Page 3 of Wicked Dance
“You should have called Duke,” Hannah says dryly. “I hired a very established company, but he knows your fans.” She glances out the window. “They are rather ardent.”
Girls are standing all around the block, holding signs, hugging each other, crying, yelling, and jumping up and down as we roll by. One lifts her shirt and tries to run to the car, bare boobs bouncing. A friend pulls her back.
My face flushes hot. Do girls always do that? I glance at Blitz, but he’s not paying any attention to the crowd, staring out the opposite window.
“Well, this is a lark,” Hannah says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Bad boys bring out the worst in them.”
“He’s not a bad boy anymore,” I say.
“Tell that to them,” Hannah says. “They’re binge-watching all his clips. The media he has built up will never die. They’ll still think he’s a hot, young womanizing heartbreaker when he’s sixty-five.”
Blitz laughs. “That’s fine. They’re never going to see me get old.”
Hannah smooths her skirt. “I’m sure you’ll do more television work.”
“Don’t count on it,” Blitz says. He pulls me close. “I’m going to dance with this girl, teach wheelchair ballerinas, and enjoy my obscurity.”
“Sounds like you’re putting me out of a job,” Hannah says.
Blitz doesn’t answer as we pull up to the front of the store. Waist-high wooden barricades keep the fans back, and two security men with broad shoulders hold out their arms as the girls threaten to spill over the walls.
A third man opens our car door. The screams are deafening.
“Let’s do this,” Blitz says, although I see his lips move more than I actually hear him. The noise is intense.
We duck as we cross the limo to the door. I’m not a drinker, but the sparkling decanter resting in the side bar looks rather inviting as we face this onslaught of fans.
Blitz tucks my hand under his arm and steps out.
I didn’t think it was possible for the noise to get louder, but it does.
He turns and leads me out of the car. I expect everyone to go silent, upset at the evidence that Blitz is taken. But, unbelievably, the screams go up another notch.
At first all the insanity seems to be about Blitz. They wear T-shirts with his face and hold hand-lettered signs, their cell phones all taking video.
Then I spot four girls in pale blue dresses on the opposite side. They are all wearing black wigs. “Blitz!” I yell. “Are they dressed as me?”
“Look at that!” he says. He walks right over to them, and they all start screaming.
Blitz waves at me, still frozen by the limo. “Come here and take a picture!” he yells.
I move toward them with hesitation. I’ve never had anything like this happen. I couldn’t even have imagined it.
Blitz pulls out his own cell phone, and the screaming behind the blue-dress girls reaches a fever pitch.
“Selfie mode!” Blitz says, holding the phone high and pulling me against him next to the girls. Once he’s taken the shot, he tells them, “I’ll post this to my Twitter feed later so you can have it. Love the dresses.”
I think one of them is going to faint. As we head into the door of the DVD shop, two of the girls are crying and shouting, “We love you, Livia!” over and over again.
I want to turn around and take it all in, really look at these fans. They are so passionate about Blitz, and I guess, some of them, about me. I catch sight of one more sign that says “Livia spells C-O-U-R-A-G-E.”
The man who opened the car door stands by the entrance to the store. “This way,” he says.
I follow Blitz in, feeling starstruck in reverse. How is this happening? They can’t be interested in me, a two-year ballet student who can barely holdenpointe.
A small group of employees in red Wild Side shirts, plus a man in a horribly loud cherry suit, wait for us just inside. When the door closes, the quiet is bliss.
“You have quite a lot of fans out there,” the man says. “I’m Lewis, owner of Wild Side Tunes and TV.” He reaches to shake Blitz’s hand. “We are delighted to have you here today.”
