Sure, there were times I felt bad about reducing the ‘haves’ to circus animals, but if they didn’t want the inconvenience of celebrity, then maybe they needed to be… well… less awesome. The way I saw it, the Hollywood elite needed me as much as I needed them. After all, it was us ordinary folk—the ones who watched their movies, listened to their music, and bought tickets to see their stately homes—who kept the pretty people in the lap of luxury.
Paul Blart Rent-A-Cop raced toward me at breakneck Segway speeds of up to eight miles per hour. Oh boy, he was an eager beaver, that one. Did he really think I was going to comply with him—a guy fresh out of his one-hour online training course? Besides, what was he going to do? Arrest me for driving my miniaturized sightseeing bus into this tony neighborhood? Last time I checked, the rich and famous didn’t yet own the streets.
Pretending not to hear his warning, I continued on with the lively story I’d been telling before his interruption. “… and then Katelyn’s husband arrived home unexpectedly, forcing her boyfriend to jump out of that second-story window right over there.”
I pointed out the one with the yellow curtains even though I had no conceivable way of knowing the exact window the man had actually jumped from. Not that it mattered. These were the stories my customers wanted to hear, so if I had to embellish a bit, so be it. As long as I kept the retelling exciting, and relatively kid-friendly for the young ones on my bus, no one questioned my facts.
“As I’m sure any of you who watch TMZ remember, Katelyn’s boyfriend landed flat on his back, breaking several bones, which completely immobilized him. The ambulance and police were called, and there, splayed out in the spotlight of the news station’s helicopter—bare as the day he was born—was none other than Hollywood bad boy Reggie Bowman.”
I paused for the reaction I knew was coming and was not disappointed. Chatter instantly erupted among the crowd as they discussed the incident amongst themselves. A few heads bobbed. A couple of smiles. After four hours, I knew who in this group were my reliable tour-goers, the ones who laughed at my jokes and made eye contact when I hit them with an interesting fact. I also knew who to avoid—the grumps who came on the tour looking to be miserable and left feeling no happier than when they’d arrived. There were the wiggly kids, the bored teens, and the tourists who didn’t speak a lick of English but who nodded enthusiastically all the same.
“I said, move your bus.”
This time the security guard didn’t just repeat his previous warning but also pounded on the side of my open-air trolley-style bus with a baton he used to… what… knock hummingbirds out of trees? It’s not like there was a lot of high crime in an area where housing prices started in the tens of millions.
“This is public property,” I replied, never letting the fake smile break from my lips. “According to the ordinance code 7845, all buses under thirty-five feet are allowed to pass on city streets without incident.”
There was no ordinance code 7845. I’d made that up too. But hey, it sounded good, and I was banking on this wannabe cherry cop accepting my lie through ignorance alone. The truth was these high-end residential areas had all sorts of bogus laws they’d enacted to keep my kind out. But us entertainment whores—the city’s tour guides and paparazzi—regularly shirked their rules and regulations. What the high and mighty never factored in when trying to intimidate was the near impossible task of taking on an industry that had no shame.
“You know what I think?” the security guard asked, posturing himself hips out, chest puffed. “I think you’re full of shit.”
I raised a brow. How dare he question my lies! I hated when dicks thought. “Sir, there are children on the bus.”
He turned his head, assessing my passengers before focusing his attention back on me. “Then don’t bring them along when you’re breaking the law, miss.”
Flipping open the windshield on his helmet, the security guard who fancied himself a cop spat out a stream of tobacco before fixing his stare on me. Our eyes both widened as instant recognition passed between us.
“Jesse?” he asked, genuine shock in his tone.
My brain took a second to compute. He was seven years older, rounder around the middle, and squinting at me through eyes that hate, but I’d know that face anywhere: Cody Weller. Hastily, I looked to my left then my right, trying to find some way—any way—to disappear. Even diving headfirst into a manhole would’ve been preferable to the stare of the man who’d once conspired with other like-minded high school douchebags to destroy my life. I’d actively worked to avoid the whole lot of them since my varsity blues days, but I supposed there were two universal truths in life. One was that you could never outrun your past, and the other was that you’d never find an unsightly manhole on a street like Goldfinch… unless it were coated in gold.
“Still leading sightseeing tours, I see. Would’ve thought you’d have moved on by now,” he sneered.
I would have said the same about his job… if I could speak. But for some reason, seeing Cody Weller caused my throat to dehydrate on the spot. Unable to form the words needed to get the bus moving, I turned to my driver, Vernon, and silently motioned for him to go.
“You’re not even going to talk to me?” Cody asked, seemingly offended that the girl he’d had a hand in unraveling didn’t have the good graces to reply to his smug insults. “That’s not very nice, Jesse.”
Nice? Back in the day, I’d been lukewarm nice to him, and what had that gotten me? Humiliation and a juvenile rap sheet. Yeah, I wasn’t being nice anymore. Not with Cody or any of the other elite group of oppressors I’d once called friends. Seeing him reminded me of how gullible I’d been, trusting in people who turned on me the first chance they got. I’d thought I belonged. I’d thought I was special. I’d thought wrong.
Speeding up my ‘move it’ arm gesture, I had to discreetly kick Vern in the calf to get him going. Putting the bus in gear, he popped forward, sending me lurching into the passengers in the front row.
Had he been a split-second faster, my driver would’ve spared me, and my passengers, Cody’s final parting words.
“Well, okay then. It was good seeing you too, Jesse. Oh, and I’ll be sure to tell Nicky you said hello—you stupid bitch.”
* * *
Whoa. Damn, dude. Cody just demonstrated why I never allowed my personal life to encroach on my professional one. His less-than-complimentary parting shot penetrated the ears of just about every customer on my bus. Even the hard-of-hearing folks were filled in by their able-eared peeps.
“That’s it,” I said, forcing a smile. “He’s off my Christmas card list.”
That got me a spattering of nervous giggles, which was what I’d been aiming for. I had to warm my customers back up before I could make them forget any of that nastiness had ever occurred. This called for a scandalously delicious story, and I just so happened to have an arsenal of those at my disposal. Launching into a Hollywood tale of woe, I didn’t hold back, delivering one tantalizing ‘fact’ after another until I had my passengers, once again, happily eating out of the palm my hand. Who needed Cody’s drama when you had me spinning a much juicer tale?
And, really, what did I care what Cody thought of me? He was a nonfactor in my life. If he insisted on living in the past, well, that spoke more to his emotional health than it did mine. Although I will admit, his mention of Nick rattled me a bit. Cody sure did seem to imply he and Nick were unusually chummy. That was interesting, given the fact that last I’d heard, Nick had conveniently left the country and was now hiding out on some Caribbean island. Wouldn’t he be oh-so-surprised when Cody shared the wonderful news with him that his former girlfriend had been spotted in LA—right where she’d always been? Asshole. I hoped Nick choked on his Bahama Mama.
“Angels, get your cameras ready,” I said, shaking off the negativity. There would be plenty of time for that when I was alone and digging the peanut butter out of the bottom of the jar with a Hershey bar. “As soon as the bus in front of us pulls away, Vern’s going to slide us into a sweet little vista spot where you’ll be able to get the picture of the Hollywood sign that I’ve been promising you all day. The sign is, of course, an iconic Los Angeles mainstay and has been on the mountainside since 1923. It originally read ‘Hollywoodland’ to advertise a new housing development and was lit up with over four thousand lights that flashed in sequence. Changing the burnt-out lights was such a huge chore back in the day that the sign even had its own dedicated maintenance man who lived in a little cabin off the big D.”
Well, would you look at that! My low-key dick reference must’ve woken the harshest critic of the day: seventeen-year-old Chase, who was now observing me through half-opened, marginally interested eyes.
