aFireFist
A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 19 - Taylor Swift - Part 1
Osiah packed light the night before. He stood in his LA apartment bedroom, a small carry-on open on the bed, laying out the essentials: a couple of black t-shirts, dark jeans, a light jacket for the New York nights, his worn canvas bag with the massage oil and towels just in case, and a pair of comfortable boots. The tour bag stayed small on purpose. He didn't need much. Taylor had texted him the night before with the hotel confirmation and the MSG call time, her message short and excited: Can't wait to see you. Flight details in the email. Don't be late, Morse.
He checked the email again while folding a pair of pants. Early morning flight out of LAX, direct into JFK. He'd catch a few hours of sleep, then head to the airport. No drama. Just get there, get settled, then get to the Garden.
Morning came early. Osiah locked up the apartment, tossed the bag into the back of the rideshare, and rode through the quiet pre-dawn streets toward LAX. The city was still half-asleep. He checked in without issue, cleared security, and found his gate with time to spare. Coffee in hand, he scrolled through a couple of production notes Taylor's team had sent—lighting plots, quick-change windows, dancer call times—while the boarding announcement crackled overhead.
Business class was quiet when he boarded. He settled into the aisle seat, stowed his bag, and buckled in. The cabin filled slowly. A few suits, a couple of couples, and then a teenager—maybe seventeen, eighteen—slid into the seat two rows ahead. The kid was already loud, talking into his phone, voice carrying.
"Yeah, bro, some guy in economy switched with me last minute. Said he needed the room or something. Dude was funny as hell, kept cracking jokes the whole time we were talking. I got business for free, basically. This is dope."
Osiah glanced up. The kid had a baseball cap on backward, sneakers, and already a mini-bottle of vodka cracked open from the free drink service that hadn't even started yet. The flight attendant tried to gently remind him about the rules, but the teenager just laughed it off and ordered another.
Takeoff was smooth. Once they were at cruising altitude the kid got louder. Two more mini-bottles down and he was talking to anyone who would listen, waving his arms.
"I'm telling you, that comedian guy switched seats with me. Straight up. I was stuck in the back with no legroom, and he just walked up and said, 'Kid, do you want to switch seats?'
Free business class. Absolute legend. I'm hammered already and we haven't even hit the Midwest."
Osiah kept his headphones on most of the flight, but the kid's voice cut through. By the time they started the descent into JFK the teenager was fully gone—slurring, laughing too hard, talking about how his mom was going to flip when she found out he'd been drinking the whole way. A couple of passengers shot him looks. The flight attendant finally cut him off from any more alcohol, but the kid was already drunk.
They landed. Osiah deplaned quickly, bag over his shoulder, weaving through the jet bridge and into the terminal. He was almost at the exit when the noise started again—this time from behind him near the baggage claim area.
A woman's voice, sharp and furious: "I cannot believe you! Drinking? You're seventeen! And you switched seats with some stranger? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"
Osiah glanced over. The teenager from the plane was standing there looking sheepish, still a little unsteady. Next to him was a woman who was clearly his mother, arms crossed, face red. And standing a few feet away, watching the whole thing with a half-smile and his own bag in hand, was Gary Owen. The comedian. Osiah recognized him immediately—same face from the specials.
Gary raised his hands like he was trying to calm the situation. "Hey, ma'am, I just swapped seats. Kid looked uncomfortable back there. I didn't know he was going to hit the mini-bar like that. My bad if I caused any trouble."
The mother spun on him. "You think this is funny? He's a minor! And now he's drunk in an airport in New York!"
Osiah kept walking. Not his business. He stepped out into the New York afternoon air, flagged a car, and gave the driver the hotel address. The ride into Manhattan was smooth enough—traffic thick but moving. He checked into the hotel, a nice place a few blocks from the Garden, and took the elevator up to a quiet floor. The room was clean, modern, big windows looking out over the city. He dropped his bag, washed his face, and pulled out his phone.
Taylor answered on the second ring.
"Hey," she said, voice warm and a little out of breath. "You land okay?"
"Just got to the hotel. I'm in New York. Flight was… interesting."
She laughed. "Interesting how?"
"Some teenager in business class got absolutely hammered talking about how he switched seats with a comedian. Turns out it was Gary Owen. Kid's mom was waiting at the gate and she was not happy. Whole scene."
Taylor's laugh got louder. "Gary Owen? That's random. Poor kid. And poor Gary. Anyway—I'm glad you're here. Call time's soon. You heading to the Garden?"
"Yeah. Going to grab a quick shower, then head over. See you soon."
"Good. I need you. The energy's already crazy over here. Don't take too long."
They hung up. Osiah showered, changed into a black t-shirt and jeans, and headed downstairs. The black SUV was already waiting. The driver nodded, and they pulled into the midday traffic.
Just after noon, Osiah stepped out of the black SUV in front of Madison Square Garden. The afternoon sun hit the old arena hard, bouncing off the glass and concrete, turning the massive structure into a bright beacon in the middle of Manhattan. The air was thick with the kind of pre-show energy that only came when a big tour was locking in — a mix of excitement, pressure, and the low hum of hundreds of people working to make one night feel perfect. Trucks were still lined up at the loading docks, ramps down, crew members in black shirts and gloves hauling cases and lighting trusses with practiced efficiency. Someone shouted for a forklift. Someone else yelled back that the second truck was still five minutes out. It was controlled chaos, the kind that looked like it could tip over any second but never did when the right people were running things.
Osiah adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and took a moment to breathe it in. The city noise surrounded him — horns blaring on Eighth Avenue, tourists snapping pictures, the distant rumble of the subway under the street. He'd flown in from LA earlier that morning, the flight smooth but long enough that he'd had time to review the production notes Taylor's team had sent. He knew the layout of the Garden from past visits, but every arena felt different when the tour machine was in full swing. He headed for the artist entrance, badge ready.
Security was thick — two guys with earpieces checking credentials, another scanning bags with a practiced eye. Osiah showed his pass. The guy with the clipboard looked him over once, nodded, and waved him through without a word. The door opened into the cool, echoing hallways of the back of house. The air changed immediately. It smelled like metal from the rigging being assembled, sweat from the dancers already working hard, and the faint chemical tang of fog machines being tested in the hallways. The low thump of sound check bled out from the main stage — drums hitting hard, guitars cutting through, and over it all Taylor's voice testing levels, clear and strong even through the monitors. A stage manager walked past with a headset, talking fast into the mic: "Lighting cue five needs to be tighter. We're losing the transition on the bridge. Fix it before we run the full set again."
Osiah kept moving deeper into the building. Down one hallway the band was running through a section of the set — full volume now, the bass vibrating in the walls. Taylor's voice cut clean over the top as she worked through a high note, then laughed and asked the sound guy to pull the reverb back a little. Another hallway opened into a side rehearsal space where the dancers were warming up. Bodies moved in formation under the work lights. Long legs extended in high kicks that looked effortless, asses flexing in tight black leggings as they hit the choreography sharp and clean. Some were doing splits against the wall, backs straight, arms stretched overhead. Others ran through formation changes, sweat already darkening the fabric across their chests and lower backs, the air thick with the smell of effort and focus.
Osiah stood for a moment just inside the doorway, taking it all in — the chaos, the noise, the bodies moving, the energy that said the show was already alive even though the doors wouldn't open for hours. He adjusted his bag again and headed toward the main stage area.
The main stage area was where the real focus was. Taylor was in full rehearsal mode. She wore a black sports bra that hugged her perky tits and a pair of tight black leggings that showed off every line of her long, toned legs and the firm, round curve of her ass. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands stuck to her forehead and neck from the sweat. She moved with that powerful, athletic grace she always had on stage — hitting notes while executing the dance breaks, her body sharp and fluid at the same time. Her ass shifted and popped with the beats, tits bouncing lightly inside the sports bra with every turn and drop. Sweat glistened on her flat stomach and ran down the line of her spine. She looked focused, almost fierce, completely in her element even in rehearsal clothes.
Osiah stayed back at first, watching from the side as she finished a big number. The band cut out and she called for a quick break, grabbing a water bottle. Then she turned, scanning the side of the stage like she'd been waiting for something. Her eyes landed on him and her whole face changed — a bright, genuine smile breaking through the focused expression. She jogged over, body moving with that easy athleticism, long legs striding, ass shifting in the leggings.
"Osiah," she said, pulling him straight into a hug. It started quick, friendly, but lingered a second too long. Her body pressed against his — perky tits soft against his chest, the heat and light dampness of her skin from rehearsal coming through the sports bra, her toned stomach and hips aligning with his. Her firm ass was right there under his hands if he let them rest low. The scent of her hit him immediately: sweet perfume mixed with the salty, clean smell of her sweat. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, still close, one hand on his arm.
"I heard you got up close and personal with the queen on that Gaga run," she said, teasing but warm. "How was that? She keep you busy?"
Osiah smiled, calm and easy the way he always was with her. "It was good. Solid shows. She runs a tight ship but knows how to have fun with it. Kept things interesting. How's the tour prep been treating you? You look like you've been grinding."
Taylor laughed, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. Her body was still flushed from the run-through, skin glowing under the lights. "Grinding is the right word. Rehearsals every day, tweaking lights, running the dancers until the choreography locks in. My thighs are on fire and my ass is sore in the best way, but it's paying off. The stage is massive. The production is next level. I think this one's going to feel different — bigger, but still mine. The pressure's real though. All the build-up, all the eyes on it. Having you here… it helps. You keep the little things from turning into big ones."
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