What Comes With It

Chapter 2

One of my assistants is at the door. She's new and it shows. She's not great at keeping a poker face, that much is clear. I immediately know I'm not going to like what she has to say.

She knows it too.

"Um, hi, Ms., um, Kingsley..." she manages.

"Please, you know you can call me Serena," I interrupt.

"Sorry! Um, Ms. Serena, um, Ivy sent me to let you know that, um, unfortunately we're not going to be able to fly out tonight." She pauses, gauging my reaction. "Um, we're under a tornado watch, and there's a whole line of storms heading this way."

She looks up as if she is in physical pain delivering the news to me. Everyone on the tour knows how much my Mondays mean to me. It's the only day we leave unscheduled.

In the real world, Mondays get shit on. But they're my favorite day of the week. It's my only day to decompress, nap, text my friends, or just completely withdraw. Three consecutive nights of 65,000+ person audiences are as draining as they are electric. I need, NEED my one day. And now that day will be cut short by traveling.

"Well, fuck," I say. My team and I can control a lot of things, but I guess we cannot control the weather on a summer evening in Tornado Alley.

She then fills me in on the plan: Ivy is busy coordinating the hotel rooms, police escort, flight plans, and catering for all the crew and staff. An additional large police detail is coming to help concertgoers get to safety. My caravan should be pulling up soon.

Moments later, I'm being ushered into the backseat of a large black SUV, which sits in a line of large black SUVs.

There's a scent in the air. At first, I brush it off as lingering pyrotechnics before realizing it's the smell of a storm coming. When I'm home, I love this smell. I wish for a moment I could be at my place, watching the storm roll in from the screened-in porch, instead of trying to outrun it in an unfamiliar city.

Throngs of fans are clamoring to get a glimpse of me. Once we carefully navigate away from the stadium, we're charging into the night at breakneck speeds. Flashes of lightning illuminate the sky. We have an entire side of the highway to ourselves, while traffic is at a standstill on the other. I hope everyone gets home safe. I fire off a tweet:

@serenakingsley: KC!! Thanks for beautiful night! Please, please, please take care getting home tonight. This weather is truly chaotic.

Ten minutes later, we arrive at The Fontaine. We've somehow managed to rebook our floor in mere minutes. I'm not sure how much it cost or how quickly they must have scrambled, but I'm impressed. Ivy is a mastermind when it comes to logistical stuff.

We even beat the paparazzi. There's freedom in opening my own umbrella to avoid the downpour, instead of using it to cloak my face like I normally do. We speed walk to the private elevator and I'm escorted into the Presidential Suite.

It's pristine, as if I didn't just stay here the past few nights. A bottle of champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries await me, along with a note from the manager apologizing for the circumstances but thanking me for my stay.

I grab a strawberry. Then another. I'm ravenous after shows. As if on cue, Ivy texts to let me know room service will be delivering my dinner shortly.

It better be a burger.