Chapter Fourteen
"I spy something.... red."
"That stop sign."
"Nope."
"The car over there in the left lane."
"No."
"A brake light."
"That's good, but no."
Brian and I had resorted to playing road trip games. I'd found a book in the backseat that Baylee had evidently left and we'd been going through it methodically for games the driver could play along with. I Spy had kept us busy now for a good half an hour.
"Hint?" I requested.
"It's inside the car," Brian replied.
I looked around. "This airfreshener?" I hit a Little Tree air freshener he had hanging off his rear view mirror.
"Nope."
I looked around some more. There wasn't anything else red. "You've stumped me," I said.
"The gas light just came on," he answered, grinning.
I looked over at his control panel and sure enough, a big red light had turned on. He flicked the blinker and pulled into the next gas station. "That was a good one," I said.
Brian grinned, "I know," and he hopped out of the car to go pump the gas.
Another hour on the road and we were singing along with the radio at the top of our lungs, the bass vibrating the SUV's doors. "Gooooodbye Ruuuuby Tuuuuuuesday," we shouted as the car rolled along the interstate, "Whoooo could hang a naaame on yooou, when you chaaange with evvverrrryy newww day...still I'm gonna miss yoooou..."
"We're good," Brian laughed as the DJ got ready to play another song.
"That we are, B-Rok," I replied.
He looked at me, an eyebrow raised, "B-Rok?" he laughed.
I paused. Had I just called him that? "Yeah," I stammered, "Google. Saw it was your nickname." My head was spinning. Where the hell did I pull that out of a hat from?
Brian laughed, "Right you are, right you are. I got it for kicking serious ass at basket ball." He grinned a cheesy grin, "Bet I could kick your ass at basket ball."
"You're too short."
"Oh but unlike most white men, I can jump," he said.
"I'm sure."
"Seriously."
"You're on."
"So gonna whoop your ass..." he muttered.
My head was still spinning around the fact that I'd conjured the name up to begin with - why the hell did I know Brian Littrell's nickname? Nobody had ever called him that in front of me, not Marty, not Leighanne (all Leighanne ever called him was 'Brian' or 'Husband'), so why in the hell... - when the radio started emitting familiar notes. Brian's eyes lit up, "Oh no WAY," he cried, turning the stereo system up higher.
And we started singing with the music, right on cue, "Yo listen up here's a story about a little guy that lives in a blue world and all day and all night and everything he sees is blue like him inside and outside blue his house with a blue little window and a blue corvette and everything is blue for him and hisself and everybody around cos he ain't got nobody to listen..." Brian's smile was wider than the horizon. "I'm blue da-ba-dee-da-ba-de-da-ba-die..."
When we stopped for lunch at a small diner, Brian insisted on paying, even though I had my wallet out and was ready to cover the cost of my two chili dogs. We sat down at a picnic table outside next to the Purple People Eater and Brian threw french fries to some birds a few feet away while we ate. A couple teenagers at another picnic table were making out, completely oblivious to a bird that was seated on the table stealing the bread from their sandwich less than a foot away. I nudged Brian and pointed and he laughed and snapped a picture with his cell phone. "I need to chirp that," he laughed, his fingers flying over the cell phone's screen.
I watched as the bird dragged the bread away and started pecking at it. The teens were still completely unaware that anything existed outside of their little liplock.
"There," Brian said, closing the phone, "I ought to get a few million responses off that."
I took a bite of my hotdog.
Brian watched me chew for a few minutes, then he said, "I'm glad you came along, Ben."
I looked up and wiped my mouth. "I'm glad too."
Brian stared at me for a long moment, then looked away. "I'll be right back," he said, getting up. He walked back into the diner, but I could've sworn that, as he walked away, he wiped his eyes. I couldn't help but wonder why.
Another couple hours later and the SUV hauling the Purple People Eater rolled into Nashville. Brian navigated through traffic, getting honked at semi-regularly, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. He handed me his Google Map directions and I told him when to turn and stuff until we got to an arena, where he pulled around the back entrance, where a high chainlink fence blockaded a huge crowd of girls away from several long eighteen wheelers and two big, black tour buses with silver swashes that ran along the side of the vehicles. The girls screamed as the SUV passed, when they saw Brian. They waved and yelled his name and several ran along side the SUV, their hands on the doors. They even waved to me, and I wasn't sure if I was allowed to wave back or not so I tried not to look at them.
Brian steered the SUV and the People Eater into the gated parking area, leaving the girls behind. They crowded around the fence, though, jostling for a position against it. They were shoving their arms through the skinny little holes, waving CDs and Sharpies. Brian glanced at me as he put the SUV into park. "I'll be right back," he said, laughing, "My public awaits."
"Okay, sure, no problem."
I watched as he bounded across the lot to greet the girls, who all started screaming like banshees the moment he'd gotten out. He was grinning like crazy the entire time and I smiled - he clearly enjoyed the adoration they were showering him with. I could tell by the faces he was making and his body language that he was joking around with them, and when it was time to leave, he jumped away theatrically, waving and dancing his way back to the SUV. When he opened the door, he was out of breath, but smiling deliriously.
"Sorry," he gasped.
"No you aren't," I laughed, "You thoroughly enjoyed that."
"Indeed," he nodded.
I grabbed my duffle bag out of the backseat but Brian waved for me to put it back down, "We have roadie to take care of that crap," he said.
"I am a roadie," I reminded him.
He laughed, "Well then, you can take mine, too." He was joking though, and we both left our bags in the SUV. "C'mon, I want you to meet the guys," he said, leading the way toward the first of the two tour buses. He paused at the door. "I gotta warn you though," he said, his hand on the handle, "It's a little crazy on the Backstreet tour bus the day we leave on tour."
"I can handle crazy," I replied.
Brian laughed, "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."
After Self by Pengi
