“Let’s go out the back.” Clyde grabbed Bonnie’s hand as they ran into the back room toward the skunk who was now positioned in front of the exit door with her arms and legs spread wide, barring their escape.
“You can’t go out this way!” she cried as they tried to push past her out the exit. “You’re trespassing,” she yelled desperately, and clung to Clyde’s arm as he barreled through the door. He shook her off while shoving Bonnie in front of him, pushing her out into the alley. The woman grabbed at him again, and he flung his arm wide to evade her. He heard a thwack as the back of his hand glanced off the side of her face. He spun in horror and she stumbled back, wobbling, her hand pressed to her cheek.
“You hit me!” she shrieked.
“Clyde! Come on!” Bonnie pulled at his hand. “Clyde!”
The woman leaned down to pick up her phone, obviously not injured enough to miss an opportunity for a quick picture or another phone call, and Clyde turned and ran behind Bonnie down the alley toward the Blazer. The Channel Five van the woman had been anxiously awaiting rounded the corner just as Bonnie and Clyde threw themselves into the front seat. Bonnie hit the locks and buried her face in her lap as Clyde gunned the Blazer forward, taking an immediate hard right and flying down the street.
“What the hell was that?” Clyde hissed, unable to believe that there were actual news stations that cared if a country singer was getting her hair done. Did Bonnie put up with this every time she set foot out of doors?
“Just drive, Clyde. Go!” Bonnie’s voice was muffled against her lap, and he did as she asked, squealing around corners and taking side streets until he was a little carsick and more than a little lost. Bonnie eventually raised her head from her knees, but her eyes were wide and scared, and her hands shook when she ran her fingers through her newly-styled hair. She looked as lost as he felt, and he wanted to tell her he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. But he stayed silent, winding his way around the city until he found his way back to the freeway.
“I’m so sorry, Clyde. I should have known better,” she said suddenly. “I thought I was bein’ so smart. I locked the door of the salon when I walked in, just in case. It was one of those little twisty locks. The girls didn’t see me do it. I figured I would leave a huge tip to compensate for the fact that nobody was gonna be gettin’ in for a haircut while I was there. And I didn’t think they would recognize me. I can’t believe they recognized me! It was probably this damn tour sweatshirt. I shoulda changed.”
“If you hadn’t locked that front door, they would have been crawling all over you. Luckily, the other girl was out back, awaiting the news van that had promised her air time. Is it always like this, everywhere you go?”
Bonnie shook her head. “No. Not like that. I don’t know what that was all about. I get swarmed when I show up at a place where people are expecting me, or in very public places, but mostly by fans, not by cameras, unless it’s an event or a high profile hang out.”
Bonnie sat up straight, flipped down the visor above her head, and peered at her reflection in the little mirror. She quickly looked away, snapping the visor back into position. Her hair was boy short and chocolate brown, a neat little pixie cut framing her large, dark eyes. She didn’t look much like the girl he’d watched dance across the stage on the YouTube video, golden curls bouncing, one hand in the air, one hand clutching a microphone.
“I don’t think that news van got any pictures. I think we got away just in time. They probably didn’t even realize I was inside your vehicle.” Her voice sounded hopeful, and she looked at him for the first time since they’d tumbled into the Blazer. He met her gaze, and the hope he saw there turned to trepidation as he asked softly, “What happened last night, Bonnie?”
“DO YOU WANT to drop me somewhere, Clyde? I will understand if you do,” I said, suddenly resigned to the impossibility of the whole situation. I felt around in Gran’s purse for her phone, noting once more that the missed calls and incoming texts had risen to an alarming number. “I’ll call Bear and tell him where I am. He’ll come and get me, and you can just be on your way.”
“Who’s Bear?”
“Officially? My bodyguard. Unofficially? My friend.”
“So why didn’t you just take off with Bear last night?”
“He wouldn’t have let me go. Last night I was sad and tired and I wanted to die, remember? Today? Today I’m pissed and fed up and thinking maybe I want someone else to die.” I liked this phase much better. “Bear will come and get me if I call. But he won’t run with me. He’ll try to talk me out of it, try to cheer me up the way he always does, and he’ll tell me I just need time—”
“Time for what?” Clyde pushed again, and I stepped away from the question. Again.
“Time heals all wounds, right? Isn’t that the saying? An old woman in Grassley we called Appalachian Annie used to say, ‘Time may heal all wounds, but it ain’t no plastic surgeon.’”
“What wounds, Bonnie?”
“You want to hear the poor pop star complain, Clyde?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I’ll show you my wounds if you show me yours, Clyde. Starting with your first name. I admit, Clyde’s growing on me, but I’d really like to know the rest of it so I can send you flowers and a thank you card for not leaving me at the Quik Clips with Skunk Woman even though you apparently had two sets of keys and coulda left me any time.” I pulled his keys from Gran’s purse and tossed them toward him. He swiped them out of the air with barely a glance and tossed them in the ashtray that served as a catch-all for wrappers, pennies, and the random bottle cap.