Page 1 of Followed By the CEO

chapter

one

Mills

The heat gags me the second I roll my bag out of the airport terminal.

I would give my voice box to a sea witch in exchange for a private, air-conditioned Uber to transport me and my luggage to my apartment.

But I need my voice to do comedy, and I need my bank account to stay in the black. So, I’ll wait here for a crowded shuttle to the remote parking lot, along with the rest of the cheapskates.

A sleek, black car pulls up to the curb in front of me, and the driver hops out and opens the rear door. A whisper of that fully functioning air conditioning escapes. My fantasy sugar daddy comes to life, perhaps?

Alas, that fantasy evaporates when a leggy blonde in a cute jumpsuit and killer heels glides past me in a fog of designer perfume. She effortlessly folds her long frame into that cool black car while the driver loads her luggage. Scrolling on her phone, no concerns about traffic mar her perfectly serene, not-sweaty face.

I’m not jealous, not even a little bit. Her toes are probably throbbing in those $700 shoes.

What do I have to be jealous about anyway, now that I’m flush with cash from a gig in Chicago? Technically, I could afford that ride. It simply would make no sense because my car would still be at LAX.

What I didn’t spend on rides and first-class seats on this trip, I’ll use to buy name-brand cereal at the grocery store, or some organic chicken breasts instead of hot dogs and ramen.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll probably spend it on a cute new collar for Monster, my Boston terrier. Maybe a casting director will show up at the dog park and be so taken with Monster’s utter perfection that they offer us an ad contract on the spot, allowing me less travel and more time at home with said dog. Everybody wins.

Boarding the shuttle bus in front of me, a family of four wearing Disney tee-shirts is struggling. “Daddy’s not leaving without us; don’t push each other,” the mother gently reminds two small children. She tries to hold them back so the dad can wrangle their suitcases one by one into the luggage rack. White lines on his temples announce that he wore sunglasses but not sunscreen for at least a week. I politely move my suitcase out of the way to give them room.

Everyone settles in for the 15-minute ride back to the cheap remote lot. I smile at the mom who sits across from me.

“Good trip?”

She nods. Her husband grunts, “Disney Cruise,” then wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The tired mom starts to speak but the kids immediately interrupt. “I got to be a princess!” one of them announces.

“Cool!” I reply.

“The best part was the Lego room,” says the other one.

“The ship was very nice,” the mom says. “But I’m looking forward to being home.”

Her husband reaches over their children’s heads and squeezes her shoulder. The two exchange a look.

I’m not sure what’s come over me but that look between them triggers a lump in my throat.

My mind scraps the idea of a casting director showing up at the dog park and subsequently launching my pup into animal sidekick stardom. I’d much rather meet a sociable man there who loves dogs as much as I do. The last guy I dated was allergic to dogs, but I often wonder if that was real or if it was a control thing for him.

Allergies were his excuse for everything. We could never go to parties with my friends who owned animals, which is one hundred percent of my friends. We never ate at restaurants that I liked because of a long list of food allergies.

In addition to being allergic to everything I love, that guy was averse to me letting my freak flag fly. He never wanted to do anything that wasn’t completely vanilla in bed. Don’t get me wrong. I love vanilla. Vanilla can hit the spot perfectly a lot of the time. But there are things I’ve always wanted to try, and he refused because it was “too weird.”

Looking at the happy couple sitting across from me, I notice how they look at each other. The smiles. The blushing. The gleam in his eye. Oh yeah. They are freaks in the bedroom.

I wonder if he lets her do butt stuff to him.

Not that I’m jealous.

I’m fine just the way I am. I’m just tired. And emotional because I miss Monster, and I need some stinky dog kisses.

When I finally reach my car, I crank the A/C and enjoy the cool air for as long as it lasts, which will not be the entire ride back to my apartment. To fix what’s wrong with my car, I’ll need to book three more out-of-town gigs, and I don’t want to think about that now.

I feed my ticket into the little machine at the exit gate, then pay with my card, feeling the sting of that $46 charge. Maybe an Uber ride would be worth it after all.

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