Airports are so weird. Especially, during the holidays. You start out in the terminal hefting around too many bags to fit the length of your trip. You’re tired and anxious to get into a car and then on the road. As you make your way to passenger pickup, some rendition of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” is playing overhead. Instantly, you’re nostalgic as your path is littered with Christmas trees and gigantic wreaths shoved between slot machines. Then, you step out to into the parking structure and it’s The Shining.
Breathe, Bianca.
The sun is already low in the sky, making it feel darker and colder. My ears tune in to every voice and tire screech on the upper levels.
The automatic doors behind me swish open with a whoosh of cool air, giving me a start. When a pilot dragging his suitcase walks out, I try to settle my nerves, but my pulse is thumping. He dips his head in a small nod as he crosses the economy bus pickup on his way to employee parking.
And I’m alone down here again.
My heart is beating a mile a minute, but I guess this is what I get for letting my manager, Damien, plan “inconspicuous” transportation. This is definitely low-key, Dame...and creepy. I’m standing curbside on the dark commercial level at arrivals waiting for lord knows who, when a candy-apple-red sedan pulls up in front of me. I tighten my grip on the key wedged between my ring and middle fingers.
The driver lowers the window. I take a deep breath and lean down to look inside.
A slim, clean-cut, nerdy white dude with a Dexter haircut is at the wheel. He’s in his mid-thirties. Just the type to get away with some Bone Collector taxi abduction shit in a sketchy-looking part of the airport.
His thin eyebrows slowly crease as he does a double take. “Rideo for Zoey?” he calls out to me in a questioning tone.
Immediately, I heave a sigh of relief, letting the knots in my stomach unravel. “That’s me,” I say, bending down to gather my tote and backpack.
Technically, it’s not me, but you can’t just broadcast on an app, “World-famous pop star, Bianca.” It would be mayhem. Anyway, to avoid certain doom, Damien always gives me a celebrity name based on whichever TV show or movie he’s obsessed with at the moment. I should’ve known after he binged three seasons of New Girl last night, it’d be a toss-up between the character Jess or the actress Zoey.
Strangely, I could break out into a random song right now. Though, it probably wouldn’t have quite the festive ring to it considering I’m just happy to be alive right now.
“Zoey? Did I say that right?” the driver asks, still staring.
His eyes drift over me. He clearly knows who I am. The baseball cap, leggings, sweater, and boots I’m sporting—all black—are standard uniform for dodging paps at LAX. But I’m not in La La Land anymore. This is McCarran airport. Vegas, baby—and all that entails—where you don’t turn a blind eye, and you call a spade a spade.
“Let me—” He starts to get out of the car to get my suitcase, but I ward him off by holding my hand up in the air.
“I’ve got it.” I shove my tote and purse into his spotless backseat. “Happy holidays. Thanks for picking me up. I can’t wait to settle in. I’m exhausted,” I say, tossing him a tiny smile meant to put a cork into the small talk.
He just ogles unblinking at me with his big brown eyes while I fumble with my giant suitcase. The man obviously recognizes me, but lucky for me, he seems intent on playing it cool—if only for a great rating and a tip worthy of a recording artist whose Christmas single is at the top of the charts for the fifth week in a row. Woot! Woot!
When I’m settled in the back with an audible harumph, he fires up his sensible hybrid electro-engine. At some point, he mumbles his name, but I’m not really listening because I’m too busy watching the road to make sure he’s going in the right direction.
Dammit, the creepy parking structure is rubbing off on me.
Either way, I kind of like referring to him as the “Bone Collector.” I’m sort of a stickler for not making people say their names twice.
B.C. weaves out of the terminal and onto the freeway, fiddling with the music once he’s merged onto the 15. I’d like to say I’m surprised when he selects my song, “Mistletoe Memories,” but I’m not. Everywhere I go, it’s playing on repeat.
“You know, she’s going to be playing at T-Mobile Arena at the Snowball Jam Christmas Day,” he says, as if I tapped his seat and asked, “Hey, who is this singing?” Hints of a Midwestern accent rumble around between his words.
I’m curious, but I don’t ask because he’s still watching me, daring me to admit I’m Bianca and not Zoey. It’s like a weird test, and he’s committed to dying on this hill, which is just creepy.
Let it go, guy. Let it go.
Every few seconds, B.C.’s gaze flits to the rearview mirror and lands on me like he’s checking to see if I’ll sing along or outright state my identity. Forget the whole famous pop star bit. As far as he should be concerned, I’m just another fare using a rideshare app to get home safe for the holidays. He should keep his eyes on the road ahead.
As if on cue, my phone pings, saving me from a fatal rearview mirror staring contest. I hunch forward and fish it out of my back pocket.
Low and behold, it’s Damien. No surprise there.
Damien 5:28 pm
Rest your voice and keep a low profile. I’m working on THE gig that’s going to take your career to the next level.
I try not to put too much weight in Damien’s words. If it’s what I think it is, I don’t want to get my hopes up. Tugging at my cap, I peek up. Again, B.C.’s gaze flickers up to the mirror, so I dip my chin.
Bianca 5:29pm
I haven’t been home in five years. Unless Museik calls to offer me the tour, do refrain from calling me, please.
New Girl
Lol. I’ll see you at the Snowball Jam in two weeks.
As much as seeing Mom and the house will inevitably bring the heavy memories flooding back, I just need to get away and not think about my next album or my career or where it’s going next. I just need family and…hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.
And sprinkles.
A little less than half an hour later, I incline my head to discover, thankfully, my final destination is not a deserted building but the cute, single-story house with about a million string lights and a huge blow-up snowman on the lawn. It’s the house where I grew up—and left as soon as I got my first recording contract.
The weight of being back here after so long away, settles in the pit of my stomach. You can do this. I take deep breaths, peering over to the house again.
I’m sure Mom is waiting by the door, so I scramble to get all of my bags out. Then B.C. wedges his body between the two front seats.
He looks at me with expectant eyes as I step out to the curb. His pensive expression catches me off guard. The defined lines of his face harden like he’s weighing what to say.
Curiosity twists inside me.
The unobstructed, head-on view of him paints him in a different light—a much brighter, less creepy one. He could still be a good-looking serial killer who now knows where I’m staying, but there’s a softness to him. He looks a little concerned and a tad bit bashful.
Because I’m such a headcase, I am naturally drawn to it.
“Yeah?” I prompt, urging him to say it.
His lips part, and his breaths are shallow. The whole delicious sheepish look is about as contagious as watching someone about to sneeze. I lean in, breathless to hear what he’s got to say.
“I…” He swallows, and there’s a slight shift in his shoulders like he’s considering his next words. Then, he releases a breath and drops his chin. “Nothing, I…I was just going to say, if you need another ride, you can favorite me in the app…if, you’re going to be around.”
For a split second, I’m ransacking my mind trying to figure out what he was going to say before he decided not to. Suddenly, I can’t tear my gaze away from his pouty lips.
Oh, my God, why am I staring so hard?
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
He’s cute in an adorable, nerdy sort of way, but he’s my Rideo driver.
When I close this door, I’ll likely never see him again. Which is just as well. I’m only here a couple of weeks, during which I plan to hide out with Mom and pack in as much holiday fun as we can before I’m hopefully off on a world tour. It’s for the best. I’m guessing a hookup with Bone Collector on holiday isn’t what Damien meant by “lay low.”
So, I pat the roof of his car and lean down. Despite his sweeping dark lashes and a decidedly strong chin, I tell myself it’s just my dusty lady parts having a nostalgic knee-jerk reaction to a cute guy.
Before I do anything stupid, I toss him a small smile. “Thanks again, and happy holidays.” Then, I close his back door.
I don’t even look back until he turns the corner.
“Stupid. So stupid.”
Why didn’t I just ask for her number? Maybe we could’ve had drinks. I could have tried a little more conversation to see what she had planned for the night. I groan. How many times have I heard about rideshare drivers flirting with passengers and cringed in disgust?
Ah, it’s not like I’m free tonight, anyway.
I blow out a breath, shaking my head as I hook a right at the corner headed for the freeway. It’s Wednesday. My cousin Denise is probably two cocktails in already at Shane’s, the off-Strip bar where she gets loaded on a weekly basis. She’s a casino cocktail waitress Friday through Tuesday, so this is her weekend. Lucky me, I get to be her on-call chauffer to make sure she makes it home safe.
In the Brooks family, not showing up isn’t an option.
When I make it to the freeway entrance, of course, the westbound lane is still bumper to bumper with the rush hour traffic. Side roads it is.
A few minutes later, when Denise’s name lights up on the dashboard, I answer on Bluetooth. The cabin of the car fills with muffled background noise— mix of music and chatter.
“Hey. I should be there in like twenty.”
“Don’t rush. Lena’s here.” Denise slurs. Probably two whiskey sours by now. “It’s jam-packed tonight.”
“All right. You hungry?” I ask, hoping to help her soak up some of the alcohol. The last thing I need is an accident in here. I just got my car detailed. “It’s no big deal. I can grab you a quick bite—”
“No, I’m good for now. Just come hang out with us. Take a load off for once. The band is so intense. They’re doing Christmas favorites.”
I chuckle, trying to reconcile the image in my head of a hardcore grunge band singing cheery holiday songs. Then my mind drags me back to Zoey and how stupid I must’ve sounded using the Snowball Jam to drum up conversation. The commercial plays every hour on the hour.
A blaring horn startles me as a black truck speeds past.
“Yeah, all right... Okay, I’ll be there soon.”
For a few seconds, I think Denise hung up on me, but her name is still on the dash and the muffled music from the bar is still playing. “D?”
“Jaden, what’s wrong with you?” she asks. “What happened? Why are you so distracted?” I can already imagine the alcohol-fueled wheels in her head spinning out.
“Hmm?”
“You’re just going to have drinks with us without me begging? Obviously, something’s going on.”
My shoulders tense, and my pulse revs. Denise is like a fun-sized bloodhound with her goth black hair, bold red lipstick, and unmatched bullshit radar. She knows how to sniff out the slightest change in the air.
Better to tell her now, rather than in a bar full of people.
“It’s nothing, really. You know how it is. All night it’s been dead, right? Then, ping, an airport pickup.” I slap the steering wheel. “Figured I had time before rescuing you, to make a little cash. Except, she was—”
“I knew it. You’re totally crushing on your passenger!” Denise squeals, cutting right to the chase. “Was she interested?”
The light up ahead turns yellow, and I slow to a stop.
“That’s the thing. There might have been something there… I just didn’t feel right asking for her number. That feels like crossing the line. Doesn’t it seem sleazy to you, flirting with a passenger?”
Denise ignores everything I just said. “Let me guess…a typical Vegas club girl with the plastic boobs and lips?”
“No.” I release a short bark of laughter. “When has that ever been my type? This girl was nothing like that at all. I mean, she was at the airport, so she was dressed for travel. Maybe Latina…average height…not too skinny, but fit…curly hair in a ponytail and light makeup… It was more than looks, though. There was something more in her eyes. She seemed warm…genuine.”
When Denise doesn’t say anything, I listen to the muffled bar sounds.
In classic Denise form, she brings our conversation to a halt to recap my dilemma to her friend. I hear every word, though—their sarcastic tones while they debate my “textbook party foul,” how I’m too much of a “decent” guy to take any risks.
My blood boils a little because maybe I would be more carefree if I wasn’t always looking out for others and for family. Maybe if I wasn’t worried about some trash dude slipping her a rufie and having his way with her, I might be out with friends on a weekday, or joining a beautiful woman in my backseat instead of staring at her like “decent” guys do.
As I pull into the small parking lot on the side of Shane’s, Denise and Lena are still in my ear debating the merits of good guys versus hot bad boys. They’ve forgotten I’m here.
“Denise?” My tone is sharp.
There’s rustling as she comes back. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry—”
I abruptly press the button to disconnect. It doesn’t have the same effect as slamming a phone down and letting the dial tone echo in her ear, but I end the call feeling vindicated.
The way I see it, the score is: shit-faced cousin, zero, “decent guy,” one.