A lone figure was sprawled on the bench of a corner booth in the otherwise empty food court. Arms tight across his chest, head tilted back.
A head of dark hair. Shoulder length. Artfully messy.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Avi Wolfson was sound asleep. No longer built one dimensional on a billboard out of bright lights. No, this version was 3D, all in black. Not fifteen feet tall, but with legs long enough to prop on the seat on the other side of the booth.
He had a stick of beef jerky in one fist. And…was he wearing socks with sandals?
Leah had watched plenty of hidden camera television growing up. In her head, she could practically hear the narrator, askingWhat would you do if you came upon a sleeping celebrity at a rest stop? Would you wake him up for an autograph? Ask if he needed help?
A guy like this, in a band like that? He didn’t need help from someone like her.
“Hey. Hi?” She gingerly nudged his sock toe with her boot, but he barely stirred.
Well, maybe he hugged his beef jerky a little tighter.
Surely he traveled with an entourage, maybe even a bodyguard? She took a quick look around, but the only person watching them was the cashier in the empty convenience store, chewing on a Twizzler like she was engrossed in a fascinating movie.
“Avi?”
No response.
Was this a drug overdose? Was he drunk and just passed out? Sleeping in public places seemed risky for anyone, let alone a public figure. He could get mugged — or worse.
Leah took the opportunity to peer closer. It was probably the closest she had ever observed Avigdor Wolfson since the day their school bus driver punished him for goofing off in the back row with his friends and forced him to sit up front next to her gawky sixth-grade self.
Her existence hadn’t registered then and probably still wouldn’t now.
His jawline was a sculptor’s dream, like a wire had cut through smooth clay, just a bare hint of stubble beginning to show. With his head thrown back against the padded headrest, her line of sight could trace down his throat, where the shadowy scruff stopped. His Adam’s apple shifted, his broad chest rose and fell under his plain white T. She knew singing came from the diaphragm, not necessarily the voice box, but it was amazing to observe. What could normally draw the attention of thousands at work, now at rest. If she hovered her hand over his chakra there, would she be able to intuit the energy coming from such a powerful place?
A hand clamped her wrist like a vise before she could find out.
Avi was still in the grips of LiquiDoze. He had been having the strangest dream, too. He had sensed he wasn’t alone, shadow and heat hovering nearby. He’d felt a vague poke at his feetlike he was a jellyfish washed up on the shore who’d caught someone’s disgusted curiosity.
Minty breath had hovered closer, forcing him to open his eyes on a beautiful stranger reaching for the chain around his neck…or the Monster Meat stick in his fist. Either way, his caveman instinct had broken through his over-the-counter-drug-induced fugue state.
“No touch,” he growled. “Mine.”
Where the fuck am I?
She yelped, raspy and raw as if she hadn’t used her voice much since waking up. Or like those girls outside his hotel, yelling themselves hoarse.
Another fan, helping themselves to what they thought was theirs.
“Avigdor Meir, you let go of me right now!”
Who was she– and why was she using his middle name likehehad broken the rules? She had invaded his space in this…
Rest stop. Bus gone. Pay phone. Kismet.
Cantor.
Cantor Joel had always had a great sense of humor. Had he really sent this girl to rescue Avi in place of himself? She was maybe five-three in those big black boots.
Andhot damn, that long brown hair.
It whipped his cheek as she thrashed a get-back stare his way.
