goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

Oh. OH. Well the eyes are kind of damning now that he puts two and two together and doesn't make five. He can pay attention- sometimes. Phone in hand he finishes his coke and calls him, murmuring reassurances that he's fine, that Carolina's the best ever, dude why didn't you tell me your sister was hot, snorting a laugh at the indignant sputtering and that- that's more normal. That's less insane.

Forgiveness will come later, right now? There's a show. Getting everyone moved should be easy enough, getting the stuff set up on the roof? Cake. It's like all the shows he did when he was starting out, in and on clubs. Sometimes without permission.

If she hears the laughter, the teasing, she ignores it. It wouldn't be the first time she'd been relegated to merely an object, as someone else's adjective. It doesn't take long to check in with security, to confirm the building has now been secured - completely, triple checked, even, and begin to relay the new plan.

Once there's word that the mic checks are starting, she knocks on the door, announcing her entrance. "Ready to go?"

"Soon as I find my Freddie Mercury jacket, yeah. It's in here somewhere." Got it for Halloween one year and just kept on keeping it. It's stylish, what can he say? "Wish I had time to grow out the mustache but, eh."

He has a face for stubble, not moustaches. That's Reginald the roving asshole's bag. Fucking. Indie pop rock asshole. Who builds a record around knock-knock jokes. Seriously?

"It wouldn't suit you," she replies, dismissive of the very idea even as she pops into view, her arms folding over her chest as she waits for him to finish up. "But if you're that desperate to try, you've your tour hiatus coming up."

"Nah, it wouldn't. I'd look like a hipster." Like Reggie. Fuck him. Ah- there's the coat. He pulls it on, fluffs up his hair and stands with his arms out. "How do I look?"

There's a snort at the mention of hipster - like this style of jacket didn't count? "Not your makeup artist, not my place to comment." Still, the fluffing up of his hair gets an amused look, before she motions for him to walk on past her, to exit the bus. "Find someone to employ to handle your wardrobe if needed next tour."

Once they're out, the door is closed and locked behind them, an exchange of nods with the guard there given. Then she steps on forwards, leading the way. Taking point. "How long a set are you planning?"

"You're no fun." He snorts a laugh all the same and swaggers out, waving to security, all the former bravado back in place like he'd never been terrified at all. Okay, set list.

"Hour, hour fifteen counting the encore. It's the last tour so it usually runs a little long." And with the delay, jesus, his fans are gonna get home late. He feels a little guilty for that.

"Not part of the job description." And if Delta had tried to hire her on as a party girl...well, Delta would never. But someone else might have lived to regret it.

"Long enough. Concerts start late and overrun all the time." And fans tend to be dedicated. When they're not, well, potentially homocidal kidnappers. "I'll signal if the ending needs to be cut short," she informs him, but she doesn't foresee there being further problems.

Which is why she'll be on hand and at full alert. Just in case.

"I'll keep an eye out." Normally he ignored shit like that but- after tonight? He's going to be attentive as FUCK to anything Carolina needs him to do. Whatever he can do to make life easier on her and Delta? Consider it done.

FOr now, though. THe show must go on. The final mic check is going on and he's bouncing on his heels, waiting for the backing track to go. Okay. He can do this. It'll be fine. It'll be fun.

For now, he feels that way. That could change - but Carolina isn't one to tolerate nonense.

Not that she'll likely be here to tolerate it for long anyway. It's a one time assignment, after all.

..Isn't it?

She dismisses the doubt, not examining it closer, instead making sure to stalk the roof, the entrance and exits as there's warm ups and cat calls and then she's positioning herself just out of view of the crowds, but where York can at least see her if needs be. And once Delta's confirming they're good to go on the radio, it's only natural that all eyes turn to the man on stage.

The lights go up, the music's pounding, the chords familiar and comforting rolling out over the crowd and they're already cheering before he's backlit and walking across the roof. Hell, half are already singing along with him- by the time the roar has died down and he gets to the chorus? The whole damn street is vibrating with his voice and the voices of all his fans.

This is what it's about. This high. Moments where so many people just- come together over music, over something they all love. THe song's hard but he rocks it. Rocks it all the way to the end, does a little chatter, an apology for the delay- pumps everyone up before he gets to his stuff. Between each song his eyes flick over to Carolina unerringly- checking her for time, for status, for anything, really.

There's something about a live concert that watching on TV, or video, or on YouTube just can't quite match. A hum in your veins born from the shared excitement of the crowd. The joy of them all just being here, and all because of one man's songs.

She's impressed. In spite of herself, she's impressed with how York handles himself on stage, keeps the crowd engaged, doesn't show a lick of the fear she knows he felt and still feels after the incident earlier this day. There's a casual thumbs up a time or two when he looks her way, but it's not until the last song that he might notice she's -- more attentive -- surprised, but not in the alert manner of someone on guard, but that of someone who's encountered something she wasn't expecting.

And all that formidable attention is turned on him.

He gets through his set and goes through the first encore before winding it all down (oxymoron all his songs have a thumping, bone jarring optimistic sort of uplifting beat to them but, relatively speaking) with his first single. Something he performed in a club forever and EVER ago- Errera, something he danced to and sang to and gave him the idea to try this for real. To make it happen.

And here he is, doing it. Making it happen. "Alright so all of y'all know this one but I'm gonna ask that you hold it till the chorus, awright? Let everyone in the buildings around us think the party's over- then blast 'em with a good time. Good? Great!"

He doesn't think anything of it, jamming his way through the verse, the bridge, only really locking eyes with Carolina on the chorus and- that's an interesting look. It means something- it has to but he's got nothing and he's got the whole crowd eating out of his hands. He has to wrap it up. Hip swivel jump twist and all that crazy, goofy, club dancing he did when he first started and the crowd is right there with him, doing the same, dancing like they don't care all the way to the final refrain. "You've been beautiful tonight, thank you so much for sticking it out with me, and I'll see all of you next year!"

He's sweating, shaking, and half exhausted while floating on a high that no drug or drink can really replicate as he stumbles offstage, right for Carolina. She'll get him out of here.

She knows the words, knew them before they became a record breaking new single for a new artist on the scene, and she sways a little in time to the beat before catching herself. Mentally scolding herself for even a slight lapse in concentration.

But there's nothing to worry about. This finale goes off without a hitch, and she even finds herself clapping for York as he calls out his thanks to his audience, stepping close to the stage as he begins the stagger process off. It's an arm offered, willing to let him rest his weight over her shoulders as he catches his breath.

"Nice job," she tells him, keeping expression professional, but allowing a small smile in the very least. He deserves that much.

OH good someone to slump against! best guard ever. He sags into her for the first few steps, exhausted in every which way- the terror of earlier in the night shoved aside for the post show high. God and what a high.

"THey were all dancing. All of them. Even YOU were swaying! I am a pop GOD!" And this is why he has D. So he doesn't do anything STUPID when he's this loopy.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, buddy," she snorts now, the roll of her eyes hidden in the dark and the fall of her hair. With him this close, its easier to steer him aside, to make sure he goes where he's supposed to. Where she can keep him safe.

Back down, out of the building, and she can see Delta waiting at the tour bus. "C'mon, time for you to get going." The entourage can pack things up without them.

"Pop. God." He's giddy and giggling, snorting a laugh into her shoulder as he gets his feet under him and goes where he should. No autographs tonight- not after what happened. Too many people. But this? Just her and D and the bus? He'll be okay.

"You're com'n with, right?" JUst for the night. "We got an extra bunk on the bus."

"That's what I'm being paid the big bucks for." Well, not so big, really. But it's generous enough for the length of time that Delta needed her here, taking into account personal and professional history.

Getting an exhausted man who's only slowly coming down off the high of fear and higher high of adrenaline and excitement means a few minutes of noodle legs up the steps. Then, a stop, as she stalls him by Delta and the security guard again, and does another sweep of the bus.

You can't be too careful. "Okay, come on up."

He goes from leaning against her to leaning against D- draped over him like a cat and nuzzling his hair and mumbling about how he's sorry that he makes life hard, that he'll do better, that he fucking loves him, man, and D just- humoring him. Like he always does. He goes back to leaning on her as soon as the bus is cleared.

"You. You are the best bodyguard ever. Of All time."

"You, get a shower, get changed for rest. We'll get moving shortly." She'll let the praise roll off her back, doesn't take it THAT seriously. She saved his life, sure, but no doubt he's said that to all his bodyguards in the past.

She's just doing her job. ~~(As opposed to doing her job, heh heh heh, ahem.)~~ Delta's reserved manner in dealing with York is amusing in its own right, and he follows on her heels as she ushers the tired pop star into his trailer proper.

"Oh, god yeah, post show funk. Ew. Sorry for getting it all over y'all." SHower, shower, shower, shower. He sluggishly works his way to the back of the room, stripping off his shirt as he goes and tossing it into the hamper. D's trained him well.

That gets a snort, but she watches him go, turning as he sheds the shirt to face Delta instead. He keeps his gaze on York, even as she reaches over to take his arm, carefully leading him to sit on the couch. So long as York doesn't go parading through in his birthday suit, she can at least take her eyes off him legitimately for a little while.

It's been a long, long day for everyone. And a little reassurance goes a long way. So she's surprised, and touched, when Delta returns that show of concern. It isn't often others ask if she is all right. This is, after all, her job. She's the one who's eligible to be hurt here. Her reply is lost at first when the bus starts up, and there's a honk of warning - they're about to move! Brace yourself, York!

Safe in the shower, scrubbing down he probably should be, well, done singing- but he's still feeling the pulse in his veins so, hope everyone in the cabin likes Katy Perry. Cuz he's belt'n. Up till they move.

"cuz BABY YOU'RE A FIIIIIIIIIIIRE WOO- ohfuckshitcockandBALLS!" There's a thud, another low stream of swearing, and then helpless laughter. It's fine, it's good, it's fine.

"..."

"..."

There might be some quiet snickering that follows the swearing and the laughter, even as Delta rises to his feet to get the first aid kit and Carolina breaks out her phone. It's time to make some calls regarding their mysterious intruder. The details will be passed on to Delta and the record company proper, but this is something she wants to handle for herself while time allows.

That, and its a long enough drive that she looks over at Delta with a furrowed brow, confusion clearing only when he quietly confirmed changing hotel bookings while the stage was being set up. Just in case.

He's back to singing and humming under his breath as soon as he rights himself, stepping out pink and scrubbed clean and in drawstring slacks and a Henley- the van gets cold sometimes man. He flops over on the nearest sofa, still buzzing with post show glee, checking in that D's alright. Anyone that knows him knows D's his right hand man, and once he's sure Delta's okay? He turns his eyes on Carolina.

"You alright? I mean- you kicked his ass hard but= you okay?"

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