Page 53 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

Lea Bronsen

Copyright © 2024

Chapter One

The town of Aranda de Duero in the north of Spain was built at a time when horses and carriages were the common means of transport, so most streets in the medieval inner-city center can’t take large vehicles such as SUVs and trucks. Yet that’s where I am, driving a limousine of all things (!) in the afternoon of a hot summer day, so you can imagine the hassle. The crowd and the traffic jam on these ancient, paved streets between low, pastel-colored walls. The noise. The irritation. My level of stress.

Blame it on my employer, a twenty-year-old brat so spoiled she couldn’t be bothered to walk the few hundred meters from her hotel to tonight’s film première. Mira-Me is her name, aptly meaning “Look at me” in Spanish, and celebrity is her game. She’s a Generation Z starchild: TikTok influencer slash reality show contestant slash attempted pop star slash model. A product of the previous generation’s lack of parenting skills, she’s self-adoring, abusive, and fake through and through, her facial fillers competing with over-the-top makeup, blown-up boobies that any sane guy would deem unattractive unless he’s desperate to get laid, and clothing straight out of a Playboy magazine.

Playboy? Okay, so, if I sound a bit outdated, it’s because I grew up before the era of the Internet and smartphones and Snapchat streaks. But that’s okay, I’m not here to impress anyone, and I don’t need to feel younger than my thirty-eight years. The only thing I worry about at the current stage of my life is obeying and pleasing my boss. She’s a Madrid native, I an American, so the potential for cultural misunderstandings is huge in addition to the obvious clash of generations.

Just to make things clear, I’m male enough but there’s nothing sexual between us. Not just because I’m more attracted to men, or because of our age difference, but because she has her life and I have mine, and we meet halfway when she needs a bodyguard or a chauffeur. Or a fixer when she’s dying for some junk food, or when she needs help to kiss the porcelain on an early Sunday morning because she’s had too many margaritas. Although she’s old enough to take care of herself, her parents find my presence reassuring.

Me? I’m only happy to have a job to pay my bills. I’ve had a complicated life.

I glance into the rearview mirror. She’s in the backseat nose-deep in her phone, most probably checking her social media likes and comments, fluffing her platinum-blonde hair and making glossy fish-lip selfies for her hundred-thousand-something worldwide fans. She sports a sparkling, golden tank dress that compliments her tanned skin and matching gold hoop earrings with heart charms. We’re late for the show, so I’m in a hurry, it’s important she gets there on time so she’s the talk of the event. Or else she might as well stay in her hotel room and plan her live-broadcasted and overly dramatic suicide.

There’s an obstruction on the street, with several cars stopped ahead. What the hell is going on? There’s an incredible crowd filling the narrow space, too, a lot of people looking excited, most likely a demonstration. Just what I need. How long is this going to take? I glance at the digital clock on my dashboard: 7:15 PM. Mira-Me needs to be at the cinema by 7:45 at the latest. That’s thirty minutes. Not sure we’re going to make it. Groaning, I thumb through the map app. Parallel streets lead to the same destination, but I’m stuck in a growing line of vehicles and can’t turn around.

I lean on the horn. Get moving!

Slowly, we inch forward. The clock says 7:20. We really don’t have time for this. If she doesn’t make it on time, the lil’ lady in the back is going to make a scene. At home, away from the public eye, she doesn’t worry much about anything—other than the obligatory makeup and dressing séances recorded and published live—but she’s damn picky about her entrée into the “real” world of fame, where eccentric gala-dressed celebrities are flattered by showers of camera flashes and the whooping of waiting fans. She wants to be best looking, the most commented of them all. She’s such a diva. A brat, but a diva.

I snicker and look out the window. There’re people everywhere looking at me weird, like I’m the one acting strange. So, I slam the steering wheel. What do you want? My hands fly into the air like I’m an Italian mafioso, like I’m offended, like they don’t know who they’re messing with. I work for an important person, peeps, so lay off. Well, “important” in the social media slash cultural élite world, but otherwise...

I use the horn again. Where are the police when you need them? I used to be a cop, but due to a certain unacceptable behavior in the line of duty a few years ago, my badge was taken, and I’ve done jobs as bodyguard and chauffeur since. It irks me that I can’t just slam a blue light up on the hardtop and press my way through the disturbance.

I’m about to open my door and peek over the car in front of me when it jumps a few meters forward and stops again. Cursing, I tail it and hit the brakes. Everyone’s attention goes to a weird creature in black-and-white checkered clothes who just appeared on the driver’s side and leans into the open window. Is that who is creating such a chaos? He or she slips out the window again and displays a disturbing, white-painted face with exaggerated black makeup and a big, weird nose. A clown? From the person’s height and build, it’s a man.

He swivels to the crowd behind him with a ten-euro bill in hand and blows through a whistle. It sounds like a questioning tune, as if he’s asking whether they think it’s enough money for a tip. On the back of his pants, the name ROBIN is sewn in capital letters.

People boo. Not enough money.

He makes a face and turns back to the driver with a disapproving whistle. This seems to be his favored means of communication. He doesn’t speak a word.

Who cares? His show takes too long. Making pranks is cool when you have time, but now it’s directly uncool. I hope we’re not subject to a whole tribe of circus people taking over the street and harassing bypassers.

I honk again to attract his attention. As he turns to face me, the car he was pranking seizes the opportunity to drive away. The street fills with laughter and I’m alone with the clown. He gives my limo his full attention, standing in the middle of the paveway with his hands on his hips, legs spread, considering my vehicle up and down. A wide grin appears on his white-painted face, and he makes a seducing wolf whistle as if to say the limo is extremely beautiful, or extremely expensive, or both.

The crowd cheers. They love him. He plays the fool, a quirky and mischievous creature. He must be good at reading situations and adapting to them, because it seems he knows what he’s doing and what the audience wants from him. At his side, a cameraman films the scene, changing focus from him to the crowd and me.

I want to drive on, but he blocks my path whistling that loud, flattering tune. I can’t exactly run him down. He circles the hood and pulls at my door handle, his whistle turning to a low, inquisitive tune, like he’s busy thinking and investigating. Of course, my door is locked, and you can bet your ass I’m not going to open the window. Loud laughs fill the space around me.

I groan. Can’t these people see things from my perspective? Don’t they know how it feels to be in a hurry and afraid of losing their jobs? They probably do, but this is the time of their life when they’re at the circus, they want to forget, they want to be misled, and they don’t care what other people are enduring.

He tries the back door, and it opens. Dammit, Mira-Me unlocked it, the stupid brat. Sometimes, she can be such a pain. He mimics to the crowd that he’s super lucky and slips inside before I can protest. I turn in my seat and tell him, “Get out, we have to drive.” I don’t know if he understands English, but I’m pretty sure the tone of my voice will get through to him.

Ignoring me, he rummages behind there, opening cupboards and checking stuff and whistling a happy melody while the cameraman films him through the open door.

Mira-Me squeals, hands in the air. What’s he doing to her? That’s it. I’m not just her chauffeur, I’m her bodyguard.

I open my door, get out in a hurry, and push the cameraman away. “Get out, you freak!” I call to the clown in the large backseat, a U-shaped leather couch with a table in the middle.

Seated beside him, Mira-Me rolls her eyes. “He’s not a freak, Zane. He’s a clown.”

“You screamed!”

“No, I giggled. And you are ruining everything.”

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