Everywhere: Book 3 of the Nowhere Trilogy

41. Dragon Attack

She don't take no prisoners. - Queen

8:02 PM, Sunday, March 13, 2022

Mandy sighs in frustration at the useless radio in the white rental car. With only three vehicles left on the lot, she had chosen the one that looked least offensive before driving away from the airport, flipping off the airline that had lost her luggage and stuck her in a middle seat in the second to last row.

Getting lost hadn't been in the plan, but her mobile had died in the middle of the directions from the map program. If only she had remembered to charge her external battery before leaving New York this afternoon. After three delays and a layover, landing in San Diego a mere 78 minutes before Harry's show was unplanned and unexpected.

Pulling up to the VIP section, Mandy exits the car and waits for the valet. He appears with a side eye at her vehicle, and she chooses to restrain herself and not curse him out.

"My VIP pass is on my phone," she insists, holding up the offensive object. "But it needs to be charged."

"Sorry, lady," he shrugs. "No pass. No park. That's the rule."

Fuckitall. "How the hell am I supposed to show you my pass when my phone isn't charged?"

"Excuse me?" Another voice sounds from behind her, and she twirls, ready to tell this wanker to bugger off for rushing her just so he can get his bloody car parked. Instead, she is stunned to find she recognizes the man.

"Um...you're Sir Paul McCartney," she stutters. "Of the Beatles."

A slight smile crosses his lips. "Oh, you've heard of my first band?"

Flustered, she backtracks on her earlier emotional reaction. "I'm so sorry, Sir Paul, for holding up the line."

"No worries, love. I recognized the accent first; you look familiar."

Mandy blushes. "I, um, I'm a publicist with Dawbell, sir, although I've never worked a campaign as prestigious as yours."

"You're working for Harry?" the famous musician inquires.

"Uh," she stammers, "Yes, sir."

"I would say that right now there's not a more popular act on the globe."

Not knowing how to respond, Mandy stands with her knees and feet turned inward, her eyes taking in the legend before her. Holy shizz. What should she do now?

Sir Paul turns over his keys to the valet, and she shivers. Oh yeah. She should move the heap of junk she's driving so the epic singer can get his car parked. She glances at his vehicle, unsurprised to find a pristine green Jaguar parked behind her.

"Do you have a Dawbell ID?" he asks, and she feels a surge of relief at the words.

"Yes! Oh yes. I do." Rummaging in her purse, she withdraws the lanyard with her keycard from the company dangling on the end.

"I'll vouch for her," the famous man grins at the valet, holding out his elbow for Mandy to grasp. Hands shaking, she lays her fingers lightly on the inside of his elbow. "Come along, darling." He gestures to a woman standing by the fancy car. He holds out his other elbow for the elegantly dressed woman. "My wife, Nancy."

Mandy's hand trembles as she shakes the other woman's hand. This is unreal. What a bloody fucking day!

"I'm Amanda. It's a pleasure to meet you both."

As the three stroll towards the backstage area, Sir Paul directs his words to Mandy. "What do you do for Dawbell, Amanda?"

"Oh, right now I'm in charge of the new blog campaigns for three tours: Harry, Rihanna, and Shawn Mendes. The writers travel on the tour and write fluff pieces about the artists."