As the plane took off from San Jose, I was bursting with excitement. Soon I would meet my teenage idols. I would live with them, go to their concerts, and watch from the wings. Yes, I would have the coveted all-access backstage pass. The dream vacation of fifteen thousand women, and I was living it.
By the time the plane landed in Chicago, my overactive mind was at it again. I worried about being able to get along with these four unknown men. How would I fit in to this all-male environment? I also fretted about my reputation, already shredded on the Internet and about to get significantly worse. The haters had gotten vitriolic over the past month, all of them certain I was going to have legendary sex that would kill the band. And although I knew I wouldn't be that much of a groupie, I couldn't deny my nervousness over being so close to Chuck, Buck, River, and Gabe. This was going to be a wild adventure.
Vaughan, my invisible bodyguard, had come with me all the way. In the airport lounge, he stayed on the other side of the room, watching everyone. Whenever people recognized me and gathered around, he was there, pretending to be one of the fans but secretly making sure nobody got out of line. After I finished chatting with them, they would disburse, and he would walk away like the rest of them. On the flight, he sat a few rows back.
When I got off the plane, I suddenly felt light-headed to be in the same city as the Fiery Boys, about to move in. I blindly followed the other passengers toward baggage claim.
Just past security, a cluster of limousine drivers stood holding out cards with passenger's names on them. I spotted my name, and I nearly laughed when I saw who was holding the card. This guy had "roadie" written all over him. Whereas the other drivers wore black suits, white shirts, and ties, my driver had a well-worn T-shirt and threadbare jeans. And I'm not talking about those stylishly distressed jeans you see people wear. His were seriously torn, with large pieces missing around the knees. His T-shirt was for Alejandro, a popular rocker whose music I also liked. And rather than standing at attention like the other limo drivers, he was dancing in place, rocking to the music in his ears, having a grand old time. I stopped in front of him and watched.
He was obviously enjoying himself, smiling wide with his eyes closed. I didn't want to disturb him. Besides, he was doing a wonderful little dance there, throwing his head back and shaking his hands while he clutched the card with my name on it. It made me happy to be there.