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He’s not normally one to pick up random hitchhikers on desert highways but he thinks she’s going to get murdered so he makes an exception for her.
As soon as the tour is over, he takes an impromptu road trip from LA to the East Coast. He’s bored and he’s got nothing better to do so he turns off his phone and takes off. He makes it there in three days and spends one day at the beach before he decides that he’s had enough of the humidity and Southern accents and turns around to head back to California. It’s a rather uneventful drive, full of long periods of terrible radio reception and varyingly useable ideas for songs and he makes it quickly, hoping to get back to the studio as soon as possible.
He stops at a gas station just outside of Santa Rosa when he meets her, five feet and nine inches of vibrant hair and freckled skin. She’s standing a little bit down the road wearing cutoffs and a sturdy blue backpack, her hair ruffling in the breeze and her arms crossed over her chest. She’s entirely too female to be traveling like this.
He drives the short distance over to her and rolls down his window to call out to her before he can stop himself.
“Do you need a ride?”
She uncrosses her arms and moves closer, leaning down to look into the interior of his black Lamborghini.
“Holy crap,” she says. “You’re Blaise Zabini.”
He thinks that he should have thought this out before making the offer but it’s too late now because she’s opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat.
“I was going to tell you to go away but since you’re famous, I changed my mind. I thought you were going to be one of those rich douche-baggy murderer types,” she tells him, adjusting the air conditioning to face her.
He’s slightly amused and slightly apprehensive. “How do you know that I’m not a rich douche-baggy murderer type?” he asks.
She pulls out her phone and starts tapping at it before answering him.
“I suppose you could be but at least if you murder me, they’ll know it was you.” She leans over and makes a peace sign, snapping a picture with him.
Great, he thinks, she’s only here because she wants her 15 seconds. He supposes he should have known better, he is the lead singer in a famous rock band and what did he expect, picking up a strange girl off the side of the road? It’s not like New Mexico is stuck in the Middle Ages.
“Don’t worry,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. “This is just insurance. In case you are a murderer or something.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?” “I’m just sending this to a friend so if I go missing, the police will know who to find. Plus, he’ll post it on Twitter so your reputation will be totally destroyed.”
He’s a bit offended by this implication. “My reputation could hardly be destroyed by some nobody with 500 followers.”
“He’s actually got about 800,000, I think. He’s a professional soccer player.”
He sniffs. “I’ve got three million.”
She laughs and starts fiddling with the radio. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you going to drive or are we just going to sit here all day?” Her eyes are sparkling with laughter and he thinks that he likes the way they look.
“Where are you headed?” he asks her.
“Oh,” she says, looking as if that question hadn’t even crossed her mind. “Wherever. Where are you going?”
He pauses. California and the studio aren’t looking as appealing as they had the day before.
“Wherever.”
She smiles and relaxes into the seat.