By Monday, I was over the shock. I'd finally accepted that I-yes I-was going to live with the Fiery Boys on their tour bus. For a whole week! I had moved past the disbelief, the spontaneous eruptions of excitement, and the attempts to pinch myself awake.
I spent most of the weekend immersed in the Fiery Boys, listening to their music on endless loop, especially the new album they'd recorded to accompany this reunion tour. I danced myself into a daze, like I used to ten years earlier. But now, I imagined them playing live, right in front of me. Yeah, I was getting pretty fixated on the Fiery Boys.
Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn't spend the weekend fixated on the Fiery Boys. Instead, they focused on me, giving me something I never thought I'd have. Fame.
As soon as Chuck spoke my name on Friday, the world went certifiably insane. I had thousands of friend requests from total strangers, and I had to close all my social media accounts. New websites popped up, filled entirely with lies about me. I really should have stopped using the web altogether, but I couldn't resist checking myself out. It was just so bizarre to see my name on every fan site I visited.
Some of the sites were silly and made me laugh. Others were not so nice. One site gave out my cell phone number, and dozens of strangers started to call and text me. Now I couldn't even use my phone and had to get a new number. Quite a few sites were filled with haters making angry diatribes against me, calling for my death and disembowelment. One of them even sported a cheap photo edit of my head on a spike. I mean, seriously? These hate sites had hundreds of nasty comments about me, and I admit I read quite a few of them before I stopped looking.
Strange as it sounded, I was trending.
This new attention made me-shall we say-concerned. But the Fiery Boys had it under control. When the band manager, Jason Bartholomew, called me on Friday, he told me not to worry about any death threats that might appear on the Internet. And just in case, he sent a bodyguard to watch over me. Of course, this only made me worry more.
Half an hour later, my hired muscle arrived. And I do mean muscle. Dressed in a classic henchman's black suit, Vaughan was medium height but super built. And cute. He had a smile lurking under that solid exterior, and he exuded an enthusiasm that I liked right away.
Vaughan gave me a few pointers about dealing with the media and also gave me his cell number, assuring me he'd answer at any hour. Then he went outside to camp on my street, promising to always be near.