-A RUMPY ONLY STORY- Couldn't fit that in the summary box, but it is.
V: An AU, because apparently the fact that we have other unfinished stories we need to write means nothing to us. (I am also guilty of this, I'm working on something un-TEST and un-DT related to post on my account; someone send help)
Enjoy peeps.
(it just occured to me I probably need to change ScyFy to Universal in the disclaimers...*sad noises*)
*DISCLAIMER* RV makes no claim to own Tremors or its characters. They are the property of S.S. Wilson and and Universal Studios. No profit is made from this writing.
Melvin Plugg liked to think himself a patient man. He had to be in order to be an agent in the music industry, especially the agent of someone as stubborn and easily distracted as Tyler Reed. Though he was lucky that Tyler wasn't a jerk or a creep like some of his earlier clients (and actually seemed to have a bright, rich future ahead of him), he hated that he had been pounding on the man's hotel door for a solid five minutes with no response.
He slammed his fist against the door another one, two, three times when suddenly-finally-it opened. Reed stood behind it, rubbing sleep from his eyes in no shirt, pants clearly thrown on hastily.
"Geez, Mel, what's the problem?" he asked, ending the question with a yawn. He ran his hands through his messy brown hair and trained tired blue eyes on his agent.
"My problem is, Tyler," Melvin started, putting on his silky, unamused agent voice, "you have got a meeting with your new bodyguard today, and a flight to Nashville to begin your first big tour with a show tomorrow and you have already slept in an hour and a half late."
Tyler rolled his eyes, sighing. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm still on the pain meds and they really knock me out," he replied. Melvin looked over his shoulder to where a stunningly beautiful Hispanic woman exited the bathroom door behind him, clad in nothing but a red satin robe. She offered him a wave and a grin.
"Oh, yeah, Ty," Melvin said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm sure the meds are what have got you so tuckered out." He rubbed at his temples. "Get dressed ASAP, say goodbye to Miss Sanchez, and get downstairs. If you aren't there in fifteen, I'm firing myself."
"I don't even see why I need a bodyguard," Tyler said, letting his head drop back against the seat. He and Melvin sat in the back of a jet-black Bentley. "I get attacked by one crazy fan and suddenly it's a huge thing."
"Tyler," Melvin started, "you're lucky your leg wasn't shattered. That kind of is a huge thing. You're only getting more famous, which makes you a bigger target. You need protection."
"Whatever," he mumbled in reply. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"The security agency that is supplying the guard," Melvin informed. "They are supposed to be some of the best. Top of the line, fully trained, fully armed, the whole deal."
"Do you even know who the guard is yet?" Tyler asked, "Or do I at least get any say in that?"
"They said they'd have their best man ready when we arrive," Melvin said.
Tyler groaned. "Great. I'm probably going to end up with some lame muscly guy I'll hate. That'll be so much fun."
"Would you rather be murdered by some shadowy figure in the night?" Melvin asked pointedly.
Tyler looked at him. "Yes."
Melvin looked up, mumbling something inaudible under his breath before responding, "Just humor me for a bit, Tyler. If you still hate this guy in a month, you can drop him, but just give me a month."
"Two weeks," Tyler responded curtly.
Melvin sighed. "Three. Your tour is three weeks. Give it til the end of your tour."
"Fine," the singer huffed, turning his attention to outside the car. They were pulling up to a modern but smallish building, with a sign reading 'W.D. Security' in front. Once they were parked, his agent ushered him into the building.
Inside what Tyler assumed was the lobby was a desk with a small Asian woman seated behind it. He stood back while Melvin talked shortly with her. She then headed through a door while Melvin rejoined his client, and they waited for a few minutes in the lobby.
Finally the secretary came back out, followed by a heavy-set, bald man.
"Tyler, this is W.D. Twitchell," Melvin introduced as he approached.
Tyler looked over the rim of his sunglasses at the man. He turned his eyes back to his agent, a look of irritation clear on his face.
"This ain't my bodyguard, is it?" Tyler questioned. "This guy looks like he'd have a hard enough time running away."
The older man scowled, a look Tyler assumed was quite common for him. "I'm not your body guard, Diva. If you must know, I'm the guy he works for."
"I asked Mr. Twitchell for the best guy he's got," Melvin explained, placing a hand on his client's shoulder.
Twitchell nodded, though still looking less-than-enthused. "Yeah, Mr. Gummer should be arriving shortly. Trust me, Mr. Reed, you'll be safe in his hands."
Tyler was surprised that Twitchell was at least polite enough to let him and Melvin wait in his office. Though he felt that it was a bit rude that his new /bodyguard/ was late when they were supposed to meet. He certainly hoped he wouldn't be late if he had to save his life.
It was at least twenty minutes after the singer had arrived before a man pushed through the door to Twitchell's office. He was tall, about six-foot-one, clad in a flannel shirt and cargo pants. He was also on the thinner side, and at the very least in his late forties with a definite mustache above his lip. He didn't scream 'body guard' to Tyler at all.
"Mr. Reed, Mr. Plugg," Twitchell started, "this is Burt Gummer."
Melvin stood to shake the man's hand, but Tyler took more time getting up himself, making a point of keeping his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans. Melvin greeted him with his usual practiced charisma, while Tyler just gave him a incredulous look. "This guys gunna be my bodyguard?"
"I can assure you that Mr. Gummer is the most prepared, skilled, and experienced man I have employed," Twitched replied.
"He looks old enough to be my dad," Tyler mumbled.
Gummer looked over the run of his dark sunglasses before he removed them, beginning to say something before he was interrupted by Melvin, "Not that that makes any difference! Right, Tyler?"
The singer rolled his eyes slightly. "Whatever. You said three weeks, right?"
Melvin gave him a death glare after he ushered Tyler passed Gummer and out the door. "You sure make a terrific first impression, Ty."