By Kiernan Kelly

Cameras clicked and whirred, lights rapidly flashing his shadow against the brick wall of the restaurant as he was hustled out of the building and into the waiting limo by thick-necked bodyguards. Fans and camera crews had shown up outside the restaurant while Travis had been ecstatically shoving a cannoli into his mouth, powdered sugar dusting the front of his black tee shirt.

Travis! Travis! Travis!

His name had echoed all around him, screamed by the crowd of people who swarmed on the sidewalks. No doubt word had leaked out that he'd be having dinner at Mamma Giovanni's tonight, and a throng of fans and curious rubber-neckers had gathered outside the tiny restaurant.

Travis supposed that he should be used to it by now. That's how it always happened in Tinseltown--somebody would post a word or two on their blog and the next thing you knew, you were clutching a garlic-scented doggy bag to your chest like a football, flanked by men big enough to have actually played for the NFL as they rushed your ass into the limo while fans screamed and the paparazzi clicked away.

If Travis ever found out who leaked the news that he'd had a sudden hankering for spaghetti and meatballs, he'd beat the guy to a pulp, fire and then rehire the guy just so that he could have the pleasure of beating and firing him all over again.

All Travis had wanted was a plate of Mamma Giovanni's homemade spaghetti and meatballs smothered with Romano cheese, and to eat it in relative peace and quiet. What he'd gotten was a media feeding frenzy and his face--mouth smeared with marina sauce, cheeks puffed out like a goddamn chipmunk--plastered on the front page of the tabloids in the morning.

And Bernie, Travis' manager, on the telephone, screaming his head off about it.

"Travis! What the hell were you thinking? Are you trying to kill me? Is that it? Oy! It would be kinder to just mix arsenic with my ulcer medication. Did you see the papers this morning? Did you?"

Bernie's voice wasn't easy on the ears on his best day; when he was angry, as he was now, it was positively shrill. Travis closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and let Bernie rant. Eventually, he'd run out of steam--he always did.

"Haven't I told you--begged you--to give me the heads up before you make a personal appearance? Did you see the photo on the front page of Entertainment Now?"

Of course Travis had seen it, although he wouldn't add fuel to Bernie's fire by telling him that he had. Country Music's Most Eligible Bachelor Binges at Restaurant--Alone! Does America's Favorite Boy-Next-Door Suffer From Eating Disorder?

"Do you have any idea of what could happen to you if people spotted you on the street without a bodyguard? They'd rip you to pieces, Travis. Is that what you want? To be sent back to Hog Holler in a box? Hell, make that a baggie, because there wouldn't be enough left of you to fill a box."

Travis sighed. "I'm from Shelby, Tennessee, Bernie, not--"

"Wherever--you're missing the point, Travis! Wasn't it bad enough when they started that rumor about you being you-know-what when you were spotted near the Tiger's Club? I still have a headache from trying to deal with that video of you dancing with that underwear model, whatever his name was, that popped up on YouTube."

"I've already apologized for that, Bernie, and his name was Joshua. What do you expect me to do, anyway? I am gay, you know."

"Not to the millions of hormone factories who buy your music and posters, you're not! And what have I told you about using the "G" word? Do you want the Moral Majority to boycott your albums?"

"Bernie--"