“What’s your favorite restaurant in Memphis?” Paisley asked me one afternoon as I was watching her coax the keys into a tune.

“Hm, tough call,” I said, buying time. Especially since I’d mostly eaten out of their dumpsters.

That memory bled into another. A rainy night, when my skinny self had been hunkered under the awning of a little mom-and-pop cafe on the outskirts of downtown. One of the waitresses—the owner’s daughter, if I remembered correctly—brought me in and dried me out in front of the oven and fed me a pot pie. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten in three days, but it was the best pot pie I’d ever eaten.

“Wild Rose Cafe,” I said, smiling as the name revealed itself to me. “Best pot pies in Memphis.”

“Let’s go there tonight,” she said with a smile. “I want to experience the things you like.”

“I like the way you put that. All right, missy, what’s your favorite eatery around here?”

“Rêve de Jardin,” she said with a wistful sigh. “It’s absolutely decadent.”

“Will I be able to pronounce anything on the menu?” I asked wryly.

She laughed at me, the sound echoing off of the amphitheater curves of the piano room. “If you can’t, I can translate,” she told me.

“You speak French?”

“I speak French menu,” she giggled.

I relaxed, kicking my feet up on the ottoman. I was already mildly intimidated by her success; if she spoke multiple languages on top of it, I would have to start gaining some serious skills to keep up.

I might anyway, I decided. At some point, she was bound to realize that I wasn’t exactly pop-star boyfriend material. Not that I was counting on being her boyfriend or anything, but… I shook the dead-end thoughts away.

I hadn’t anticipated catching feelings for Paisley, and it was becoming more difficult to navigate them in the wake of my lies. For the moment, I was biding my time. If it wasn’t going anywhere, then hey, we had a good fling. No harm, no foul. Otherwise, I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. Being her bodyguard-with-benefits was good enough for me for now.

She always seemed to know how to dress for the occasion. Simple but nice for the night out at Wild Rose, she looked every bit the wholesome country girl. I searched the faces for the kind waitress from my adolescence, but I couldn’t find her. Years had a way of changing people’s faces, not to mention their jobs.

I was as relieved as I was disappointed. I had wanted to leave her an excessive tip to thank her for a past kindness she had probably forgotten; but on the chance that she hadn’t forgotten, and on the even slimmer chance that she recognized me, I wasn’t ready to explain that period of my life to Paisley. Not yet, anyway.

“I like the atmosphere here,” Paisley sighed, gazing around at the raw pink brick dotted with dried flowers pressed into glass frames. “It feels like somebody’s kitchen, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does. It’s warm.”

She smiled at me over the table and studied the menu. After we’d ordered and been served, she took a bite.

“Oh, wow,” she said, her eyes widening. “This is the best pot pie I’ve ever had!”

Relieved, I shoveled a forkful of my own. It was as good as I’d remembered, maybe better. Guess it wasn’t starvation talking after all.

“How did you find this place?” she asked eagerly.

“Ah… Just wandering around one night, kind of fell into it,” I said dismissively.

“I see,” she said, giving me a knowing look. “One of those drunken finds, right? That’s how I found this donut place in LA. They have the craziest toppings—corn chips and avocado and bacon… It’s insane, but I swear they are the best flippin’ donuts I’ve ever had in my life.”

I smiled at her, deciding not to correct her. Better she think I was drunk some random night than the reality, right?

“How long did you live in LA?” I asked her.

“Oh, gosh… I guess from nineteen to last month. About five years.” She wrinkled her nose slightly.

“So, I’m guessing you absolutely loved every second of it?” I teased.

“Good lord, no!” She laughed. “I hated it. The people, the crazy streets, all of that desperate energy… Let me tell you, in LA, you’re either somebody or you’re nobody, and if you’re somebody then you’re always hustling to stay somebody, and if you’re nobody you’re desperately trying to be somebody, and if any of that desperation ever flags even a little bit, you’re nobody on the street. I saw some people…” She shook her head, closing her eyes as if to block out the memory.

“I saw some people who I recognized from movies and music when I was a kid. B-listers, you know. Some A-listers, mostly grown-up child stars. But they looked like hell. I ran into one guy… I don’t want to tell you who, it would make you sad…but I took a wrong turn one night, and ran into this guy drinking with a bunch of homeless guys around an oil drum fire under a bridge. This guy, he’s a star. A classic. And he’s hanging out with torn-up clothes drinking cheap booze around an oil drum.”

She shuddered, and I touched her hand. “Maybe it’s a good thing you got out of there when you did,” I suggested.

“I’m not out,” she laughed. “It’s harder on actors, I think. Music… You can keep making music, even if you age out of a particular demographic or put on a bunch of weight or get into a terrible disfiguring accident. I mean, actors can too. Some re-typecast as character actors, some go to voice acting, but some… Some just never make it again, and when that happens, the town chews them up and spits them out.”

There was a deep sadness in her eyes that I desperately wanted to push away. There was nothing I could say that would help, though, not if I was going to shield her from my past. I couldn’t assure her that people could crawl up out of the gutter if they were equal parts tenacious and lucky, because my only proof was me. I couldn’t tell her that those oil drums were actually pretty warm, especially if you built a blanket fort around them.

At first, I didn’t want to tell her because my story didn’t cleave perfectly to the whole bodyguard thing. But now, looking at the deep well of compassion in her eyes, I didn’t want to tell her because I just didn’t want to break her heart. How anyone could care so much about someone they never really met was a stretch for my imagination. She was good at expanding my imagination.

“So, tell me about your work,” she said, changing the subject. “Were you ever a bodyguard for a celebrity before me?”

“No,” I said, my comfort around her loosening my tongue before I could stop it. “I mean, I did plenty of work for a lot of people, you’re just the first household name I ever worked for.”

“Ooh, I feel special,” she said, flirting with her eyes. “Did you ever get into a fight with anybody before the creepy guy the other night?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said with more enthusiasm than I should have. “I mean, you try to avoid it, but in certain situations,” like the ring, “you just can’t get around it.

“There was this one… Okay, this guy was twice my size, right, a pro fighter. He’s lookin’ at me like I’m an easy target, right, and he just comes in like a freight train, trying to run me down. So I dodge, and jab, and I catch him in the gut, but he’s solid—he’s like cement, right—and he spins and I can see his fist coming at my face.”

Her eyes lit up, and she leaned across the table to listen. Her silent encouragement egged me on.

“Now I know, if I let that hammer come down on me, it’s over. Done. I ain’t getting up from that. So I barely duck in time, but he’s got a lot of speed behind that hunk of meat, so I just kept it going. I pulled on his wrist, spun around behind him, and kicked him in the ribs. He goes down like a freaking giant, just smashing the hell out of the can…er, the trash cans that were right there. Once he’s down, I just jump on him and start pummeling him, as fast as I could, like I showed you, just beating the hell out of his ribs.”

She gasped, covering her mouth, her eyes wide with delighted shock. I was eating up the attention, and it was making me sloppy.

“So I’ve got him down and the crowd’s going wild…”

“Hold on, crowd?”

“Oh, right, um… He attacked the guy I was watching outside a movie theater—bunch of people there, all ready for entertainment. So anyway, I’m whaling on him, then he stands up. Just freaking stands up.”

“Oh my gosh! Didn’t anybody call the cops?”

“Yeah, but you know, they’re slow,” I said dismissively, starting to sweat. “But yeah, guy stands up. Only thing I can think to do is take out his knees. He throws a punch at me and I fall flat on my back, then I just launch myself at his knees. Heels collided, hurt like hell, but he stayed down that time.” I grinned at her, glowing in the memory of my most unexpected win.

“That’s amazing,” she said, glowing with awe. “Your client must have been so grateful.”

“I made a little bit of money, yeah,” I said, remembering the size of the purse…and the bets.

“I had no idea your job got so violent so often,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Why did you choose it? Seems like there would be safer ways to use your skills.”

“I’ve never been a big fan of safe,” I answered truthfully. “Never saw the need for it.”

“That, I understand,” she laughed, clinking her tumbler against mine.

* * *

The next night, we went to her French restaurant. The food was good, but when I saw the prices, I just about had a heart attack. I didn’t mention it because I was walking in her world, now. The world of moneyed people and their unpronounceable dishes. I was suddenly glad for the excessive amount of money she was paying me.

“When did you get into French food?” I asked. “Is that an LA thing?”

“Not really,” she said with a shrug. “I fell in love with it when I was a kid. My dad used to take us all down to Louisiana every couple summers. He’s got family down there, and there are all kinds of restaurants. His favorite thing in the world is Cajun food, but I can’t handle that much spice. There are a ton of French restaurants down there, though, and my mom and I would make it a point to try a new one every year.”

“You’re close with your mom?” I asked, hiding the little pang of jealousy.

“Not so close now,” she said with a half-shrug. “She thinks I’m cheapening myself by turning my music into a career.”

“How can you cheapen yourself by earning money?” I asked, legitimately confused.

“Oh, she thinks money cheapens virtue, and she thinks that singing is a virtue along with all those other feminine traits and skills and things, so…” She shrugged helplessly again, making the glitter on her dress sparkle in the candlelight.

“Well, I think your mother’s insane,” I said sympathetically. “If anything, you give the industry some substance.”

“You think so?” she asked, brightening. “I worry about that. During my second album, I sort of…sold out, a little bit. A lot, actually. They gave me a list of topics and fads to hit, and I did. I did it really well, but I always sort of felt embarrassed about that album, you know?”

“A means to an end,” I said firmly. “Without that album, you wouldn’t have skyrocketed to stardom. Without skyrocketing to stardom, you wouldn’t have the platform to say what you want to say. Just like that one diva.”

“Which one?” She laughed.

“I’m not supposed to know pop singers’ names, it’s bad for my image,” I told her with a grin. “She started out grinding out brain candy crap, got to be a superstar by following all the surefire industry tactics, and now? Every song she writes is leading this activist charge. She’s turned it into a huge deal, but she only got there by selling out first.”

Paisley twirled her fork through her food, which didn’t look nearly fancy enough to deserve the crazy name. “You know, you make a good point,” she said thoughtfully. “I never really thought about it like that.”

“Hey, if you need justification for literally any decision, I’m your man,” I told her with a wink.

The truth of that statement almost made me wince. Somehow, I still hadn’t found the time to delete the tapes, and I hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell Dan to go jump in a lake without a houseboat. Soon, I promised myself. I’m just waiting for the right time.