Going Deep

by Anne Calhoun

  “Excuse me, Ms. Ward. Could I get your autograph? It’s for my daughter.”

  The middle-aged officer’s request for her autograph turned into posing for a picture. Once someone broke the ice, other, less adventurous folks always followed, and it was a good ten minutes before they were able to leave the precinct. She was aware of Chris waiting somewhat patiently behind her, and hyperaware of Conn looming just to her left in jeans, a hoodie, a sheepskin-lined denim jacket, and running shoes. She’d never seen him in uniform. Now surrounded by them, she found herself wondering how he’d look in dark blue. Did the uniform transform his face from pugilistic to authoritative the way her stage makeup and costumes transformed her from plain Cady Ward of Lancaster to the Queen of the Maud Squad?

  Maybe. Out of uniform he looked like a boxer, maybe an MMA fighter. Okay, realistically he looked like a thug. The muscles in his shoulders pulled taut the fabric of his jacket, and his thighs bulged in the soft material of his jeans. His hands were balled into fists and straining at the pockets of his denim jacket. His dark brown hair fell forward over his forehead, but whereas that softened some men’s faces, all it did to Conn was draw attention to his blue-gray eyes, the fistlike jut of his cheekbones, the full contours of his mouth.

  She handed back the paper, gave the Sharpie to Chris, who held out a hand without even looking up from his phone, then reached for the door.

  “I’ve got that,” Conn said, and reached past her to push it open, his chest and arm pushing heat and strength at her like a punch. Her body responded, sending a sharp zing along her nerves. Her nipples peaked in the warmth of her down coat. No way could she blame that on the cold November wind. That was pure physical response to Conn.

  “Go ahead,” he said, his gaze searching hers, then the parking lot. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. Did he have any idea at all how he looked at people? He threw looks like most people threw punches—hard, fast, aiming for a TKO with every look—but all she could see was the vulnerability, the need, the plea underneath the look, the gray in his eyes.

  Then he blinked. When his eyes opened again, the vulnerability was gone.

  “Can we please walk through this door?” Chris said from behind Cady. “At the risk of sounding like a cliché, I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  “Over here,” she said to Conn, leading the way to her car. He looked it over appreciatively. She’d bought an Audi RS5 just before returning home, splurging on a car that hit sixty faster than a Porsche 911 but with all-wheel drive to get her around in Lancaster’s winters. Conn held out his hand for the keys.

  “I drive myself,” she said.

  “That’s going to be a problem,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a control thing.”

  “It’s my car.”

  “I can’t protect you if I’m not in the driver’s seat,” Conn-the-thug said, causing serious cognitive dissonance in Cady’s brain. He looked like he was two seconds away from starting a bar fight, but he sounded like a highly trained professional. Up close his voice was like a low curl of sand, not a bass or a baritone but a dry, husky tenor rasp. She found herself wondering how it would sound murmuring in her ear as he took off her clothes.

  “Cady, at least unlock the car so I can get inside before I freeze to death,” Chris said. “You two have ninety seconds to hash this out.”

  Cady clicked open the doors. Chris, thank God, jammed his lanky limbs into the backseat and slammed the door. Conn unzipped his jacket and reached into the inner pocket.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Do you smoke?”

  Her appalled tone got through the glass to Chris, because the door swung open and he clambered out, glaring at Conn as he straightened his jacket. He pointed at Conn with one finger, the remaining digits wrapped around his phone. “Smoking around Cady is expressly forbidden.”

  “It’s a deal-breaker,” Cady added. “You can’t be jonesing for a ciggy every twenty minutes. It makes you anxious, which makes me anxious.”

  Conn flicked her a glance, then pulled a black watch cap from his jacket and yanked it over his head to cover his ears. “I don’t smoke,” he said, reaching back into the pocket for a pair of fingerless gloves. “Now give me the keys and we’ll be on our way.”

  Chris got back in the car and slammed the door again. Cady took a couple of steps closer to Conn and found herself looking way, way up into his face. Good thing she knew how to project.

  “I drive around this city all the time when I’m on a break. It’s one of the things I look forward to when I’m not on tour. I drive myself places, I buy my own groceries, I shop without an entourage. I understand we’ve hired you to do a job. But the thing is, no one is going to try and run me off the road in Lancaster. They’re not going to tail me or whatever.”

  He stared down at her, but this time the mask was firmly in place. She refused to budge, looking right back at him despite knowing she was losing this battle without him saying a word. “This matters to me. Please.”

  The car door opened behind her. “Cady, you can’t stand around in this dry air, and if I miss this flight I swear to God I’ll spend the night at your house. Give him the goddamn keys and get in the goddamn car.”

  Ignoring Chris, she said, “It’s a stick. Can you drive a stick?”

  Conn’s brows lowered, the portrait of a Neanderthal thug’s amused disbelief. He held out his hand.

  “Fine,” she said ungraciously, and slapped the keys into Conn’s palm. She walked around the trunk trying to ignore the heated surge inside her when her fingertips brushed his. They were warm, his body like a big, hardworking engine, pumping out heat.

  “Which airline?” Conn said when he strapped himself in and adjusted the mirrors.

  “United,” Chris said from the backseat. He fastened his seat belt, then reached into his carry-on bag on the seat beside him. “Hold on a second, Officer McCormick.”

  “Conn,” Conn said, the car already in reverse, his foot on the brake. “Call me Conn. Officer McCormick is about five syllables too long for regular conversation.”

  “Fine. Conn. Two things. First, as Cady’s body man, you do whatever she needs. Driving, protection, errands, whatever.”

  Cady saw a muscle pop in Conn’s jaw and resolved to deal with that the moment Chris was in the terminal. “Yes, sir,” Conn said tightly.

  “Second, sign this,” Chris said.

  He extended a sheaf of papers between the seats. Conn shifted back into PARK and slung around to look at the stapled papers, taking up even more of the room on Cady’s side of the car. She could smell him, his skin, a faint overlay of grease and oil, industrial soap, and a gravy she’d bet her gold album came from The Coop, a dive diner on the East Side. Her mouth watered. “What is it?” Conn asked, not taking it.

  “It’s a confidentiality agreement. The short version is that you agree to never speak to anyone from now until the end of recorded time about anything you see, hear, or do while in our employment or we will sue you and your entire family for every collective last penny you’ve all made or ever will make.”

  “Chris, for the love of God,” Cady said.

  Conn seemed almost amused by this. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then you can go back into the police station and explain to your lieutenant why you’re here and not on the road to the airport. We’ll come with you and start this whole process again with a different cop, which will mean I’ll miss my flight and spend the night at your house.”

  Conn took the paperwork. “Pen?”

  Chris handed one through the gap. Conn flattened the pages against the Audi’s steering wheel and scrawled his signature on the last page, then handed it and the pen back to Chris.

  “Thank you,” Chris said, satisfied. “Now that you’ve given in to my entirely unreasonable demands to ensure your safety … I’ve set up a meeting with Eric next week. Right now he’s dead set on dropping the new album right before Valentine’s Day, like we
’ve planned.”

  Cady took a sip of her honey water, marveling at the insulated cup. The water was still hot enough to send steam drifting into the air. Everything was perfect. She had a couple of months to rest her voice after months of touring, and a big uptick in hype and brand awareness from the tour. The calendar of new releases was light early in the year, so she’d have less competition from other artists’ new albums. She had a solid album ready to go.

  The only problem was that it was an entire album of love songs, relationship songs, sexy hookup songs, all written by a team of songwriters. Not her. The longer she’d been on tour the more convinced she’d become that this wasn’t the album she wanted to release.

  “It’s a good time,” Chris said, cajoling. “All the stars are in alignment. You can work on different material for the next album while you’re touring. You’ll be at a different stage in your life, and so will your fans. Right now they want to hear you sing about heartbreak and romance and making up and hooking up.”

  Cady huffed. As if she’d have time to write after the promo appearances, the North American tour with more appearances, the awards shows and social appearances, all carefully managed to keep her in the public eye. She could do some work on material for a new album on the road, but not the deep work needed to write, sing, and produce the kind of album she wanted.

  “That’s at least eighteen months away, Chris,” she said firmly.

  “And here you are, with weeks and weeks of time off,” Chris said. “How fortuitous!”

  Eight weeks, half of which would be taken up with the holidays and family time, wasn’t enough to write an album that would convince a major record label to take her career in a new direction. She looked at Conn, trying to gauge his interest in what could be considered fairly important music industry gossip. But Conn’s gaze was entirely focused on the road, taking the side streets to Thirteenth Street, the quickest route to the airport. He knew all the shortcuts, drove the car like he knew his way around a gearshift and a performance engine.

  “Cady? It’s not like you to give up on an argument with me.”

  She wasn’t giving up on the argument. She was just paying attention to her body, which was reminding her that eight months of touring and no sex made Cady a dull, dull girl.

  “This album is the safe choice,” she started.

  “Safe sells records. Ask Justin Bieber.”

  Which was the heart of the problem. Industry execs didn’t care if the critics blasted the album if fans bought it in droves. Only Cady cared. It was a huge risk for her; if the label dropped the wrong album, they’d just find another Cady with an active following on YouTube or wherever, and sign her. Throw more spaghetti at the wall, relegating Cady to third-rate venues suitable for one-hit wonders. She needed to make them wait, and to do that, she needed good material. Really good material.

  “Yes, but creative and adventurous sells even more records. Just ask Beyoncé.”

  “We’re ready to go with this one, Cady. We’ve got bookings on all the major talk shows. Jimmy Fallon wants to do the classroom instruments thing with you. The tour schedule will capitalize on the summer concert season. After this album’s a hit and the public knows exactly who you are, you can branch out.”

  After I’ve sold out, I can buy my soul back?

  “I’m tired of being safe,” Cady said, then stopped. Chris was playing the devil’s advocate, part of his job as her manager. She trusted him to guide her career, and in just over two years he’d gotten her from busking on street corners for pocket change to her own tour. “It’s my vacation, Chris. If I want to spend it writing songs, I will.”

  “I’d be delighted to take something groundbreaking into Eric’s office,” Chris said.

  Conn turned onto the drive leading to Lancaster’s small but busy airport. When he braked in front of the United sign, Chris flung open the passenger rear door, shoved his suitcase onto the sidewalk, and followed it.

  Cady got out herself. “Thanks for everything,” she said. “Have a good trip.”

  “I really do have your best interests at heart,” he said, all the brash confrontation gone from his voice. “Both for your safety and for your career. Trust me.”

  Cady looked over her shoulder at Conn’s big, bulky body hulking in the driver’s seat. “You owe me,” she said, resigned. “This is totally unnecessary.”

  “He looks like the strong, silent type,” Chris said. “Probably you won’t even notice he’s there.”

  Their running joke. Chris always promised the bodyguards were the strong, silent type, and he was always wrong. But Conn fit the bill, with his big, pushy muscled arms and his Neanderthal forehead and his thousand-yard stare. So far he had the silent part down pat. She pressed her lips together and nodded. Chris hoisted his bag and strode through the big revolving doors, into the terminal, leaving Cady with no other option but to get back in the car with Conn.

  Strong, yes. Silent, yes. She’d met people who talked all the time about nothing, people she could easily tune out. Conn fell into the other camp, barely saying a word but his body talking all the time. Right now, his gaze alternating between the mirrors and the traffic, both car and pedestrian, he smoldered with a banked fury.

  “Where am I going?”

  “Forty-third and Hanscomb,” she said. “My mom’s house.”

  Without a word, he signaled, then merged into the slow-moving traffic along the airport’s main drive. Cady wrapped her hands around the insulated mug, held it up to her nose, and inhaled the sweet scent of hot honey water. “Ignore everything he said, by the way. Except the confidentiality agreement stuff. He loves litigation. He’ll happily sue you for the rest of your life, just for the fun of it.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Conn said. “What can I forget? The bodyguard part is non-negotiable, and if you go out, I’m driving.”

  “Yes to all of that,” Cady said. She waved her hand, dismissing it. “The rest of it, the anything-else-she-needs part. That mostly applied to tours, getting meals and running errands. There won’t be any of that. Because I’m going to cook my own food and run my own errands.”

  “Which I’ll drive you to,” he said.

  “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

  “I get why,” he said. “This is a sweet, sweet car.”

  Pleased, she let her shoulders relax. “I love driving. I love speed and power and handling.”

  “So letting me drive is a big concession,” he said.

  “Huge. The hugest. What do you drive?”

  “A squad car, most of the time.”

  “What do you drive that you own?”

  “I’ve got a pickup,” he said. “Getting to work isn’t optional for me, and in these winters you need four-wheel drive.”

  “Well. Feel free to let her run.”

  “There’s at least fifteen stop lights between here and your mother’s house.”

  He was driving faster and more assuredly than she would, his big hands with the oil in the creases handling the manual transmission, feeling out the best places to shift, listening to the engine. “Where were you today?” she asked. Without thinking, she reached out to touch the grease in his pinky’s nail bed.

  An electric shock coursed through the pad of her finger, straight to her throat and chest. He looked at her, but behind the blade shades his face was inscrutable. She jerked her hand back. “Sorry.”

  She felt like an idiot. Ever since “Love-Crossed Stars” went big, she’d moved in circles where bodyguards were common occurrences. They all had the same hands-off vibe Conn did. She’d never cared. Life on tour was already busy and full of drama; adding an illicit affair with a bodyguard might tip the controlled chaos into disaster.

  But this wasn’t tour. It was home. And Conn was … making her skin ache for his touch.

  “I was at U-Pull-It taking an alternator off a ’71 Camaro,” he said.

  “Oh. You said you drove a truck.”

  “I do. I race the Camaro.”


  She thought about it for a second. “They still run drag races at the old airfield?”

  “Every weekend it’s dry,” he confirmed. He downshifted and took the left onto Hanscomb Street just a little faster than legal. The car held tight and growled as the RPMs wound down. “You know about those?”

  “I grew up here,” she reminded him. “I spent my share of Saturday nights watching guys race souped-up junkers.”

  “But never wanted to race yourself?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve got some kind of clause in my contract that forbids any dangerous activities. Drag racing. Sky diving. Swimming with sharks. That kind of thing.”

  Thinking of the forbidden wasn’t helping. She could feel the post-tour crash welling up from deep inside her, longing for the two things she never got enough of on tour: sleep and sex. He parked the car and switched the shades from the bridge of his nose to the back of his neck. His eyes reminded her of the blue-gray hue of the winter sky.

  “Guess it’s a good thing I’m driving.”

  He wasn’t conventionally handsome, like a pretty boy movie star or singer, although she’d been around long enough to know that acne scars were airbrushed away, hair thickened and extended, personal trainers and chefs hired to get those rock-hard abs. But there was something about Conn. Women would look twice. “Speaking of contracts, thanks for not giving Chris a hard time about the confidentiality agreement.”

  He shrugged as he shut off the engine. “I’m not worried about it. The police union’s lawyers can handle him, and I’ve got no family to sue.”

  They got out of the car and headed up the walk. On the surface, the words came out in the same light-hearted tone he’d used with the drunk guy, but still, she paused while climbing up the front steps. “Oh.”

  He held the screen door for her while she unlocked the front door, her mother’s Thanksgiving wreath scratching against the wood when the door swung open. The house was quiet, dark, the curtains drawn.