Red Lights

The only advice I can give about joining a family business: don’t do it. Just don’t fucking do it.

I mean, I’m sure some family businesses are all fun and dandy. Kayak rentals and catering and throwing birthday parties for kids. I mean, they sound like they have their down sides, too, but they’ve got some pretty damn good pros. Security for special events, however, is no cake walk. We don’t even get to have leftovers after the events. Like, shoot me. Sometimes I just want a leftover plate of meatballs or an extra house salad. But no.

My grandfather, some thirty odd years ago, decided that he wanted to go into security. He’d tried his way at sales jobs around his California town, worked as a server and a cook, and even worked as a custodian in schools. They weren’t fun jobs, but they did bring home money for his family. He was married, had three sons, and was living pay check to pay check. It was tough and he worked hard at what he did, but when it came down to it – and these are his words exactly – “I couldn’t deal with the god damn man telling me what to do. Why the hell do you think I got kicked out of the Army, sweetie?”

With nothing but himself, his buddies, and the determination to get shit done, he reached out to his cousin’s friend’s boss’s brother-in-law who was some big shot movie star at the time – really, he was just a pretty face in an action movie that had a lot of hype and not a lot of payout. He was getting married and wanted security for the event, because of his newfound fame. Grandpa Sal met up with the dude, they talked, and the first gig was booked. Word got around, more jobs popped up, varying in size and importance, and Hunter Security was born.

My dad has been working for Grandpa Sal since he was fifteen, just like his brothers Tom and Roger. I’ve been working on and off since sixteen, between several failed fast food and retail jobs. What can I say? I hate the job, but at least the people I deal with are semi-tolerable. My coworkers, not the guests. Hunter Security is still mainly a family business, aside from my older brother Daniel’s best friend John and some of Grandpa Sal’s original business buddies’ children and grandchildren. We’ve lost a few along the way. Some have moved on, found colleges and careers, and some have just up and quit. Special event security and crowd control? Yeah, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Well, really it’s no one’s.

In a lot of ways, I’m just like my grandpa. He doesn’t like being bossed around – he’d rather be led, with a purpose. And when others can’t lead him or be thoughtful toward their followers and peers, he has to step up. He’s a really great guy, honestly. He can interact with all sorts of people, set up a game plan for every type of customer (“every event and every part and every day is different, sweetie. Treat every one of these people with respect and give them a chance, even if it means a 10-man deal for a three year old’s birthday party.”) I like to think I can handle people well, though not as well as him – he’s got a coolness that I can’t grasp, a calm he can sink into even if five seconds prior he was ready to explode. I have a short temper, short attention span and a fault of wanting to have my hands into everything – everything all at once. I blame it on Daniel and Sean for leaving me out of everything growing up just because I was their younger sister.

Which was probably why I kept coming back to the family business, time and time again. My need to be in everything, to not be left out – oh and the need to pay for groceries. Yeah, that was definitely a good reasoning.

---

There was a commotion over the headset, hushed and hurried, like it always was when something was actually happening – I strained to listen, pressing my back against the wall near the Will Call. I couldn’t make out much. It was my own fault, really. If you want to be nosy at a job like this, you have to listen to the static continuously, but I usually drown it out and only listen when I hear my name. However, I’m usually not sitting in the front like today; I’m used to being in the midst of the drama, only a few feet away from caterers, clients and in this case, cameras. Listening is usually second nature, watching and acting being the number one priorities and duties when it comes to security.

“Olivia, stay with him,” John said, pressing his finger to the headset that was speaking in his ear. It was my dad, telling him to get back out onto the main floor. I turned the volume down on my own headset until it was just a whisper.

“Alright,” I called after John, as he had already started turning away, giving me a poised thumb and raised eyebrows. I lifted my own hand, giving him a thumbs up. It was kind of an immature thing to do, in a way, using thumbs up and thumbs down as “professionals” but it was the whole team’s way of communicating without causing alarm. Plus, it was always nice to check on one another. “Don’t have too much fun without me, Johnny Boy.”

“I’ll try to withhold from breaking up any fights as long as possible so you can catch them, baby doll.” I smiled, watching him go just a moment longer before turning back to the kid I was watching. I mean, he wasn’t a kid. He was an adult, I assume, but a young one. He might have been tall, but he still had a baby face on him. Not that I could tell, since he was walking away from me. Walking out the god damn door.

“Hey, stop! You can’t leave, sir. Sir! Excuse me.” His walk barely flinched. I sighed, pushed my hair back from my face, and went after him. I caught his elbow just as the door slammed into my shoulder. I winced at the pain, a few choice words popping out of my mouth before I could stop them – never swear in front of guests, no matter their age. When I looked up, hand still on the fabric at his elbow, I was caught by very large, very brown eyes staring back at me.

“Are you okay? Shit, I was just trying to get some air. Here, get out of the doorway. You’re okay, right?”

I was fine, honestly. It’s not like I hadn’t been hit by a door, or tripped over something, or fell on my face before. I knew it would leave a bruise, though. They always leave a bruise.

“Yeah, I’m fine. What are you doing out here? It’s in your best interest to wait inside until you can return to the main floor or until your scheduled ride arrives.”

He chuckled, dark eyebrows rising. I took a step back; in all the movement when we had stepped out from the door, his hand pulling me out of the way, accidently and unnecessarily closer to him.

“I just wanted some air. Don’t worry. But just so you know, I’m not going back in. And I’m not staying here for another hour. See ya.”

There were times when I hated my job. Like when I had to clean up four year-old vomit; worse, when I had to clean up Lindsey Lohan’s vomit. There’s nothing glamorous about cleaning up puke, even if it was expulsed by a celebrity. I don’t give a shit how much money you make or how many Oscars or awards you have – puke is puke and I don’t want to deal with it. Likewise, I don’t want to deal with guests who don’t act accordingly to an event’s plans and who personally cause shit for me. Like the kid in front of me, who is walking away again. Get drunk at an award show, fine, but don’t fucking walk away from me and get hit by a taxi on my watch.

“Okay, seriously, do me a huge favor and stop walking so I can do my job?”

I caught up to him, silently thanking my flats for being so comfortable and reliable on the concrete sidewalk, and waited for an answer. It took a second before he even seemed to realize I was there.

“How am I stopping you from doing your job?”

“Do you not understand what you just did? You just exited an award show, very rudely I might add, and are under no condition to be finding your own way anywhere without supervision.”

“I’m not five, you know. I’m 21 and I know what I’m doing. I’m not even drunk. I had a single shot around six and that’s it. I don’t need your help. I’m fine, okay?” I faltered back. He had stopped abruptly and I didn’t realize until the voice that had been wavering just above my left ear was coming from somewhere behind me.

“How am I supposed to believe that? What are you, some actor? Your job is to lie to people!”

He laughed then, looking down on me. There was a streetlight some feet away and the store behind us was dark. I couldn’t see the lights of the venue anymore. I hadn’t realized how far we had come, or just how late it was into the show. The police usually disbanded the crowd that showed up for entrances as soon as the actual show started, which allowed for less hassle exiting the venue as entering. Not all events were like that, but the MTV Music Video Awards thankfully was.

“Are you having a bad day?”

I looked away from the direction of the venue, staring up at this guy I knew literally nothing about. I crossed my arms. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, you seriously can’t just let me go? What’s the big deal?”

“It’s my job. I’m responsible for making sure you get home or wherever safely, which I can only assure happens if you get there through your assigned, planned transportation.” I got nervous as a taxi drove past, slowing and pulling over as he signaled for it. I don’t know why I was so adamant on making sure this went by the code. I mean, hell, this kid was old enough to take care of himself. He could get where he’s going without any help, yet I couldn’t seem to let it go. I silently cursed whoever had pulled him out of the audience. I bet it was my brother, or John. I hadn’t seen the pickup happen, but I assumed it was them. They could handle almost anyone, smoothly, quietly and peacefully.

“You sound like a rule book, you know.”

“I sound like I take my job seriously.”

I glanced at the cab driver, waiting. I imagined what he must think, sitting there, wishing someone would get in so he could do his job. Just like me. I just wanted to do my job. Why did this guy have to be giving me so much trouble? There he goes, opening the cab door. I sighed. I should just leave, go back to the venue.

“Come with me,” he said, holding out his hand. I shook my head immediately, tightening my grip on my own arms. “Please, I’ll make sure you get back here. It’s not like they need you. Hell, they sent you to handle me.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He grinned slightly, hand still poised between us. “You know what it means. They saw I wasn’t a threat, left me in the lobby, left you in charge of me in the lobby. Not a hard task. They won’t miss you for a few hours. Besides, you seem like you need to relax for a second.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know security.”

He ignored this, opening the door to the cab.

“Come on,” he said again, waggling his fingers.

“I don’t even know you,” I said, glancing at his hand. I took a step back. “You don’t know me. You do realize that, right?”

“My name’s Dylan O’Brien. Now come on, let’s go.”

Before I could fight it or say anything else, I was being pulled into the back seat of the cab. My knee hit his as I ducked my head from the car frame, trying to pull his grasp from my arm. His arm reached across me, brushing the fabric of my button-up, and he pulled the door shut. And then we were driving.

---

I didn’t know where we were going. He – Dylan – had given the driver an address that I didn’t completely catch but definitely didn’t recognize. I just sat back, tried to breathe, and did my best not to say anything.

I winced at a bright light that shown close to my face. It was Dylan’s phone, illuminating the back of the cab.

He laughed. “Tyler’s pissed. He called me an asshole. Ahhhh, he loves me.” I just looked at him, then out the window. “He’s like my best friend. We shoot this show together. Teen Wolf. I’m guessing you’ve never seen it. That’s cool. Hey, you should probably put your seatbelt on.”

I just continued to watch the lights fly by out my window.

“Seriously, can you please put your seatbelt on… what’s your name?”

I turned my head, finding his face much closer than I expected it to be. I stared at the shadowed face, with dark round eyes and fair skin.

“You’re seriously worried about my well-being right now? You might as well have just kidnapped me or something.”

He laughed. “Or something? I saved you from a few more hours of torture.”

“My hero,” I snarled, running my fingers through my hair. I knocked off my headset, which landed between Dylan’s leg and my own. He grabbed it, holding it up in the light. I took it back, my fingers being careful to not touch his, and folded it in half at the hinge, which compacted it to the size of my index finger. I placed it in my pocket, caught the death glare from the stranger next to me, and snapped my seatbelt into place.

“What’s your name?”

Headset off, static fuzz out of my ear, and a dark cab and city around me, I could feel myself giving up. Literally. I sank into the seat a little more. I rested my elbow against the door, glancing in his direction. I was in a cab to nowhere. I wasn’t getting back to the venue or work or my family any time soon. And let’s be honest, I wasn’t trying very hard.

“Olivia. I’m Olivia Hunter.”

I heard a movement next to me, saw the hand between the flashes of street lamp light that filled the space. He reached out again, long hand, lean fingers, for my own. We shook and he smiled. I smiled back slightly, seeing his darkened face through the night. His palm was warm, his grip steady. The shake wasn’t forced, wasn’t too tight, wasn’t too soft. It was friendly, if you could say that.

My grandfather always said you could judge a person by their handshake. And he’s right, so very right. There are all kinds of handshakes. Skin warmth, clamminess, all that aside, there’s pressure, duration and presentation. You have the tough guys, who grasp your hand way too hard, either force a smile or grimace like their tough shit, and try to break you down by staring into your soul through a far too long, 30 second handshake. Then you have the people who barely touch their palm to yours, act like you have the god damn plague or they’re the Queen of the Universe, and sometimes don’t even look you in the eye. A universally good handshake is not too heavy, but not lighter than how you would hold hands on a first date. It should last at least five seconds, no longer than 12, and if you require a physical shake, limit it to two. Also, always look your partner in the eye, because it’s respectful. Be aware of your posture, your smile, your eyes and your hand.

I practiced my own handshake for years. Honestly, it was like the rite of passage. Every time I saw him, my grandpa would stick his hand out for me.

“Olivia,” he would say, reaching for my little hands when I was six, seven, ten, twelve, fourteen.

I would reach too, holding myself as straight as I could without looking like I had a stick shoved you know where, seizing his hand (it’s important to go at least 50-50, but most definitely 60-40 if they extend it to you). When I was young I would focus too much on every aspect, but he understood. I’d reposition my hand in his grasp, trying out different squeezes and pressures. He wouldn’t laugh, either, just wait until I was done with a poised, graying eyebrow. Finally, around ten I had worked it out so I knew what direction I wanted my hellos and goodbyes to go, and had stuck with it ever since. Somewhere in middle school, Grandpa Sal told me I had a better handshake than Daniel. This made me really happy, honestly, because I knew he was telling the truth.

Dylan pulled me back from my thoughts, his voice filling the air around me.

“Just so you know, I wouldn’t do this normally. Any of it, I mean. Running out on an award show, giving you such a hard time, dragging you with me… It’s seriously out of character. But hopefully –“

I cut him off. “Why did you do it then? Why are we even here?”

He looked a little taken aback, probably by my tone. His dark brows raised, brown eyes wide and staring, but he just smiled and answered calmly. “Um, well, see I was sitting in there and I just thought ‘this is so boring, all this scripted bullshit, this isn’t even halfway over, there are parties after this and I just don’t want to anymore.’”

“But why the drunken removal?” Again, his eyebrows raised, but only slightly this time. I couldn’t help it, honestly. I was born with very little filter and over the years I’ve chosen to throw it out the window completely. Words leave my mouth before I even realize I’ve thought about them.

Alas, he took it in stride. “I’m not really sure… it was definitely a spur of the moment thing. Like, I’m seated by people I don’t know. I’m being friendly, we’re all being friendly but it’s still not that great of a time and I just thought, what if I…? Like, okay. This is how I saw it: if I walked myself out, I was the asshole who didn’t get nominated, was forced to go by his agent or something and then left because I can’t support others or enjoy the experience or some other bullshit. If I get walked out, then I at least have a mixed group – some sympathizers, some haters – because I’m either the asshole who showed up already hammered from pre-gaming, which people see as cute because I was nervous, or they see as rude because I wasn’t even nominated because I’m not a musician and I disrupted other people.”

I just looked at him, watching him twiddle his thumbs, playing with his hands near his lap. After some quiet he looked up at me.

“Are you serious right now?” I could feel the crease in my brows growing.

He laughed, smiling, shaking his head. “Of course not. Really, though. It just kind of happened.”
“You know, you could have just not come at all,” I told him, knowing perfectly well how these events worked. “It is an option.”

“Yeah, I know.” He smiled, glancing out the window next to him, and then mine. He ran his right palm over the top of his head, blowing air through his nose. “But hey – aren’t you glad I didn’t?”

I didn’t think that deserved an answer. “Where are we going?”

“My friend Austin’s,” he answered smoothly, nodding toward the front of the car. “I don’t think we’re that far now.”

“And why are we going there?”

The cab stopped.

---

It turns out there was no reason for going to Austin’s.

Austin wasn’t home.

Dylan was busy denying this fact, however, continuing to punch the buzzer for Austin. I looked around, trying to place where I was. Based on the little I could see of the apartment and the roads around me, I was almost sure we were in Glendale. Almost.

“Are we in Glendale?” I asked him, watching as he hit the button for the billionth time. After a short pause and one last buzz, he turned back to me, leaning against the stucco of the building.

“Yeah. Well, that ruins that plan. Are you hungry? We could go get some breakfast.”

I ignored the fact that it was – according to my phone – 9 P.M. and he wanted breakfast food. I did not, however, ignore the text messages I now saw on my phone for the first time.

From John: “are you okay?”

“what happened to you?”

and “if you don’t text me within the next 5 to say it’s all good im gonna tell your dad youre gone. dan and me are worried. lemme know.”

The last one was four minutes ago.

To Dylan I said, “I don’t know. I just live in Culver City… I should probably go.”

and to John “Everything’s fine. Promise. Won’t be back to the show tonight.”

And of course, both boys objected.

John, however, was easier to calm. The multiple question marks, the confusion and worry, was simple to put down. All I had to do was assure him that I was in no danger and that he would be able to see how safe I was when I got home. That was the end of that.

Dylan, however, was a whole different ball game. I barely knew this kid, so I didn’t know how he would react. Or how to handle this reaction, considering I had never seen someone be so damn adamant about waffles before in my life.

“Please, don’t even try to tell me you don’t like waffles. I might drop dead this second. Olivia, I’m serious.” His voice drowned out for a moment as a quick flash of blues and a siren filled my peripherals.

I glanced at Dylan as the Los Angeles County police car pulled up next to us, the passenger side window rolling down. I’m not sure, but I swear I felt something at my back – a slight pressure, almost, like a hand hovering just behind me. It disappeared as I jumped forward, ducking my head into the window of the police car.

“Hey Mr. Jenkins! I mean, Officer Jenkins? I mean, I’m sorry. I hate this.”

The driver switched on the inside light, illuminating his own and the passenger’s face. I recognized the passenger as well, although the young guy’s name was escaping me at the moment.

“It’s alright, Liv. Jenkins is fine and you know it, honey. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at the theater with your brothers?”

I watched the question on his face as he said this, glancing from my face in the window frame, to the tall boy who was leaning down to gaze in a few steps behind me. “I had a change of plans, actually. Everything is fine, though.”

He smiled some, nodding his head. “Probably for the best. You need a break every once in a while if you ask me… unlike Garcia here! Garcia hasn’t done anything all night and he wants to stop for coffee!”

I laughed, glancing at the guy whose face was literally less than a foot from mine. Like, hey Garcia. Officer John Jenkins Sr. reached over, knocking Garcia’s shoulder lightly with his fist to remind him that he was joking around.

From what I could tell, Garcia probably did need some coffee, though. He was looking very tired and even stifled a yawn next to me. In the same move, Senior reached his arm forward, reaching for my hand. I reached into the cab, taking it, as he squeezed my fingers.

“Take it easy, Liv. I’ll see you around? And tell my damn son to come by for Christ’s sake. It’s like he forgets we live in the same city.”

“Sure thing, Jenkins. Oh, and really? Get your patrol bud some coffee! You know you could use some, too.”

I stepped back from the cab, hearing Jenkins’ laugh through the closing window as he called out, “You know me too well!” before checking the empty street and driving away.

“What the hell just happened? I was preparing a full explanation of our presence in my head and you’re buddy buddy with the guy?”

“Uh, yeah. He’s my brother’s best friend’s Dad. We go way back.”

He lifted up his hands, rolling his eyes. “We go waaaaaaay back. God, I about had a fucking heart attack.”

I laughed, which got me a very pointed look. It almost made me want to laugh more, but I contained myself as best I could. I was watching him standing on the curb, breathing in slowly, looking at his feet. Then, he quite literally shook it off, jumping down off the curb and lifting his head to smile at me.

“How about those waffles?”