Free A Bleu Streak Christmas by T. I. Lowe

so.
    “Say, Kent. I got a special favor.”
    The smile slips from the driver’s face.
I’m sure he’s used to all kinds of weird demands from celebrities thinking
they’re entitled.
    “Yes, sir?” He definitely forms it into
a question.
    “I’ve been stuck on a plane all
morning. It would be really tight if you’d let me drive.”
    Now Kent looks completely skeptical.
I’m feeling the same way with the idea of Mr. Accident-prone at the wheel.
Plus, what’s the point in hiring a private driver if you don’t let him drive ?
    “My assistant already okayed it with
your boss.”
    “Umm…” The poor guy is looking around
for an answer that’s not coming to him.
    “Go ahead and call. In the meantime,
load up with Izzy, so we can hit it.”
    Mave doesn’t wait for an answer.
Instead, he eases around to the driver’s door and climbs in—leaving me and Kent
staring after him in bafflement. I shrug my shoulder over to the confused guy
and climb on in.
    Once we’re loaded, our surprise
chauffeur merges into traffic and drives on as though he’s lived in New Orleans
all of his life. Maybe he has some. Who knows?
    Kent mumbles a hushed conversation into
his phone with his boss. From the sounds of it, Mave gets his way for the day.
    In no time flat, he pulls up to a mall
and we strike out with our list. As the day moves on, Mave goes undetected and
we are able to knock out our list. Bags are mostly filled with an assortment of
high-tech electronics and clothes. Mave specially orders a remote control
helicopter and the gasp escaped me before I could stop it at the money he
handed over for it. Nothing has been in the thousands on my lists so far.
    He shrugged his shoulder at my reaction
and mumbled, “It’s just money.”
    And I guess for a world-renowned rock
star that’s all it is… Just money …
    Hand in hand, we are approaching the
exit within an hour of arriving. I’m relieved to be done so soon, until a
high-pitched squeal sounds from behind us. I know before knowing.
    “Mave King!” a girl screams out, almost
sounding to be in pain. More shrieks join in with her. We are surrounded by a
mass of teenage girls in an instant.
    On instinct, or maybe
self-preservation, I snatch his shopping bags and make a run for it—leaving him
to fend for himself.
    Kent is standing by the SUV when I
emerge from the mall. Pointing impatiently behind me, I screech, “Mave! They’re
attacking him!”
    Kent somehow understands my frantic
gibberish and takes off running into the mall. I fling myself into the back and
try regaining some composure. That was terrifying!
    My patience is coming close to running
out. They’re taking too long. Should I call for help? Should I go back in
there? No. Not doing that. There is no appeal in that option. Before I can
reach a decision, the door yanks open. A scream slips out as a tattered mess of
Mave dives in. Gone are his hat, coat, and hoodie. Them crazies almost claimed
his shirt as well. Only shreds of it remain.
    Outside, there’s the wild mass of girls
tapping on the window, crying and screaming. Thank goodness, Kent mans the
wheel and gets us the heck out of here.
    “These New Orleans chicks don’t play
around. Very direct…” I mutter, trying to slow my heartrate.
    “You should try some of that on for
size,” he says.
    I’m not clear if he’s teasing. “It
won’t fit,” I say, thinking about those stick figures we just abandoned.
    “Yeah. You’re right. Those
personalities would be a bit too big for your little self, but it wouldn’t hurt
to maybe fit some confidence in all that sweetness of yours.” Thankfully, he
redirects his attention to the driver as my cheeks blare my response.
    “Kent, my man, I don’t know about you,
but that just worked up a mean appetite.”
    Kent chuckles. “Yes, sir. Anything
specific?”
    “Where’s the best place to get
authentic creole cooking?” Mave asks.
    Kent’s wide grin reflects in the
rearview mirror. “I know just the