Three Day Summer(30)

“Ummm . . . ,” I say, and realize I’m saying it in unison with the guard.

The suit turns to the burly guy then. “Hello? Don’t you know who this is? Roger Daltrey. From the Who. Let him through, will you?”

I’m sure my mouth drops open and I know Cora’s does. But I immediately shut it and follow the guy in the suit.

Because if someone thinks you’re Roger Daltrey, you f*cking go with it.

“And who are you?” I turn around to see the guard moodily interrogating Cora.

“She’s with me,” I say immediately, and reach out for her hand.

The suit turns around and sees us. He rolls his eyes but comes back over. “Just let them both through. Look, I’m from Polydor.” He lazily points to the badge that’s pinned to his lapel. Holy crap. That’s Jimi’s label too.

But before I can think of something even remotely coherent and/or viable to ask him about Jimi, he asks me, “Did you want to get on the copter? They’re just dropping off Joe McDonald.” Wow. As in Country Joe McDonald. “But it’s going back to the hotel now. If you want a lift.”

Dear, sweet mother of Hendrix. I swear I can hear my heart pounding in every single one of my extremities. “Do not screw this up, Michaelson,” it thumps to my brain.

Which is the exact moment that I remember that Roger Daltrey is British.

“Oh, aye. Indeed. Moust get back to the ’otel. Eh?” I say.

The executive gives me a weird look.

“Just straight that way?” I ask more quietly, hoping the sound of the helicopter might mask my voice a little.

“Yeah . . . ,” the executive says slowly.

I decide to skip speaking altogether this time and salute him, practically jogging to the helicopter, my hand pulling Cora along with me.

In a moment, the executive is beside me, his hand on my shoulder once again.

Oh, crap. I knew it was too good to be true. I just hope I won’t get kicked out of the concert entirely.

The exec turns me around and looks into my eyes. “Hey, Rog. Just . . . straighten out a little before the show, all right? Maybe take an aspirin?” He looks at my banker’s suit. “And maybe a bath?”

“Aye! Will do, sir,” I say and then, in a bout of inspiration, “Roger that!”

I practically skip right onto the helicopter.





chapter 35


Cora


I can’t believe I’m in a helicopter, Bethel spread out below me like a patchwork quilt. A true bird’s-eye view. I wish vingt-huit could fly. I have a feeling she would love this.

I look over at Michael and he grins back at me, wild-eyed. Obviously, neither one of us can believe he got away with this. I chuckle, thinking about his ridiculous accent. I wonder what we are going to do when we get to the hotel. He definitely can’t pull off this Roger Daltrey act forever. Even I know Daltrey is the lead singer of the Who, though, I admit, I’m a bit hazy on what he looks like exactly. Evidently, so is his record label guy.

The helicopter is following Route 17 now, which looks like a giant parking lot. Hundreds and hundreds of cars are abandoned by the side and there’s no traffic going in either direction, except for a lone police motorcycle I see weaving its way through. Michael points at one of the cars and mouths, I think, the words “That’s my car.” I nod, having no idea which one he’s really pointing out.

It’s too loud in the helicopter to talk, but I have a question I’m dying to ask him once we get out.

Within twenty minutes, we are touching down again, and I laugh when I see the hotel we’re being taken to. It’s the Holiday Inn in Liberty. I don’t know why I thought it’d be some super-fancy hotel—there aren’t any nearby—but in my visions of rock-’n’-roll lodgings, this certainly wouldn’t be at the top of my list.

The pilot gets out and opens the door for us, helping us both out. Michael just smiles at him and starts to walk toward the building. He’s probably realized he should keep the talking to a minimum.

I catch up to him, my ears still ringing. When I feel we are far enough away from the pilot, I sidle up to him and say, “You’ll have to show me a picture of Roger Daltrey sometime.”

Michael blushes and turns around to look at me. I laugh and he opens his mouth as if to say something. But then, with the color still in his cheeks, his eyes darken too. And before I know what’s happening, he grabs the red and white apron strings that are still tied around my waist and pulls me close. His green eyes stare into mine, the flying pig on his forehead soars toward me, and then he kisses me.

It’s a completely different kiss from last night. This is a kiss from a rock god, full of passion and confidence. I’m taken aback by how much I feel it reverberate through my body, and then even more so when I find myself kissing him back.

I stumble forward a little when he finally pulls away, and he pushes his hand up tighter against my back to steady me.

He grins wickedly at me.

“Um . . . ,” I say, feeling a little dizzy still. Wow. “So . . . are you going to miss any acts at the concert? Anyone you really want to see?”

It’s a non sequitur really, but what am I going to do? Comment on the kiss? I’m still trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

“I don’t think so but . . . oh, wait!” He sees a girl with a clipboard and a badge pinned to her red shirt and runs over to her.