When Art thought about Michaela going on the road, he came over all ajitter. It was a weird feeling, not exactly excitement, not exactly alarm, but also both of those things at once, maybe? He wasn’t about to tell her not to go. 'Course she had to go, she was gonna be brilliant; she’d be having folks collecting their jaws off the floor all up and down the coast. And she was gonna be among friends the whole way – backup if she needed it – to say nothing of her being a grown woman who didn’t need no bodyguard.
But like, what if she did, though? A whole lot could happen on the road. Sheriff could happen on the road, or Guy or Prince John or cops or Greeks— whole lotta men who might wanna do her harm cos she was one of them. Or just cos they was evil hateful fucks like the boy what'd hurt Addy. Or like the men Michaela had told him about from the past.
Look, he didn't want to be that guy, yeah? He just wanted her to be doing all the slaying, not, like, copping any herself.
Since he couldn't run off bodyguarding, and since Rob had swiftly talked him out of taking his own road trip to scope out the security at each of her venues and hotels and maybe add a few security measures of his own, Art had channelled all of that anxious energy into the gift basket he'd brought over. It was an actual basket, too, a pretty wicker one left behind at the Fox by Johnny's fairy lady. The packaging was a bit haphazard, but he’d done his best to zhush it up with bright purple tissue paper and a big crooked bow. He was clutching it to his chest with both hands when Michaela poked her face around the closet door and greeted him with a smile so golden-sunny it cut clear through the jitters.
"I can give eyes!" he offered at once, eager to help. "What we lookin' for?"