to jot down everything Danny had just said.
“Motherfucker, is that ‘e‐r' or ‘a‐h'?” she asked, biting the end of her pen. Her brow furrowed as if she was in a serious quandary over the equity of the spelling.
He ignored the insubordination, but had to work hard to keep his lips from quirking into a smile. He liked the sassiness that came out of her smart little mouth.
“I'm going on tour, starting today,” Danny continued.
She bolted upright in her seat. Her eyes rounded.
“Today?”
He'd decided not to give her advanced warning. He was curious to see how she'd react. A test to see if he could trust having her with him on tour.
“Yes. Your job will be to do whatever I ask you to do. Number one, my photos.” He pointed to a stack of pictures on his desk. “You should keep roughly forty prints with you at all times. Fans want autographs, and I like to come prepared. If we run out, it's on you to get me more. Next, a camera; you'll be taking pictures of me on the bus, with my fans backstage, on stage, et cetera, and you'll be coordinating with my publicist Robert, to manage my fan website, as well as social media feeds. Lastly, you are the crew's flunky; whatever they need it's your job to get it for them. It could be anything from Tic‐Tacs to mic stands. It's all on you. If anything goes missing, that will be on you, too.”
“Are you serious right now?! I don't know the first thing about being an assistant.”
Her eyes widened, tears starting to brim, but he was going to have to be strong for the both of them.
“So?” He shrugged. “You'll learn.”
“I can't do this. Let's just forget everything.”
Fuck. She couldn't quit on him now.
“Excuse me, but who are you to tell me what you're not going to do? You want to drop our deal? Fine. That's your choice, but now you owe me. I spent $20,000 on you, and I expect to get my investment back. You will be working for me as my assistant. You can't give up before you've even started.”
Hardball was a man's game, and Danny played it to win.
Marnie felt like a cornered rat. He was right, she did owe him. She did not have $20,000, and it was very unlikely she would have it anytime soon. She would have to buck up and deal with it. Her shoulders slumped like a sail without wind.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Oh, and one more thing, I'm taking Mickey with me this time, and he likes to walk for at least two hours every morning. Starting today,” Danny said, tossing a dog leash on to her lap.
“I don't do dogs,” she whined. She hated dogs. Marnie wished she'd develop an allergy so she wouldn't have to take care of Danny's. Her biggest pet peeve with dogs was bathrooms. They always took forever to go. They were so picky, sniffing everything. Marnie always wanted to shout at them, “You're a dog! What does it matter where you go to the bathroom? You treat everything like a giant toilet anyway.”
“But, the new you…” He paused, waiting for her to finish the sentence.
“Likes dogs,” Marnie said with a huge sigh. A headache began to creep over her right eye. Sounds like the new me does everything the old me hates.
Mickey was a golden brown wolfdog. His length almost matched her height. She said a quick prayer that he wouldn't eat her, before walking up to him. But his wolf‐like features belied his sweet nature. The dog flicked his large tongue against the palm of her hand and gave her his version of a big doggy smile. Although Marnie was by no means a dog lover, walking Mickey was a breeze. She was grateful he walked beside her without tugging her down the street. He was a happy dog, whose tail and tongue wagged throughout the whole walk.
This was good exercise, if she could wake up at six every morning. But for two hours?! Marnie didn't know how she was going to do it. Only thirty minutes had passed and she was already tired. Withdrawal had made her muscles weak, and exercising at this stage was difficult. She was dying for a taste of something to relax her nerves. Marnie furtively scanned the streets, hoping she could find someone to score from.
Middle‐aged women passed her with dogs in their purse. Men wearing earphones jogged past her, too busy to even glance in her direction as they spoke to someone she couldn't see. She quickly realized she was on the wrong side of the city. Marnie grit her teeth and finished walking the dog, shoulders slumped in resignation.
“You're going to make me late,” Danny said as she entered the penthouse, huffing and puffing with Mickey by her side “we need to be on the bus by eleven o'clock.”
It was already 8:30 a.m., and with New York traffic, Danny always planned to leave an hour early.
“You said two hours,” Marnie said.
“Yes, when we're on tour, not today. Hurry up and pack my suitcase. I want to leave at ten o'clock.” This was the next phase of his plan: pressure. Could she function under less than favorable working conditions? Sometimes life was like that. If she could get through boot camp, she'd finally have the tools to stay sober. When she felt like she was going to crack, he'd be there to catch her and prove to her the feeling only lasted for a few minutes. No need to make decisions that last a lifetime.
“What?! Then I won't have time to pack,” Marnie said.
“I guess you better pack fast.” Danny didn't have any sympathy for her. Apparently she didn't understand the concept of personal assistant, but he would soon rectify it. “Make sure I have at least forty outfits. We're going to be on the road for four months,” Danny said, sitting back on his sofa with his coffee and a copy of Sports Illustrated.
Everything was working like clockwork. Danny's solution for Marnie's sobriety was simple. She just needed to stay busy. If she didn't have time to obsess over getting high, the transition to a sober lifestyle would feel like a breeze. He wished he'd had a sponsor who knew how to deal with the yo‐yo cycle of addiction. He patted himself on the back; he was doing a great job.
He was relieved she hadn't bailed. Marnie needed to trust the process. Touring would be hard, but it was going to be good for her.
If she's cracking under pressure this fast, how long will she last? Danny ignored the thought. His only obligation was to help her as long as he could. If she decided to quit, it wasn't going to be a reflection on him. Even though this made sense, butterflies danced in the pit of his stomach.
He was going to throw her into the lion's den that had made him who he was. He just hoped she'd come out on the other side like he had. If she could get through this, then she wouldn't want to get high. On the tour, Marnie was going to have to find a way to cope. He was going to teach her how to do it sober.
Marnie went into his bedroom, but her heart sank when she saw the shelves crammed with jeans on one side and shoes on the other. The racks were crammed with dress shirts, jackets and suits. Some of the clothes were grouped in plastic dress bags.
“How am I supposed to know what you want to wear?” She called into the hallway.
“Everything on the left side can be packed. Put the outfits in garment bags.”
Marnie hurriedly packed seven suitcases, one of which was entirely of shoes. When that was done, she rooted around until she found a duffel bag. With ten minutes left on the clock, she dashed into her bedroom like a madwoman. Sweat dripped down her face and met her chin. She yanked the closet doors open and grabbed all the clothes on the rack, hangers and all, and stuffed them into the duffel bag. The zipper wouldn't close all the way, but at least she was ready. She collapsed on the floor with a sigh of relief.
“Did you pack a toothbrush, underwear?” Danny asked. He leaned on the door frame of her room, sipping on another cup of fresh brewed coffee.
Marnie jumped from the floor and ran past Danny into his bedroom.
She yanked open the dresser drawers and collected the pile of socks and undergarments. She found another duffel bag on the shelf in his closet. As she pulled the bag out, she knocked a green shoe box off the shelf. Photos scattered over the floor. When she finished packing his undergarments, she returned to the closet and gathered the photos.
In a few of them Danny stood on a boat, grinning ear to ear as a thin ebony‐toned woman with a hot pink pixie‐cut kissed him on the cheek. Another set of pictures looked like they were taken in a photo booth. A younger‐looking Danny and the same pixie‐cut girl contorted their face into different funny poses.
“Tick tock. Do you have everything I need packed?” Danny asked from the door.
“Yeah,” she quickly began to stuff the photos back into the box.
“What do you have there?” He walked around her, into the walk‐in closet and snatched the box and the remaining photos from her hands.
“What are you doing with this?”
“I knocked them over by accident,” she said.
Danny fixed her with a cold, smoldering stare that made Marnie shrink as far back into the wall as she could.
“Don't ever touch this box again.” He slammed it back on the shelf and walked out of the closet. “Did you pack my headshots?”
Hell no, she said to herself.
“I'm going to pack them now. I just wanted to make sure you were packed first,” Marnie said, covering for yet another mistake.
“Okay. Start bringing the luggage downstairs when you're done.”
“Can't Kevon take them?” She took the bottom of her shirt and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
His eyes flicked appreciatively over her bare midriff. She dropped the hem, her face warming with embarrassment.
“Kevon,” Danny said, walking up to her, “can't do shit for you. Whatever I ask you to do I expect you, and you alone, to do it. I have my reasons and you'll just have to trust me on it. Are you tired? Are you ready to jump ship?”
“No.” Marnie looked down at the floor to avoid his piercing glare.
“Hurry up. It's time to go.” Danny patted her on the shoulder. “If you're not down in five, I'm leaving.”
Marnie quickly finished putting the last essentials—hair brushes, face creams and toothpaste—in the duffel bag. She took the set of luggage and put it next to the elevator, then ran and grabbed her bag, which sagged from the inordinate amount of clothes and hangers smashed in, and tucked the photos underneath her arm.
She huffed and puffed everything onto the elevator. One thing was missing. She reached into one of Danny's suitcases, pulling out a pair of Verona shades. She checked herself in the golden reflection of the elevator. Yes, she was ready. She wore a polo shirt, white shorts and a gray sport jacket. The drab hairstyle was actually perfect, now that she thought about it. She looked the part of a personal assistant. Overworked, poorly dressed, emaciated and tired as hell.
Music world here I come.