Chapter 3: Always Chasing

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When Frank Farmer had first agreed to be the bodyguard for Rachel Marron, he'd had to do some research to find out just who she was. Once he'd put a name to the face, he realized that he had seen her likeness on magazines or in television spots. Frank always lived under a rock when it came to Hollywood and pop stars, but it was a testament to just how famous Rachel was at the time that he had, in fact, heard her music before. She was incidentally also the only singer whose rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" had moved him to tears.

Years later, it was quite possible that a newer generation had no idea who Rachel Marron was. No matter how many times Frank heard her voice on the radio, it always hit him hard. Rachel may not have been the top artist in her genre anymore, but certain channels always seemed to have her on replay. Anytime there was an 80's or 90's era music hour, Frank could count on hearing at least five or six of her hits from that time when she was thriving. He didn't listen to the radio often for that very reason, but sometimes – being in public, at restaurants, in elevators, in waiting rooms, on long car rides – it was unavoidable.

He could hear the difference in her voice, he thought. Her sound and style had taken on a unique shift after they parted ways. He could always tell when a song had been recorded before the Oscars, or if it had been recorded after the Oscars. Before the Oscars, her songs were often fast and flirty, and even her ballads had been filled with joy and vibrancy, even a bit of naivete and shallowness. After the Oscars, her songs had become darker and heavier, with the exception of her token country remake, "I Will Always Love You." Many people had theorized about who could be the mysterious recipient of her soulful love letter. Frank wasn't deaf; he knew very well that her words, at least in some regard, were intended for him. Every time he heard the song, which was painfully often, it cut through him like an arrow. It was the first song they'd danced to, and the last one he had heard her sing in person.

As the years passed, Rachel released fewer albums, and fewer songs of hers were played on the radio. There was a distinct tone of melancholy to her voice, and she seemed to linger on certain words with a significance that surpassed his own understanding. Selfishly, Frank had often wondered how many of those songs were actually directed at him; or were they just directed to the hundreds of other guys she seemed to plaster herself to every other month. He didn't have to try very hard to interpret her weepy unrequited lyrics as holding secret messages for him. Some of her songs sounded like downright pleas for his attention. Some of them, he thought, were unquestionably about their relationship. But what did she want him to do? Call her up and ask, "So in your song yesterday, you seemed upset with me. Care to hash it out?"

So maybe he was a bit proud, but he could never be as proud as her. He couldn't imagine she had a humble bone in her body, and the fact that she seemed to still be chasing stardom sealed his impression of her.

Ninety-nine percent of Frank Farmer was convinced that Rachel Marron was one of the most stubborn and prideful women he'd ever met. The other one percent of him believed she was an angelic, lost soul with an ocean's worth of love to give and no one to listen.

Poor Devaney seemed to be at his wit's end. Even when he'd phoned the room to invite Frank to lunch, he sounded exhausted. Frank joined his old friend at the hotel restaurant that day, with the reminder that he would only have an hour to spare before he'd be on duty again.

Still, it was nice to hear that life went on for Rachel and her team. Perhaps the worse scenario would've involved her having a full mental breakdown and no longer pursuing her passion because she couldn't handle her fear - a fear either of failure or of being targeted again. Rachel was either very dumb or very brave – he could credit her in that.

Over lunch, Bill confided in Frank about the issues he was having trying to keep Rachel at the forefront. Hollywood wasn't having it, and he wasn't up to the fight anymore.

"You know, I'm tired, Frank. That's what it is," Bill emphasized, pressing his fingers into his chest, "I'm tired!"

Frank gave him a small side smile. "You've put up with a lot over the years, Devaney. No one would argue that."

Bill shook his head as he finished his drink. "She should throw the towel in. They're tearing her up, Frank."

"What do you mean?" Frank narrowed his eyes.

Bill extricated a slim tabloid from his jacket pocket and slapped it down on the table in front of Frank so he could see the headline.

Dusty Yet Busty - Rachel Marron Approaching the Big 4-0.

The accompanying photograph, though highly pixelated, showed Rachel in a compromised position as she was exiting a car, revealing her cleavage from an inappropriately generous angle.

Frank's fingers twitched in a surprising surge of anger. Trying to remain composed, he flipped the tabloid over so that the picture was face-down.

"I keep telling her to let it go," Bill continued. "You know Rachel; she's stubborn as a bull."

Frank nodded grimly.

Bill looked to the side, then lowered his voice as he leaned into the table toward Frank. "If you two spend some time together this week, maybe you could try and convince her?"

Frank scraped the bottom of his cup of soup with his spoon and let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, that'll go over well."

Bill shrugged. "Just plant some seeds. You don't have to work for her anymore. Who cares if she gets a little upset with you?"

Frank felt very called out in that moment. He discovered that he cared a lot about what Rachel thought of him, even if they weren't going to be in each other's lives. He didn't make eye contact with Bill, so he was surprised when Bill suddenly blurted, "She respects you a lot, Frank."

He finally met the older man's eyes. Bill continued, "You have no idea the scene she made when we were at the hospital after you got shot."

Frank felt his heartbeat quicken at this revelation. His right hand absently began to stroke the gunshot scar that was hidden just beneath his sleeve. "Really." He stated the word rather than asked it, too proud to show just how curious he was about this scene he'd never heard of before.

"I'd never seen her so riled up. She was yelling at the hospital staff, throwing stuff on the ground, cussin' at everyone. She went mad when they took you away." He sat back in his chair, his eyes distant, lost in the memory of that night. "And she fired Sy as soon as they told us you made it out of surgery."

Frank couldn't help the swell of pleasure he felt at knowing just how protective Rachel had been over him. He conveniently covered his jaw with his hand to hide his accidental smile.

"I think she just wanted to be with you," Bill sighed, not realizing the significance of his simple words.

Frank sniffed, rubbing the corner of the tabloid page between his forefingers, thinking. "Maybe I'll talk to her," he consented. "But I won't make any promises."

Bill put his hands together in a gesture of prayer. "Thank you. Lord knows I'm ready to retire, and we both know no one else can handle her."

Frank chuckled tightly. The waitress brought the check and laid it in the center of the table. Frank reached out and picked it up before Bill had the chance. "It's on me," he said.

Bill smiled as he stood up. "I'll see you around, then." He reached out to shake Frank's hand.

Frank stood up and returned the smile. "Yeah."

As soon as Bill was out of sight, Frank picked up the tabloid he'd left behind and ripped it in half.

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She had yelled at the paramedics when they tried to shoo her from the ambulance. If there was ever a time when it was actually appropriate to shout, "Do you people even know who I am?" it was then. As several men lifted Frank's body into the vehicle, Rachel became nauseated with anxiety. He already looked dead. But no, he couldn't be. They would save him. And she'd be damned if they wouldn't let her ride to the hospital with him.

While the paramedics were distracted with securing Frank's IV, Bill hoisted her into the back of the ambulance and shouted over the roaring crowd, "I'm going to ride with Tony, Rachel!"

The ambulance doors slammed shut, and the siren wailed above them as they began to drive.

They immediately asked her for Frank's ID, and she realized that she was still wearing his jacket. Her fingers were shaking so badly she could barely reach into the pocket. Somehow she'd managed to extricate his wallet, and just inside under the plastic laminate was his picture, staring back at her.

The paramedic took it from her, handed it to his colleague, and began to interrogate her. "Does he have any chronic medical conditions that you know of? Diabetes? Heart Disease? Epilepsy?"

Rachel shook her head. "No, no." She couldn't take her eyes off Frank as the other paramedic shoved what looked to be a large blue package of some sort under Frank's arm, elevating it further.

"Do you know of any medications he's on?"

Rachel swallowed hard. "No, I don't know." Frank's face was completely white, almost ghostly under the fluorescent lights. The other paramedics spoke urgently to one another, shuffling things around and untangling intimidating webs of tubes that were hanging from the roof of the vehicle.

The blinking lights, the sirens, the constant beeping and humming. It was too much for her. Rachel started to hyperventilate.

"Ma'am?" The paramedic seated closest to her addressed her. She tore her gaze away from Frank to look the paramedic in the eye. The man pointed at a device on his lap that looked like a small radio with a black screen. "See this monitor? This is his heart rate." She watched a thin green line work its peaks and valleys steadily across the screen. It brought her comfort for less than a second before she then started to question the meaning behind all the other changing numbers on the side panel. Were they good or bad? The tiny words printed on the metal gauge made her dizzy as she tried to decipher them. Pulse. Blood oxygen. What the hell was she even looking at?

Rachel knew why the man had shown it to her. He was trying to calm her down. Trying to show her that Frank was still alive. Was she being overdramatic? She had just been saved from a gunshot intended for her. But these men didn't know that. These men had no concept of just how traumatized she was, no idea of how traumatized she had a right to be.

The paramedic who held Frank's ID lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth and announced,

"I have a 36-year-old male, GSW to left arm, en route to Presby Good Samaritan."

A static-ridden female voice replied, "Condition?"

At the same time, the paramedic who was tending to Frank declared him unconscious.

The paramedic beside her muttered back, "Critical. Over."

Rachel felt the breath leave her lungs.

"Copy. Pull up at East emergency entry. Over."

"Copy. We're on Lucas."

It was then that Rachel folded her hands together, brought them to her mouth and broke down in desperate prayer. The strong copper odor of dried blood on her fingers made her feel sick to her stomach. The ambulance came to a halt at the hospital entrance, and a gust of cool night air blasted through the doors as they carried the stretcher into the building.

Rachel clamored out, still clutching Frank's jacket to her heart, tears streaming down her face. Just as she was about to follow them in, another ambulance pulled up behind her and out jumped Bill and the paramedics with Tony. Rachel started crying again as she heard Tony's wails of pain.

Bill spotted her and came running over. "Are you okay?" he asked her aggressively.

"I don't know!" she sobbed.

"Come on, let's get inside," Bill gathered her quaking body against his and practically carried her through the doors.

The harsh white lights made her squint in agony as they rushed through the emergency waiting room. Every chair was full, and every person in the room immediately looked over at them as they made their way to the desk. Rachel was quite aware that they were all pointing and gossiping. God forbid a celebrity should enter a city E.R. unannounced.

"Where is he?" Rachel demanded, slamming her hand down on the counter, causing the secretaries to jump. "Where did they take him?"

Bill tugged on her shoulders to get her away from the desk. "We're here with the gunshot wound," he explained urgently.

"I'm so sorry, sir, you'll have to wait for clearance."

"Clearance? Are they fucking serious?" In her anger, Rachel knocked over a cup full of pens at the check-in counter. The pens went scattering across the tile, causing more bystanders to gawk at the scene. Bill chastised her like an embarrassed father trying to manage his toddler. He began to speak apologetically with the second woman at the desk while Rachel let out a string of hostile curse words.

The older secretary who had greeted them raised her voice at Rachel, "Ma'am, can I ask you to please have a seat–"

"Do you know who I am?" Rachel asked for the second time that night, her voice quivering but deadly.

"Yes." The woman looked her square in the eyes and repeated, "Yes, I know who you are."

Rachel was barely aware of Bill's incessant tugging on her to follow him. She continued to stare down the woman at the desk as Bill pulled her backwards and into what looked to be a private office off to the side.

"They said we can wait in here so we don't have to be with the public."

"I'm not waiting!" Rachel shouted, her throat now hoarse from screaming.

"Rachel, please try to calm down!" Bill shook her by the arms. "This is a hospital for Christ's sake! We gotta let these folks do their jobs!"

"What if he died, Bill? What if he died because of me?" She collapsed on the floor, mascara streaming down her cheeks, her guttural cries unrecognizable even to her own ears. "I'd never forgive myself!"

She recalled her own words to Frank in the limo earlier that night, "When your time is up, it's up." It echoed like a sour ballad in her head. She could have not imagined a more cruel thing to say. If only . . . if only the shooter had hit her instead.

"Is everything alright in here?" an unfamiliar male voice came from the door. Rachel couldn't even focus because her eyes were blurred with tears.

She began to shout incoherently at the ceiling, "First He takes Nicki from me, now He's gonna take Frank!"

Even through her hysteria, Rachel could tell that Bill was now choking on tears. The sound made her cry even harder, and she lost herself for an unknown amount of time, curled up in the fetal position on the cold, rough carpet. Tiny golden beads from her gown had fallen off all around her as she moaned in anguish, nearly pulling her hair out in her distress.

"We have a grief counselor who can see you," a man stated calmly from the door. "Should I send her in?"

Rachel screamed in terror. "Oh God, he's dead! I knew it, he's dead. Oh, Bill! Why? Why!"

She was vaguely aware that people were surrounding her then. She didn't know any of them; it was all a blur of unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar voices - people trying to get her to drink water, strangers touching her, trying to comfort her. She couldn't even hear them; her blood was pounding in her ears. Didn't they realize it was useless? People kept moving in and out of the room, in and out, in and out. All the while Rachel stayed there, slumped on the floor, surrounded by a carousel of judgmental stares. She just wanted to disappear.

"Rachel!"

She heard her name.

And again. "Rachel!"

"...not dead… He's not dead…"

She slowly came back to consciousness as the words sank in. It was Bill's voice. Again, he shouted her name. "Rachel! Frank's alive."

"What?" she choked out between sobs.

Then Bill was kneeling on the floor in front of her, his face inches from hers. "Listen to me! Rachel?" He held her shoulders and shook her lightly. "Frank is not dead."

"He's not . . . ?"

"No," Bill said, his voice grim. "The doctor just sent a notice to the desk. He's in surgery."

Her heart sank a bit. They weren't out of the woods yet.

Bill glanced at their onlookers and nudged her in the ribs. "And Tony's up next for an MRI. He's stable."

"Oh," she murmured, suddenly ashamed of the scene she'd caused.

"Come on, now, get up off that floor." Bill held out his hands for her and helped her up to her feet. He guided her to sit on the sofa, and forced a Styrofoam cup filled with water into her right hand.

Just then the door to the room blasted open and Sy was there, a look of relief on his face. "You're here. Oh, Rachel." He moved to Rachel's side and clasped his hands around hers. "Honey, what can I do for you?"

"I could use a sedative right now," she groaned, sinking into the couch with her hand on her forehead.

"Well, we are in a hospital, right?" he chuckled, patting her knee.

Bill looked at him in disgust. "I don't know how you can laugh at a time like this."

"What? If you don't laugh, you'll cry," Sy stated matter-of-factly, helping himself to the bowl of butterscotch candies on the coffee table. "Right, Rach?"

Rachel's temper flared again in a matter of seconds, and she wordlessly flipped over the bowl of candies with her foot so that they scattered all over the surface of the coffee table and floor. Sy stood back, his eye twitching.

"I'll tell you what you can do, Sy. Find a way to get me upstairs as soon as they let Frank out of surgery."

"Right," he gulped. "Right, I'll talk to the desk." He scrambled out of the room as quickly as he'd arrived.

She turned to Bill. "He's fired the second we get out of here."

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Rachel was bored out of her mind in this place. She had done her duty of waking up at some ungodly hour, showing up at the Benedum Center for a dress rehearsal, and belting out her version of "Santa Baby" on stage all before 9:30 A.M. She would have much rather been featured in the show for her signature Christmas song, "Gloria in excelsis Deo,"but these shows had become too secular for those kinds of songs in recent days.

Pittsburgh was her old hometown, everyone kept reminding her. "Go out and visit some old stomping grounds!" they kept telling her. Finally, that afternoon she caved. Tina was going to dinner with her fiancé later that night, but she told Rachel she would be available to head out for lunch. They ate at a new restaurant in Market Square, enjoying the tapas and hip atmosphere. Pettigrew left them alone, mostly watching from outside the restaurant.

"I've decided we're going to try for a baby!" Tina blurted around a mouthful of truffle fries.

Rachel nearly choked on her water. "Well, that's… exciting." After thinking more about it, Rachel asked, "You mean after the wedding?"

"No," Tina said cheerfully, "I skipped my pill last night." She covered her mouth after spilling the naughty secret, giggling like a teenager.

Rachel pointedly set her silverware down on the table and glared at her friend. "As someone who has never skipped a pill a day in her life, can I offer you some advice?"

Tina didn't reply. Rachel offered anyway. "Now, you know Fletcher is the best thing that's happened to me, but . . . it wasn't the best case scenario. Look where his daddy ended up."

"Rach, no offense, but Devon's not a convict."

Rachel shook her head sympathetically. "Honey, you never know. Okay? You just never know about men."

Tina looked nervous. "I guess."

"Besides, you're gonna start off your marriage with a dishonest move? How do you think he'd feel about that?"

Tina's face fell. "Probably pretty crappy."

"Mm hm."

"Dammit, Rachel. You really are grown."

"I told you I was working on it," Rachel said proudly, sitting back as her salad was placed in front of her.

Before she could take a bite, Tina leaned across the table. "So, did you talk to your old flame yet?"

Rachel looked taken aback. "Did you just call him a flame?"

Tina smiled innocently.

Rachel cackled. "Frank Farmer, a flame? Ha! If hell is fifty degrees Fahrenheit."

Tina just stared at her with a huge grin on her face. "Oh, Rach, you're so in love."

"Wha–? I just spoke to him for the first time in a decade this morning!"

Tina continued, unaffected by Rachel's outburst. "He's hot. You should marry him. You'd have such cute babies."

Rachel finished the rest of her water in one gulp. She was suddenly sweating profusely under her jacket. "I'm 'bout to send you to the E.R. for that baby fever you got," she muttered at Tina before digging into her salad.

They continued lunch with more gossip and girl talk. During the hour and a half they'd spent there, the server had asked Rachel for an autograph, and so had a couple of the bartenders who made a special trip to her table to tell her how much they admired her. Tina seemed thrilled to be sharing a table with such a celebrity. Rachel was cool about it, but it had started to get annoying after the fifth person came up to her. She texted Pettigrew that she wanted him to push the rest away while they were leaving the restaurant.

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As the day neared five o'clock in the evening, Rachel lingered causally in the lobby, waiting for the convention to let out. She hated to admit it to herself, but she was eager to see if Farmer had any plans that night. Bill had gone to meet an old friend for dinner down at Cruiser's, and she would rather starve to death in her hotel room than have dinner alone.

At precisely five minutes after, the doors to the convention hall opened and the clones all filed out. Rachel waited until the hall had cleared a bit, then she peeked her head into the nearly empty ballroom to find him standing by a long white banquet table at the back of the room. He seemed to be clearing it off of its contents and placing them into a suitcase.

"You want to take the stage?" he asked her coolly, without even turning around. "I'll call them back in here, but I think the only song they know is the National Anthem."

"Eyes in the back of your head," she mumbled disapprovingly.

He turned around with a cheeky smile, jerking his head in the direction of the solitary mirror on the side of the ballroom. "Reflection."

She pursed her lips to keep from smiling back.

"You look nice," he noticed. Rachel wondered how he could tell without looking her up and down like other men did. "Where are you going?"

"I'm taking you to dinner, Farmer," she said forwardly. His eyebrows raised infinitesimally.

"How do you know I don't already have plans?" he challenged.

Her heart skipped a beat for a second before she replied confidently, "Because this morning you probably stuffed one of those cold premade sandwiches from the hotel services lounge into your mini fridge, and that'll be your dinner before you turn in at nine o'clock."

"I feel personally attacked right now," he said with a grin.

"So, what do you say?" she asked him, unintentionally flirtatious.

Now that she stood so close to him, she was arrested by that familiar scent on his person. She didn't know exactly what it was - an aftershave, a cologne, a soap he may have used. It was a scent that had no other association except for him; it fully transported her back to when he used to be near her. The kisses they had shared. The way he held her.

"I'll think about it," he teased, turning away to continue clearing off the table.

She furrowed her brow in frustration when he looked the other way. He caught her off guard by turning to face her again suddenly, with what looked like a small black sunglasses case in his hands. "Can you hold this for a second?" he asked her. She took the case from him and peeked over his shoulder to watch what he was doing.

Rachel pointed out the red inhaler at the corner of the table with sympathy in her voice. "I didn't know you had asthma, Frank."

He didn't look at her, but sounded confused when he answered, "I don't."

She picked up the small object and nudged his elbow. "This is your inhaler, isn't it?"

He looked slightly amused as his head bent closer to hers and he whispered, "It's a decoy. It's pepper spray."

Rachel mouthed 'oh' and held it out for him to collect. He instead gently closed her fingers around it and told her to keep it.

She smiled to herself. "You're not my bodyguard anymore, Frank," she said sweetly.

He straightened up and looked her deeply in the eyes. "I know that." He closed the suitcase, locked the combination, and began to walk out of the room. She followed him a few steps behind, heart thumping uncontrollably.

Before he got into the elevator, he turned around and smiled at her. "I'll be back down in five."

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Author's note: Thank you again to those who have reviewed and sent me messages! I'm so glad you're enjoying reading as much as I am enjoying writing. More chapters are on the way. As a reminder, the rating will be changing to M in future chapters as things get more heated.

xox, Mack