Perspective: Bree
My face is still burning as Sierra leads me through a side door near the kitchen, smaller by far than the mansion's imposing main entrance. One breath fills my nostrils with the scent of leather, gasoline, and rubber, as soon as Sierra pushes the next door wide. We step into a climate-controlled garage, vast enough to house a family or three. The reflection of my own face in the fenders of a dozen vehicles draws my attention.
Very, very expensive cars extend into the distance, in what I'm now deciding to call a warehouse, not a garage. Legitimate masterpieces. I think I've even seen one of the one in the corner in a film somewhere.
So she can't properly take care of a cut by herself, but has a few million dollars in cars in her garage in showroom condition, without a fingerprint on them. That makes sense.
An obsidian vehicle on a four-post lift, elevated a foot or so off the ground, immediately calls to me. The sleek, dark coupe is definitely vintage, with hips and curves that remind me of the dresses from the era of black and white movies. The recessed lighting in the space shows a hint of blue in the clear coat over the black. Sierra walks towards it, eyes barely registering it, even as her finger traces lightly over the rear quarter. Just the sight of her elegant fingers dancing over the machine makes me swallow hard. If her fingers ever came near me like that, I'd be putty in her hands.
"Hello, old girl... another time." I can barely catch her whisper. I shrink a little, feeling like I've witnessed something I shouldn't have.
Sierra reaches the driver's side, and I'm still trailing her, staring. She gives the vehicle a longing glance, before turning to a black SUV shaped like a brick. I think it has all the charm of a brick, too, in comparison to the lithe machine beside us. It's well kept, but with limo tint and a drab exterior, I understand quickly that she wants to keep a low profile. Sierra sets off to a box at the back wall, and soon presses a button on a key fob.
"The hatch is open. Four suitcases by the door."
I jolt into motion at her words. Sierra follows me at a small distance, and by the time I've pulled the handles on the rolling suitcases, I realize she intends to take one herself. I frown at her in response.
"You're hurt, I've got the bags."
An unladylike snort breaches her nostrils, in answer.
"Will you be wiping my ass for me, too?" Her words come with a sidelong glance and that familiar smirk. I grin and swing back.
"You hired me to assist you, Miss Calaver. If needs be, with that injury, I'll feed you airplane style." I breeze by, and only turn to check her reaction once I've gotten the first two suitcases loaded into the blocky SUV. Her eyes are narrowed, and the hawklike gaze has returned. The way my spine tingles under that look is starting to become a welcome feeling. I already like tossing little jokes in between her intense moments of command.
"It's Sierra, Mortensen. Tell me, do you intend to coddle me this entire time? I promise you, you'll annoy long before you endear, with that behavior."
I sigh dramatically for effect, and turn back for the remaining two bags.
"It's not coddling. It's called being supportive. It's a thing friends do." I emphasize the word "friends" and hope she reads it as an invitation.
"And friends sign employment contracts, too. Are you quite sure you have an idea of what the world of Hollywood looks like? It's not quite so friendly as you might deserve. Even being next to me on the sidewalk could mean being followed by cameras for the rest of your life."
She's back to the flat tones of voice, all business once again. I blink hard. Her words almost sting, the suggestion I'm too naive for this position, but I try to read between the lines and study the cracks in the armor. It reminds me of the tough love from my older brother, back in Kentucky.
"I thought we made it past the interview stage. Don't worry about me. You've got a movie to focus on, right?"
Sierra's expression goes stony. She doesn't fight me, letting me escort the remaining luggage to the vehicle. Wordlessly, she climbs into the driver's seat, and I come to rest in the passenger side. I expect her to turn the car on, but she stares off into some invisible distance beyond the dashboard.
"I'm afraid I must remind you, with all seriousness, that we're about to embark into an unkind world, stardom, the media machine. This is your last chance to bail out, as it were. I can drop you off at home. But if you get on this plane with me, your life as you know it will never be the same." The statement hits my ears like a slap, out of nowhere. This is the second message in minutes that leaves a bitter aftertaste. Is she truly questioning my ability to handle this? Do I actually seem like I'm a liability to her?
I mean, sure, the cameras are probably a lot. Maybe a bit intense. But it can't be so brutal as she describes.
It's all I can do to swallow deeply, look at her, and nod. I'm doing this. Stop questioning me, already.
Her stupid, gorgeous lips smirk reluctantly at my response, but her face turns forward as the garage opens with a press of a button, breaking the moment.
By the time she reaches by the console to press the ignition, her face has become a mask. The gentle curve of her mouth is now a flat line. When she slides large, dark sunglasses onto her nose, I know they're not just for the sun. They're a barrier, a silent signal that the brief moment of humanity we'd shared is now secured away. The soft hum of the engine fills the space and we're off into a setting sun.
The drive to the airport is quiet, and rather quick. It isn't exactly uncomfortable, either. It's the silence in a theater as the lights go down, the kind that indicates the show is about to start, and Sierra Calaver is already in character.
We park at the dropoff zone, and my eyes trace Sierra, not having paid attention to much else. I'm about to pull the door handle, when I notice Sierra has locked it.
"Why did you-"
I'm shaken from my thoughts by the murmuring of voices, the shuffling of feet. Outside the car, I can see dozens of cameras already pointed at the car, and a surging crowd so thick I can barely see the sliding doors of the airport. I can feel my eyes widen and my eyebrows raise.
"How do they..." My voice trails off as my heart jumps into my throat. I can count twenty people just on my side of the car, but the throng of bodies is thicker on the driver's side, blocking the street we're parked on. This is what Sierra just warned me about, isn't it?
Oh, fuck.
Sierra's expression reflects none of my nervousness, eyes glazed behind the sunglasses, breaths steady.
"I never know how they know, but that's not important. Get ready to grab the bags. I'll be taking two, you'll be taking two. No arguments. We make for the doors, and we don't give them a good view of our faces. Especially yours." Sierra's voice is cutting, almost angry.
Every camera that fires rings in my ears. I'm frozen stalk still by the flashing of the cameras outside, and the growing clamor at the doors. I've never had this many eyes on me... and I'm not even the one they're here for. Sierra deals with this all the time?
"Mortensen! Hide your face." She barks, and a bundle of cloth is thrust into my hands, and it knocks me out of my stupor. I find a black ball cap crumpled up, and Sierra is taking one of the same from the center console, pulling it down over her hair. She arranges her black, shoulder length locks forward, forming curtains around her face. I pull the cap on, but Sierra is far more experienced at this than I am. Her hands, steady where mine shake, are suddenly on my face. A hooked finger under my chin effortlessly draws my gaze upwards. She rearranges my hair, and if it weren't for the growing crowd outside, I'd almost lose myself to the soft skin of her hands, the scent of leather that follows them. All too fast, she's pulled my hair forward and I have the sense that my face might not be immediately identifiable, hidden. Her hands find my cheeks and pull my face closer to hers, not letting me look anywhere else.
"Listen. Snap the fuck out of it. You're far too pretty... they're going to want photos of you. You look like an actress. You cannot look afraid. We go for the bags, and go for the doors. Head down. Don't stop moving."
My eyes can't get any wider. I didn't need any more reasons for my heart to jump in my throat and my face to flush. Did she really just say that? So... harsh but.. sweet.
Sierra gives me no time to process, pushing me towards the door, and launching herself out of her own. She's moving and suddenly so am I. We're moving for the hatch and the crowd is surging and the flashes are deafening and I look at the ground. There's the hatch, the bags, Sierra's hand pulls forcefully at the handles and so do mine and she winces. We're forging forward towards the doors and I can feel the pursuing footsteps of dozens beating into the ground behind me. So many voices are calling Sierra's name and asking us a million things at once.
We're through the door and the crowd follows. We take a turn and the crowd follows. We stand in a queue and security surges past us and the crowd yells from a distance. We show our passports and breeze past the waiting lines and we're behind the gates with a TSA agent who stares at us with wide eyes.
Jesus. I can barely breathe. My hair feels like it should be singed from all the flashes. My ears ring.
I reach into my back pocket and pull the small roll of gauze free. Sierra says something but I just pull her hand free of the luggage handle and gently dab the fresh blood from it. Sierra goes quiet, and watches me for a moment.
Slowly, I feel my blood stop boiling and my ears don't hurt as much. My breaths are coming slower again.
"Come. We're pre-checked."
I put the roll of gauze away, and feel my head lift. The silence of the airport terminals is heaven. We find our way to the gate, and board early with barely a glance in our direction. Our bags are taken by a valet with a tired look on his face.
We're sitting on an airplane. It's huge. More legroom than the movies would suggest, and we have our own two seats. They recline, even. There's a wall to our right with a table and tray, and a curtain that leaves us quite alone.
"You're ridiculous, you know. I was going to comment on having to repeat myself in the car, but you've surprised me."
Sierra's statement is delivered without any venom at all, but not like the forceful tone she uses to give commands. I turn sharply, and I can feel my one eyebrow raise. She peels the sunglasses off of my face, fingers never touching my skin.
"Deer in the headlights, first time with the paparazzi, visibly panicked. All that, and the first thing you do is make sure my hand stops bleeding. You weren't joking about that whole 'being here for your people' thing."
I swipe the hat off of my head, and shake my hair out.
"Well... yeah. I saw you flinch when you grabbed the bag from the trunk. It was easier to think about that than the cameras."
Sierra laughs for the first time, just a short burst of air that sends goosebumps through me. It's such a sweet sound, and I wish I could freeze time as the smile fades from her face.
"Utterly ridiculous, Bree." Her words carry just a hint of that dying chuckle, and my heart threatens to burst out of my chest. The sound of my name through her lips makes me want to dance.
I can't do much but smile a little too widely in response, and look down.
"Where did I find you? I'm not talking about Santa Monica, where are you from?"
There's not a single bit of that professional emotionlessness to her voice. Bodies stop walking past behind the curtain and I can't see anyone but her.
"Harlan, Kentucky."
I wiggle a little in my seat and put my seatbelt on.
"Harlan. There's a song about that town, you know."
Pulling a card from Sierra's book, I roll my eyes.
"I know. And no, the Brad Paisley version is not better than the Ruby Freidman version, and the Darrell Scott one is the original." I don't know where my opinionated stance on niche folk music has come from, but the words spill out of me and my breath comes easier again. My thoughts start to feel normal, and the ringing has fully left my ears.
"Why did you leave? Running from or running towards?"
The air leaves my lungs a little faster than expected, at the question, and at the feeling of the plane beginning to move beneath me. It seems my recovery from anxiety is to be short lived.
"Oof, we're movin', okay. What did you... oh, right, hell of a question before buyin' me dinner, even. It's a long story."
Sierra stares back, undeterred. The woman is unashamed and unabashed, and so direct without any worry about backlash.
"It's a long flight. Tell me, to recover, before I begin your orientation."
I try to smile back, but the plane begins to lift and my stomach lurches. Memories begin to surge behind my eyelids, as I genuinely consider sharing a few to distract from the force pushing down on my chest. My greenhouse where I nursed the sick plants beckons. I hear my sister's giggle as we play in the hay fields as kids. There's the sweet taste of the peaches straight from my family's trees. I can hear tires squealing and the deafening burst as a preacher's fist slams into the side of my head and I'm falling on the ground. My dress is ripped, someone is screaming.
I jump out of my stupor as Sierra's unharmed hand comes to rest on my arm. Her fingers are warm and soft. When I make eye contact with her, her hand retreats. I don't want it to.
"Alright, nevermind. Clearly too long of a story." Her voice is equal parts annoyed at being disobeyed, and reluctantly empathetic. "My apologies, Mortensen."
I shake my head and try to keep my voice steady. I feel the need to deflect her worry rise and run with the first words I can think of.
"It's alright, the plane is in the air now, I'll be okay."
Sierra's gray eyes are soft and caring for only a moment, before the mask slips back in. She nods, and we both lean back while the plane begins to climb into the sky.
God, I sure wish I got more of the kind, sweet Sierra, and less of the serious, intense Sierra. She has it in her, but it's like she prefers to be distant and likes the friction of being blunt.
Even so, my skin tingles from the contact of her hand until long after we're at altitude.