Runaway TrainChapter 3 free porn video

I was standing in the hallway just outside of the vestibule where Liz and the crew from the radio station were taking pictures when my cell phone buzzed. I moved farther away and checked the display. It was Sarah Costello so I answered.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"OK," I replied. There was a moment of silence on the other end.

"That's it?" Sarah asked. "OK?"

"We spent the car ride over talking about when we knew each other," I replied. "The truth is, I don't know much more than she does about our little town. I left only a couple of years after she left. I mean, sure, Mom might mention she ran into so-and-so somewhere but that's about it."

"The Wave has been promoting their interview like crazy," Sarah informed me. "Are you there yet?"

"She's taking pictures with ... I think maybe every single person that works here," I told her. A new thought popped into my head and I pulled the phone away from my ear to check the time. I still had a few more minutes. "Did you get to make your grand entrance?"

"It was amazing," she said, singing the last word. "Not only was Jennifer Clement there but so was that asshole doctor that called Susan a bitch last month. I snapped a picture of the look on his face when the driver helped her out of the back. I would have sprung for the cost of a limo if I would have known. Jennifer just stormed back inside. No shock but Little Jimmy had to hustle to the airport. It seems he might be gone for a few weeks."

"I'll wait," I said.

"Oh, I told him," Sarah said laughing loudly. "I told him that he might think about looking for a new job in a new town himself if he wanted to avoid you. You weren't going to forget and you weren't going to forgive. I'm glad I got his agreement on video. I played it for him, by the way. Even his buddies were giving him shit when I showed them the picture of Liz practically crawling inside of your clothes. I told Jennifer we were all taking personal days tomorrow and probably the next day, too."

"I'm thinking about just taking the rest of the week and next week as vacation," I told her.

"You're going to go on tour with her!" Sarah said loudly. I heard a murmuring of voices in the background and I guessed she was sitting in our office surrounded by coworkers.

"I'm going to sit on the beach during the day and look for a new job at night," I answered. "I like you guys but I'm fed up with the bullshit there."

"Matt tells me I should do the same thing," Sarah admitted. "But that would mean relocating. With the kids in school now and his job, it just isn't very likely."

"Yeah," I admitted glumly.

"But you don't have those concerns," Sarah said. "Look, I know you're unhappy here. It's gotten worse over the past few weeks ... and the situation here isn't going to get any better anytime soon. You can probably find a new job in a minute if you put your mind to it."

"I'm going to look," I said. "Right now I want to call Mom and tell her I ran into Liz."

"Tell her I said hello," Sarah said.

"Mom or Liz?" I asked, just to be a dick.

"Both, Retard," Sarah replied.

Annabelle Blakely was a creature of habit. She was also my mother so I knew most of these habits. Foremost was her after-school ritual. She would see the last of the tykes onto the bus, tidy up the room and then head home. Once safely ensconced in her abode, she would kick off her sensible shoes for bedroom slippers, abandon her school attire for comfy shorts or sweats and sit down on the couch with a book or her Kindle and eat cheese and crackers while sipping a glass of wine.

It had been this way when I was a boy; it had been this way when I was a teenager; it was this way now that I'm grown and living 3,000 miles away. I hit the button to call her at exactly one o'clock (or four p.m. in Ohio).

"Did I catch you before you sank into the sofa?" I asked when she answered.

"Barely," she replied. I could hear the smile on her face.

"Let me guess ... Brie and a nice Chardonnay tonight," I posed.

"Little do you know," Mom replied. "I'm still learning and adapting, young man. I am not some old woman set in her ways!"

"Sure, Mom," I said dubiously.

"I am having pepperoni rolls and a Fat Tire for my afternoon snack," she informed me.

"Seriously?" I asked, apropos of nothing.

"I found I liked the beer when I visited you," she said. "However it does not go well with cheese and crackers. It does go splendidly with pepperoni rolls."

"I thought you were just jerking my chain because I told you how much I missed them," I admitted. Of all the culinary delights Southern California had to offer, no bakery or grocery store had found a way to make pepperoni rolls like the ones in the town where I grew up.

"Well, I will admit that I wasn't disappointed when I saw you were calling," Mom said, laughing again. "Did you need something or were you just bored?"

"Neither," I insisted. "I called to tell you about someone I ran into today."

"Not that horrible girl you were dating, I hope," Mom said.

"No," I said. "Liz Larimer."

"Lizzie!" Mom said loudly enough that I was pretty sure the person she named could hear from around the corner. "How did you run into her?"

"My friends are fans," I said. "By the way, they say hello."

"Tell them I said hello back," Mom said. "Now, on with your story."

I chuckled.

"So, Liz was signing autographs today," I said. "She has a concert out here tomorrow night. I mentioned that I had gone to school with her so they dragged me along."

"I would imagine that reunion was interesting," Mom cut in.

"Why would think that?" I wondered.

"Dear Lord," Mom said, "I watched that girl make goo-goo eyes at you from the time she was eight years old until the day before she left. Can I assume she recognized you?"

"She remembered me," I hedged. "But she also remembered you ... and Dad. She said that you were probably the favorite teacher she ever had."

My mother was not, technically, a teacher. She was a glorified daycare worker. Preschool is not part of the K-12 curriculum in our school system and the men and women there are not afforded the same perks as those that worked for the Board of Education. My mother had a degree in early childhood education and had been approached many times to fill openings in first through fourth grades but had always declined. She said she liked the students before they thought they knew everything.

But to me – and it seems to Liz Larimer – Mom was every bit as much a professional educator as those who collected state pensions and had union protection.

"She was a sweet little girl with a terrible home life," Mom said.

"Did you know about ... that?" I asked.

"Honey, everybody knew about that," Mom informed me.

"I didn't," I countered. "I had no idea until she told me today."

"Your father and I kept you ... insulated ... from that sort of thing," Mom confessed. "We knew you had potential and we'd seen too many kids from around here fall prey to drugs. But, yes, everyone in town knew that Mickey and Bev Larimer grew pot when they lived here."

"Still do," I said.

I heard Mom let out a strangled squeak. My mother, as with many educators, held strong views on drugs and she still classified marijuana as an illegal substance.

"Those people are just intent upon ruining that girl!" Mom declared.

"They moved to Colorado last year," I cut in before Mom began to parrot the lines she'd learned as a young adult growing up in the late 1970s and early 1980s. "They're not intent upon anything."

"Colorado," Mom said with disgust. It was something we were never going to agree. My time on the "Left Coast" (as my mother referred to California, Oregon and Washington) had liberalized my views. The studies I'd read about the use of marijuana for medicinal purposes had made me rethink some of the dogma my parents had instilled in me. Mom was still a dyed in the wool small-town Midwesterner. Drugs were bad; unions were good; and we should vote for Republicans for local offices and Democrats for national jobs. She might say that she was learning and adapting but I knew better.

"So, I'm hanging out at a radio station with Liz right now," I said.

"No kidding!" Mom said. She seemed as happy to move to a new topic as I had been.

"Yep," I said. "My friends had to go back to work so she sent them back in her limo and I drove her over for her interview. We're going to hang out and catch up later tonight, I guess."

"You make sure to tell her how proud I am of her," Mom said.

"I already told her," I interrupted. "She knows you have every single CD she's ever released."

"I am not proud of her because of her successful music career," Mom countered. "I am proud of her because she overcame terrible circumstances to make something of herself. I always saw that in her. And I'm proud that she has not let fame turn her head. You never see pictures of her stumbling out of a bar or flashing her underwear. She is a nice, wholesome role model for young women to emulate. She is a powerful businesswoman but she is also sensible and compassionate. That is why I'm proud of her. You make sure that message gets across."

"I will, Mom," I said. "I promise."

I felt a hand on my shoulder and found Liz standing behind me with her ever-present entourage of security, manager and personal assistant.

"Can I talk to Mrs. Blakely, please?" she asked politely.

"Sure," I said. "Mom, you can tell her yourself. She's right here and wants to talk to you."

I watched as a world-famous singing star and my mother formed a mutual admiration society before my very eyes. Liz was telling my mother what a difference she'd made in her life (something I was glad to hear) when Jill Clay touched her lightly on the arm.

"I have to go, Mrs. Blakely," Liz said with regret. "I promise I'll get your number from Travis and call you again soon. It was so nice to talk to you."

Liz smiled and leaned in to kiss my cheek when she handed me the phone back.

"We're going to watch the interview from the engineer's room," Stephanie informed me. "You can join us in there when you're through."

I nodded and put the phone to my ear again.

"She sounds like she hasn't changed much at all," Mom said.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked, probably a bit too loudly. "Uh, Mom, you need to pull some of the yearbooks I know you've saved and take a look."

"Those are external changes, Travis Michael," Mom hissed. I knew she was peeved when the middle name came into play. "Inside, she seems like the same sweet confused little girl I remember from all those years ago. You be nice to her and you be careful."

"I'm always nice," I replied.

"You are usually nice," Mom corrected. "I meant what I said about being careful."

"I'm not going to go chasing after a rainbow, Mother," I said. Mom knew I was peeved when I used her full title.

"Oh, Travis," she said sadly. "Honey, I'm not worried about you chasing a rainbow. I'm worried that she still views you as the rainbow. I ... I know how you've been with women for the past few years. Don't do that to her. Promise me!"

"Mom!" I said, rolling my eyes. "Good God, I sat and saw the litany of boyfriends that have shown up on her arm over the past few years. Yeah, if I had made it to the Bigs, you might have to worry. But I didn't. I'm a mid-level ... no, that's not even true. I'm a low-level employee at a terrible hospital, maybe one step up from the guy that empties the bedpans. I think we can both safely assume that she is safe from my lecherous advances."

"What did you think?" Liz asked as we met in the hallway.

I shelved the first word that popped into my head (banal) and looked for a gentler term.

I had experience with radio. I had been interviewed many times during my playing days. I had done color analysis and on-field reporting for the Arkansas Travelers (the Double-A affiliate of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim) after my injury and during my rehab. After all, I was still under contract to the Angels and the team wanted to see some return on the princely sum of $1,250 a month I got from them.

I had been offered a full-time spot in the booth on the team's road games (because one of the crew didn't like to travel) after my retirement but had turned it down. I didn't want to live in Arkansas, first of all, and I didn't really want to be around a game I had loved my entire life. Instead I had returned to California to finish my college degree.

I had done promotional work for the hospital several times during my time there (most recently at The Wave – that's how I knew where it was located). It was mostly pure PR – promoting the hospital's healthy living campaign or talking up a program that we were offering.

The sports media wasn't exactly known for its cutting questions and the hospital had essentially purchased air time for a commercial. Even so, I thought Liz's interview had come off sounding canned.

"They're always that way," Stephanie leaned into to whisper into my ear.

I decided to focus on the positive things I'd noticed.

"You're well-spoken and clear in your message," I told Liz. "That's the important part of packaging anything. You need a concise message and someone thoughtful to deliver it. You have both parts covered. I didn't realize that you were donating tomorrow night's proceeds to the firefighter's association. I doubt many others knew it either. I mean, the show was going to sell out either way, I guess, but it's still something pretty cool. The wildfires last summer took a huge toll. I think I read that 17 firemen died trying to contain it."

Liz nodded sadly as we made our way out of the booth.

Our conversation came to an abrupt halt because the people that had their pictures taken when Liz had arrived now awaited handshakes as she departed.

When we stepped outside I immediately found that Liz had been wrong about the crowd (to a certain extent, at least). Everyone that had been there earlier was still there but I estimated that another 30 to 40 had arrived to join them. I was happy to see one of the huge security guards standing near to my car, his arms crossed and his face set in a menacing scowl. I wasn't sure I wanted to go near it and I was almost positive he wouldn't break my arm.

"I left my purse and phone in your car," Liz told me above the loud cheering. "I wanted to make sure you wouldn't ditch me. You got a little skittish when you saw all the people."

She laughed and punched me on the arm.

"If I had known you left your ATM card in there I just might have," I retorted.

"My cell phone is probably more valuable," Liz replied. "I might have taken a selfie that shows my boobs or something. At least then no one would think I have implants."

I found myself glancing down at Liz's chest. Her black T-shirt was tight across her center and I was pretty certain that anyone suggesting she'd had augmentation was an idiot. I doubted she sported a bra bigger than a B cup.

"People are stupid," Liz said when she caught my glance.

"Sorry," I said. She punched my arm again and laughed.

"I wasn't talking about you," she said. "Well, not specifically, about you. We were all pretty sure that Deb Sutton's main interest to you was the things that extended in front of her."

I rolled my eyes. For a reason I couldn't explain, I unlocked Liz's door and held it open for her. For a reason I couldn't explain, she ran a finger down my nose before taking her spot in the car.

The sight of Jill handing over a small cloth bag caused the onlookers to start to point and whisper. Rather than hand it inside to Liz, I put it over my shoulder and walked around to my side. Liz had leaned over to unlock the door and I put the bag in the backseat before starting the car.

"Where to?" I asked.

"I need somewhere to change clothes and I want to buy a hat," Liz said.

"Are you at a hotel or do you stay on the tour bus?" I wondered.

"We stay in a hotel," she informed me. "I don't want to go back there. The paparazzi might have staked it out by now. We try to keep it a secret but it always leaks. I'm pretty sure it's my management team but I can't prove it."

"Stephanie?" I asked.

"No, no," Liz corrected. "I mean the people in Nashville. That's the sort of stuff they do. But I want to change out of these jeans. It's too hot for denim. I'm about ready to roast."

The car was hot because there was no shade at the radio station. I could feel sweat pooling on my back beneath my suit coat.

"Uh, I'm not trying to ... whatever," I said. "But I live about half a mile past the turnoff to the station. I need to change, too. I don't like wearing a tie now any better than I did in second grade. I also have 30 or 40 hats that have never been worn – or worn just once. But I don't want you to think..."

"It's a good plan unless, you know, you don't want people to know you know me," Liz said. "I'm sort of recognizable."

"Yeah, just sort of," I retorted. "Besides, every person here took a picture of us walking into the station together. I figure anyone that sees them will know I know you."

"True," Liz said. "I guess I should have pointed that out before now. OK, give me a second."

She pulled out her phone and called a number.

"Uh, we need to disappear," she said. "Can you block the road for ... say three or four minutes?"

She nodded.

"Great," she said before listening to whoever was on the other end of the line. "No, there is nothing to worry about like that."

She shot me another embarrassed look. It wasn't until she spoke again that I understood to whom she was speaking.

"I've known him since I was a kid," she said to her security chief. "He's a really sweet guy. I'm not sure there is anyone I can trust more than him, in fact. We're just going to chill for the evening. If we decide to go somewhere public, I'll let you know. I promise. If you haven't heard from me by ... six ... then go ahead and plan for a night off. I'll give you a call later to let you know that Travis hasn't secreted me away to his hidden dungeon."

Liz gave my living arrangements a critical eye when we pulled into the lot.

The houses were set up as bungalows along neatly maintained streets. The bungalows were prefabricated and small but that really made little difference to me. It suited my needs and it was affordable. It was convenient to my work and to the beach.

I was certain it didn't compare to the splendor of wherever Liz called home. I doubted it compared to the splendor of her tour bus.

"Be it ever so humble," I said as I pulled into the driveway.

"I like it," Liz said as she continued to look at the front of the house.

"It's small but I don't need much room," I said.

"I'm serious," Liz said as I unlocked the door. "The neighborhood seems quiet and I like the way it's laid out."

The inside of the house was basic. It had a living room, a combined dining room and kitchen, a laundry room, two bedrooms and two baths. It was neat and tidy because I had straightened up before going to the dentist the day before.

I put her bag on the table and asked the question that had popped into my head a few moments earlier.

"Do you live in Nashville?" I asked.

I had seen pictures of her from all over the place – New York, London, Tokyo – but hadn't seen any photos of her home (which I was positive was large enough to fit my modest dwelling into its pool house).

"Sometimes," she answered before amending her answer. "Usually."

It dawned on me that, of course, she had more than one home.

"I have a house outside of Nashville," she told me. "I stay there when I'm not on the road and I'm working on a project."

"Where else do you live?" I inquired.

"I have an apartment in New York City," she said before a sheepish look came to her face, "and a villa in Spain."

"Spain?" I croaked.

"Yeah," she admitted. "I think that's why I like your place so much. It's designed sort of like this. I mean, it has a second-floor loft with bedrooms but the downstairs is set up like this. It's isolated though. I don't really have neighbors. It's my sanctuary. It's where I retreat when life gets to be a little too much."

I looked at the woman that had sat opposite me. Her face had turned vacant and she was staring at a spot on the wall. She was pretty; she was wealthy; she was famous. She was also very, very unhappy.

"I usually take a drive up the coast," I said. "If you want to get changed, that's what we'll do. We'll just drive until it's time to turn around and come back if that's what you decide you want to do."

She nodded her agreement and her eyes left the wall and landed on me. Her smile returned. I had come to realize that Liz could turn that smile on whenever she needed to. It seemed genuine enough but I doubted its sincerity.

"If you just want me to run you back to the hotel or ... whatever ... it's all good," I told her.

"No," she said quickly. "I mean, if you're tired of hanging out with me I understand but I'm..."

She sighed.

"I'm relaxing," she said. "I don't have to do or be anything. You know stuff about me that would cause the label's publicist to put out a hit on you. At the same time, I know my secrets are safe with you. I worried about a few people from home ... and I was right. Tom Cochran threatened to tell everyone about my less-than-glamorous past if we didn't pay him off."

"If you would have called me I would have gone back and kicked the shit out of him for you," I said, shaking my head in anger. "I spent half of my life looking for a reason."

Liz laughed and I knew this time it was sincere.

"We told him to go screw," she said. "I mean, we had enough dirt on him that he probably would have spent some time in prison. We told him we'd leave him alone so long as he left me alone. It worked. He went away. And he didn't know half the stuff about me that you do."

"I don't know anything ... damaging ... about you," I said with a shrug. "Even if I did, I would never use it to extort you or hurt you."

"I know that," she said as she stood. "Let me get changed and we'll figure out how to spend the rest of our evening."

"You can use the shower in the hallway bath if you want," I said. "It's just a shower stall. I guess you can use the tub in the other bathroom, too, if you want."

"Are you saying I stink?" Liz asked with a grin.

"No!" I said quickly. "I'm just saying that I plan to shower off some of the sweat from today and you're welcome to do the same. Make yourself at home here, Liz. If you want something from the fridge, grab it. If you want a nap or a shower, you're welcome to use this place for either. That's all I'm saying."

Liz stopped in the hallway and turned.

"I knew what you were saying and I'm sorry I made a joke about it," she said. "You, of all the people I've met, are one of the very, very few that always went out of his way to make sure I was comfortable ... accepted. I'm going to check in my bag to see what Jill packed for me. If she included clean underwear I'll have a shower. If she didn't, I won't. It wouldn't do me any good to shower and then put on dirty underwear."

"I can't help you there," I said with a laugh. "Well, that's not true. There is a Wal-Mart down the road. I could run down there and pick you up some underwear. I probably wouldn't wear them without washing them first but that's up to you. It would at least give me a story to tell my grandchildren about."

Liz gave me the finger but laughed again.

"We could really create a stir and go there together," she offered. "God, the management team would have a collective coronary if word got out I bought panties at a Wal-Mart."

"I figure a lot of your fans buy their panties at Wal-Mart," I said with a shrug. "You could just tell them that, after consulting with a marketing guru, you determined it was a way to draw you closer to the common folk."

"Something else we'll talk about at dinner," she said. "Right now, if I don't get moving I'm going to be sitting here in tight jeans and a sweaty T-shirt at 10 o'clock."

"The door on the left," I said as she started down the hall. I got a faint nod and she was gone. I waited until I heard the door close to the spare room before I headed in the same direction. I figured Liz had a fair amount of experience with creepy guys following her around and I didn't want to be added to the list.

I was sorting through my clothes when I heard the opposite bedroom door open and close again. I was about to check to see if Liz needed anything when the bathroom door opened and closed. I heard the shower start so I figured Jill must have done a good job.

I collected my clothes and went into my own bathroom. I decided a lukewarm shower would be best because I wasn't certain the water heater could handle two showers at one time. I had already completed my task, redressed and returned the front room when the other shower shut off. I was a veteran of Southern California's drought and I'd learned the "soap on, soap off" method of bathing that apparently had its origin in prisons across America.

Liz emerged a few minutes later dressed in a white T-shirt, light blue terrycloth running shorts and a towel wrapped around her head.

"I decided the stylist was just going to have to be mad tomorrow," she said.

"The caps are in a box on the floor of the closet in that bedroom," I noted. "Take any of them you want."

She nodded and headed to the bedroom where she stashed her bag. She was frowning when she came back out.

"I don't mean to intrude but ... do you have children?" she asked.

"No!" I said. "Why?"

"Uh..." she said glancing down the hallway again. "You have baby shampoo in the bathroom. The closet is filled with Lego and toys. I had to move a Spiderman comforter to get to your hats. Then there is the bunk bed."

"Oh!" I said, shaking my head. "I told you I'm Uncle Travis to Sarah's boys. They stay with me about once a month. Lucas is five and Brandon is seven. Lucas has a Spiderman comforter at home and he has trouble sleeping without it. Rather than transport his bedroom here, I got one just like his so he'd feel like it was home. The toys and stuff are theirs, too. Sorry, I've had the bedroom set up like that since I bought the place and I didn't even think about it."

Liz shook her head and her wet hair went from side to side.

"That's really sweet," she said. "I wasn't snooping or anything. I was looking to see if you had any girly products around here."

"I don't have a hairdryer or anything like that," I admitted.

"Typical boy!" Liz said with a giggle. I recognize the phrase as a title to one of her songs.

"We're the same wherever you go," I said, paraphrasing the next part of the lyrics. Liz gave a start.

"Wow!" she said. "I'm surprised. That song was never released. I can't believe you've heard it."

"I haven't," I admitted. "I read some of the lyrics to your songs today. That one stuck in my head, I guess. It ... it really rang true. I guess I'm not surprised it wasn't a hit."

Liz sat down in the chair she had occupied earlier and curled her legs beneath her.

"Why do you say that?" she asked. "I wonder because I pushed for it to be a single but the label said no. They didn't even want it on the album. They kicked it from the second album but I held firm on the third."

I sat forward with my elbows on my knees.

"I have a ... passing familiarity ... with country radio," I said. "When I was in college that was pretty much all my friends listened to. I spent a season and a half in Arkansas while I was in the minors. I did some radio work for the team while I was hurt ... and it was a country station that carried our games. I understand the genre on the surface."

"OK," Liz said, obviously wondering where I might be going with my line of conversation.

"I noticed that the majority of songs were from male singers," I stated. "And I noticed that a majority of the songs related to male listeners. I made this comment in the car on the way to see you today. Susan and Sarah are both country fans. Susan told me that, outside of you and two others, it's been six years since a solo female country artist had a Number One hit. I thought she was full of shit, to be honest, so I had to her look it up and cite references. As you already know, I'm sure, she was correct. Then she told me, from her perspective, why it is so. Susan believes country radio is one of the last bastions of the good ol' boy network.

"It is not reflective of the buying audience. You're the single biggest-selling artist in any genre by a wide margin. The second and third are both females, too. It would take all the males in the top 10 to equal what you've sold in the past five years. That tells me that your fans are not hindered by a lack of radio airplay. Susan believes, and I have come to concur, that your music is too honest for some programming directors. It doesn't talk about grabbing a six pack of Miller and heading to the fishing hole. It isn't about having your girl put on a tube top so you can show her off to all your buddies. You sing about life – good and bad. You talk about adult things ... not overgrown adolescent male fantasies. I think that puts off some radio stations that prefer to pander to an already established audience instead of trying to grow a new one. So, your label, I guess, chooses to release songs to the radio stations that are ... more reflective of mainstream country. However, the buying audience prefers the songs that can't be found by turning a dial.