“It was already on,” he stated, and there was no escaping the amusement in his tone.
“Yeah.” I grinned through my embarrassment. “I got that.”
“And, uh, foot on the brake when you hit the button. Not on the gas.”
I flashed him a thumbs up as I put the car in gear and, without further incident, pulled back onto the road. Although I was looking straight ahead, I could see from the corner of my eye that Bodhi was still watching me with that entertained look on his face. I’m not going to lie, I soaked up the attention. I mean this was an epic moment in my otherwise uneventful existence. Popstar Bodhi Beckett and I had an inside joke. How weirdly awesome was that?
After all was said and done, maybe we’d become friends after all. I pictured Bodhi calling me up whenever he was in town and arranging for us to meet somewhere for lunch. We’d laugh about the chloroform joke and the hilarious moment when I revved the car engine in the middle of a firestorm. Okay, so maybe I was attaching too much meaning to our very brief conversation, but I really did want to know the guy, if only to satisfy my own out-of-control curiosity. How often did a girl like me get the chance to converse with a guy like him?
Still, forging a connection would be an uphill battle. What did I have to barter in return for inside information on his glamorous life—a really good shampoo and head massage?
Chancing another glance in his direction, I was disappointed to see the amusement had faded from his face and now Bodhi was staring intensely out the window. His sudden change in demeanor put an end to my make believe lunch date. Okay, so maybe I needed to be less ambitious. Lunch was a lot to ask for. I’d be totally cool with a backstage pass and a shout out from the stage. Sure I was a country music fan at heart, but I could be swayed over to the dark side for the right bare-chested hero.
Sirens in the distance brought me back to the present. I needed to focus on the task at hand, which was to put some distance between us and the end of the frickin’ world.
Cruising quietly down the main road, we were no longer the only lost and displaced souls fleeing the blaze. As more upended people from the lower elevations joined our exodus, we found ourselves in a traffic jam rivaling even the most crowded of Los Angeles freeways.
Silence settled between Bodhi and me and the longer it went on, the more my optimism of a connection between us faded. At this point, I’d just be lucky to get a mention during one of the countless interviews he was sure to give about his harrowing near death experience.
“Pull over!”
Startled at his sudden outburst, the desperation in Bodhi’s voice triggered an immediate reaction, and I swerved to the side of the road. He was out of the car before I’d come to a complete stop, stumbling to the bushes where he proceeded to retch.
Did I offer assistance? Let him be? What was the protocol for barfing celebrities?
“Are you okay?” I called out the window.
Please be okay.
“Do you need help?”
Please don’t need my help.
Certainly, I wasn’t insensitive to Bodhi’s plight. On the contrary, I wanted desperately to assist him, but keeping my distance was somewhat necessary given my notoriously weak stomach. As a child, my mother had coined the phrase ‘Sympathy Puker’ and that summarized me perfectly. Even the sound of a hairball forcefully expelling from a pint-sized kitten was enough to send me to the toilet yaking.
“Can I take you to the hospital?” I offered, swallowing back an unflattering belch. I was already dangerously close to spewing despite not even being in his gag radius.
Bodhi lifted his head in an apparent bid to answer my question. Too weak and overwhelmed by nausea to respond, he bent back over the bushes and continued to vomit. My stomach churned, knowing what needed to be done. I owed him more than a shout through the window. If Bodhi needed my help I’d suck it up. Literally. He’d driven through a wall of flames for me, so the least I could do was hold onto my dinner long enough to help the poor guy back to the vehicle.
I gingerly walked around the car, already beginning to feel faint. Bodhi’s audible soundtrack was getting louder and more intense the closer I inched. Once his convulsing frame was in sight, the queasiness attacked from all angles. And even though I tried to hold it back, my stomach proved to be a cowardly bastard.
In a most unladylike fashion, I let loose a series of loud retching burps. So obnoxious were the gagging sounds exploding from my esophagus, Bodhi had to interrupt his own puke party to interact with me.
“Go,” he said, frantically waving me off. Apparently he didn’t require any of my generous assistance. I choked and heaved my way back to the driver’s seat. The second I was out of his earshot, the gagging subsided, my heated skin cooled, and embarrassment set in.
A couple minutes passed before the passenger door opened. Weak from his ordeal, Bodhi leaned in, one brow raised in my direction. What could I say to put a fun-loving spin on my escapades?
“I have no excuse,” I blurted.
I often found full disclosure to be the best way to combat gaping disbelief.
Bodhi grinned. “Well, okay then.”
I sighed. “The sights and sounds of vomiting trigger a gag reflex in me. It’s kind of, you know, like a medical condition.”
“Huh, wow, a medical condition even. That’s wild, Breeze.”
That face. He was mocking me. We exchanged amused glances. Dang, he was a cutie.
