by Tara Wyatt
“You look like shit.” His cultured British accent softened the blow of his words, but only slightly. “Did you just do a walk of shame or something?”
She slid into her chair and leveled a look at him, not in the mood for Jeremy’s usual dry teasing. He took his own seat and smiled at her, unaware that his words had dug in a little deeper than he’d intended.
“Three things,” she said, holding up three fingers. “First, thanks a lot. You really know how to sweet-talk a girl. Second, none of your damn business. And third, why is it called the ‘walk of shame’?” She made air quotes around the words. “I mean, really. It should be called the ‘walk of victory’.” She sat back in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. She rubbed her thighs together under the table, remembering just how victorious she’d been with Colt last night.
“Well. All right then.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him, his long fingers interlocking as his left eyebrow crept up in an unspoken question.
She pressed a hand to her temple and closed her eyes, exhaling slowly through her nose as guilt ate at her. “Sorry. I’m just…” She shook her head and cleared her throat, knowing she needed to get it together. She’d tried to use sex to forget about everything last night, and it had failed. Spectacularly. Because now, she somehow felt worse. “What did you want to see me about?”
“Ah.” He took a sip of his water and refolded his hands in front of him. “I’ve recently had a meeting with Ernie Glick.”
“Ernie Glick as in the CEO of Pacific Records?” Her heart sunk into her stomach, joining the swirling contents there. She didn’t know what was coming, but based on the tense line of Jeremy’s shoulders, she wouldn’t like it.
He nodded and took another sip of water. “The label is worried about…well, about you.”
“You get booted off one plane.” She pushed her menu away, no longer hungry.
“It’s not just the incident on the plane. It’s…they’re worried about you actually making this album and fulfilling the contract you signed.” He shrugged. “You’re a bit of a loose cannon right now, and if you don’t give them some new songs within the next week, they’re threatening to drop you.”
She shook her head, her hair swishing around her face. “I know I’ve been a bit crazy lately, but come on, Jer. You know I’ve been trying. And this whole ‘ticking clock, we’re running out of time’ thing isn’t really helping my creative mojo.”
“I know you’ve been trying. But they’re not willing to take any more chances on you.”
Her mouth went dry, and she took a sip of her water, trying to brace herself for the shit that was surely about to hit the fan. “So what, then?”
“They’re concerned about…” He paused, clearly searching for the right word. “Well, a lot of things, really. So they’re going to hire a bodyguard for you, to make sure there are no further incidents like the one on the plane. They want you focused on writing your album.”
She shook her head again and dug her fingernails into her palm, anger radiating through her. “Let me get this straight,” she said, dropping her voice and trying unsuccessfully to unclench her jaw. “Because I’ve been less than perfect lately, the label’s going to hire a bodyguard to babysit me? To somehow save me from myself?” She sucked in a deep breath, her face hot, her fists clenched in her lap. She looked down for a second, trying to focus on her white knuckles so that she didn’t start flipping tables. “Do you have any fucking idea how insulting that is? ‘Oh, let’s save the poor, helpless, dumb woman from herself. If only she had a big strong man around keeping her in line, all of her problems would just go away.’ Fuck that. Would they do this to me if I were a guy?” She stared at Jeremy, one eyebrow arched in challenge.
He simply looked at her, unable to disagree with anything she’d said, which somehow only made her angrier. She snorted out a breath.
“Go back to Glick and tell him it’s not necessary. I promise to behave. Scout’s honor.” She held up three fingers. “I don’t need a bodyguard to write my album. That’s fucking ridiculous.”
Jeremy gave her a look laced with something that almost looked like pity. “It’s too late. You’ve run out of chances to behave. They want someone in place as soon as possible. Whoever they hire will be keeping an eye on you 24/7.”
Her eyes went wide as a fresh wave of anger flashed through her. Anger tinged with helplessness and humiliation. “Twenty-four/seven? What am I? A fucking prisoner?”
He pursed his lips. “The alternative was that they drop you today. Luckily, they want that album enough to give you one more shot, Taylor.”
A helpless sense of defeat weighed her limbs down, and from the serious line of Jeremy’s mouth, the set of his shoulders, she knew there was no way out of this. Not if she didn’t want to lose her record deal and what was left of her music career in the process. She sighed, leaning forward on her elbows and dropping her head into her hands.
“You get that this is meant to help you, right? We’re all concerned about you, and we only want you to succeed.”
“Because it’s not like you make money off of me or anything.”
“Taylor.”
She glanced up and her stomach lurched at the genuine worry etched into Jeremy’s features. Softening with guilt, she nodded. “Whatever. I mean, even if I hate this, I’m pretty much stuck, right?”
He twisted his mouth to the side and shrugged, tilting his head. “Pretty much. But maybe this is a good thing. We all need a kick in the pants every once in a while. It’s good for us.”
“Right.” She sighed again, her shoulders heaving, her leather jacket suddenly feeling way too heavy. “So when does my freedom end?”
“You needn’t be so dramatic. Really, you’ll barely know he’s there. Because you’ll be so busy writing and recording songs.” He arched an eyebrow, giving her a pointed look.
“Of course.” She managed to shoot him a smile, hating that she now had to pretend to be grateful for this when all she really wanted was to smash things. “Thanks for talking them into not dropping me.”
“I work hard for my fifteen percent.”
She pushed up from the table, and he frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Nah. I’m not hungry. Thanks again, Jer.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and made for the door. As she pushed outside, the sunlight felt too bright and she squinted, shoving her sunglasses onto her face. Scowling at the photographers’ cameras, she stalked back to her car, ignoring the baiting comments they hurled at her, trying to get a reaction. But she’d given them enough over the past few months, and she wasn’t going to feed the vultures anymore.
* * *
Taylor eased her Corvette up to the gated entry in front of her, rolled down her window and pressed a finger to the large white button on the intercom. She tipped her head back against the headrest and drummed her fingers on the door of the car, her hand hanging out the window. Frowning, she pressed the buzzer again. Sierra should be home. They’d been best friends for over a decade, and Taylor knew Sierra’s day-to-day routine by heart.
Just as she was about to roll up the window and head home, the intercom crackled to life. “Yeah?” Sierra Blake’s voice came through the speaker, high and slightly breathless.
Taylor leaned out the window. “Hey. It’s me. Let me into your gated kingdom.”
“Hey. Sure.” The intercom went quiet and the sturdy gate began rolling back, allowing her to navigate up the curving drive lined with concrete planters filled with colorful hollyhock and lilac plants. The brand new Mediterranean-style house rose up in front of her, its yellow stucco walls radiating warmth. She parked her car and walked up to the heavy oak door, knocking twice with the wrought-iron ring in the center of it.
The door opened and there stood Sierra, tiny and beautiful, her hair dripping wet. A tag stuck up from the neck of her T-shirt, emphasizing the fact that it was on backward. Without a word, Sierra spun on her heel, silently inviting Taylor to foll
ow her into the house. The heels of Taylor’s boots clicked on the dark hardwood floors and echoed in the spacious two-story entryway. They passed the living room and headed for the kitchen, their usual hangout spot. A framed poster for Sierra’s movie Bodies hung in the hallway, but the rest of the walls were bare. Cardboard boxes, some open, some still sealed, lined the hallway. After losing her home in a fire last year, Sierra and her boyfriend, Sean, had rebuilt on the same land, and they had just moved into the newly constructed house last week.
“Sorry. I was in the shower. Were you out there long?” Sierra asked.
“Nah. Sorry to barge in, but it’s been a weird couple of days, and I…just…needed to talk to you.” Taylor slipped out of her jacket and slid onto a padded black stool, folding her legs under the lip of the counter and leaning her elbows on the island in the center of the kitchen, the off-white granite cool against her skin.
Sierra pulled an elastic band from her wrist and twisted her long, golden-brown hair into a bun on top of her head. It was messy, lopsided and off center, which she somehow managed to make look adorable.
Sitting with Sierra in her kitchen that still smelled vaguely of paint and sawdust, warm sunlight bathing the white walls, the rest of the house quiet and peaceful, Taylor felt whole. Safe. Happy. Truth be told, her friendship with Sierra was probably the most important relationship in her life. Sierra was family of the best kind: The kind she’d chosen for herself. The kind who loved her. Who never told her she was useless, or unwanted, or a mistake.
Sierra put a bottle of water down on the island in front of Taylor and hopped up on the stool across from her. “Weird couple of days, huh? Weird how?”
Taylor shrugged, suddenly not wanting to talk about her problems. She didn’t want to rehash the conversation with Jeremy, and the anger and embarrassment that had come with it. Normally, she told Sierra everything, but this…she wanted to keep it to herself.
Sean Owens strode into the kitchen, water dripping from his thick, dark brown hair and onto his T-shirt. “Hey, Taylor.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze on his way to the fridge, scrubbing his free hand over his closely cropped beard.
“Hi, Sean. Thought you’d be at work.”
The big bodyguard shrugged, his impressive muscles bunching visibly through his T-shirt. “Working from home today.” As if the wet hair and Sierra’s backward T-shirt weren’t enough of an indication, Sean winked at Sierra before heading into the living room, several containers of food in his large hands.
Taylor arched an eyebrow and smirked. “Still christening the new house?” she asked, jumping on the opportunity to tease Sierra despite the ache in her chest.
Sierra bit her lip and flushed slightly.
“Yeah. I should go.” Something small and dark clutched at her ribs whenever she watched Sierra and Sean together, and right now that something was making it hard to breathe. She didn’t begrudge Sierra her happiness, not at all. But it hurt because it was a reminder of everything she could never have. Everything she’d realized she wanted, only to find out she wasn’t worthy of it.
“No. Taylor, don’t do that.” Sierra laid a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. “Tell me why you came over.”
Taylor shrugged. “Same shit, different day.” She twisted the top off the water bottle and took a long sip. “I’m fine. Just in a weird mood, I guess.”
Sierra paused, biting her lip and lowering her voice. “You haven’t been fine since Zack.”
Taylor wrapped her fingers around her bottle of water, needing something to hold on to. Zack. The relationship that had changed everything. That had sent her into her current tailspin. That had forced her to tear down and then rebuild the walls around her heart, stronger than ever. She just shrugged, not really sure what to say. It seemed unfair to constantly dump her problems on Sierra. And yet Taylor knew that part of the reason she was holding back was because she wasn’t sure what Sierra could even say. Sierra, who had her life together, with a great career, an amazing boyfriend, and a loving family.
Without a word, Sierra hopped down from her stool and wrapped her arms around Taylor. “I’m sorry you’re so unhappy, babe. I’m sorry about Zack. I’m sorry you’re lonely. I’m sorry for all the shit you’ve had to deal with.”
To her horror, Taylor felt tears sting the corners of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, trying to dispel them. God, she was lonely, but there was nothing she could do about it because she’d learned the hard way that it was much better to be on her own. Safer, and easier, and far less damaging. Because not being alone meant having to trust someone else—trust that they wouldn’t hurt her, or leave her, or use her, or lie to her, or any combination of the above.
Trust, she’d learned, only opened the door to misery and heartbreak and betrayal. Trust was for suckers.
She’d let herself trust and fall too many times in the past. She didn’t have the strength to keep doing it. To keep leaping off bridges only to find that the river below was frozen over, and when she fell, she ended up cold, broken, and alone.
Every. Damn. Time.
“I should go. I’m crashing your time with Sean.”
“No, stay. I don’t want you to leave like this. Hang out, just for a bit?”
“You don’t have to leave on my account,” said Sean, returning to the kitchen with the now-empty food containers. At six-five and well over two hundred pounds of impressive muscle, it was no surprise that he seemed to eat constantly. “I was gonna go out for a while, anyway. Hit the gym, check in at the office. But even if I weren’t leaving, you know you’re always welcome here, Taylor.” He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek as he left the kitchen, and something warmed inside her. She really did love Sean. He was like this sweet, protective, older brother.
Once, she’d imagined that she could end up with a man like Sean. Strong, and smart, and kind. Gorgeous, and funny, and who made you feel safe and loved, every single day.
Once. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Chapter 4
Colt raised the shot glass to his lips and threw it back, swallowing the tequila and savoring the warm path it cut through his chest. He leaned back in his chair, the weathered wood and cracked red vinyl under his ass creaking against his weight. Guns N’ Roses thumped through the speakers and vibrated against the scarred, wood-paneled walls, which were covered in a motley combination of neon liquor signs, sports memorabilia, and a few old Hollywood pictures in dusty frames. A jukebox glowed in the corner, fluorescent pink and blue, but a layer of grime dimmed its brightness. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, waiting for the tequila to kick in and take the edge off his restlessness.
“Would you relax?” Roman Kekoa leaned his tattooed forearms on the table and angled his body toward Colt.
“What?” Colt eyed the big Hawaiian. And Roman wasn’t fat big. No, Roman was more the “kick the shit out of you, make women drool” kind of big.
“You’re glaring at that shot glass like it stole your car.” Roman smiled darkly, his white teeth flashing against his dark beard and whiskey-hued skin.
Colt scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry.” But he knew he was still glaring, could feel the tension stretching across his forehead and radiating down into his jaw.
“Fuck, man. I need to get laid tonight, and you keep looking like that, you’re going to scare all the pretty ones away.”
He nodded at Roman and chased his shot down with a swallow of beer.
Roman raised his eyebrows. “More tequila?” It was a question, but he was already standing, looking in the direction of the bar.
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
As Roman made his way to the bar, Colt glanced around Frisky’s—his favorite dive, even if it did share a name with cat food. No celebrities, and barely any tourists. Just good music, cheap drinks, and lots of locals. Cute ones, usually. Like the two brunettes, a blonde and a redhead at the booth in the corner. He caught the redhead’s eye and smiled, tilting his chin at her slightly.<
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“She’s hot.” Roman set down a tray with a couple of shots and two more bottles of beer on the table as the redhead nudged the blonde beside her, who looked up and immediately started eyefucking Roman.
Colt picked up a shot glass and downed the tequila, no salt, no lime, closing his eyes briefly against the burn. As usual, turning off his brain was the main goal tonight, and right about now, drinking himself into oblivion felt like a damn good idea, seeing as how sex had completely failed him in that regard last night.
He nodded and leaned back in his chair, his beer bottle dangling from one hand. “Pretty cute.”
Roman tossed his own shot back and set the empty glass down on the table with a loud clack. “Hell, yeah.” He picked up his own beer and tapped it against Colt’s. “Cheers, partner.”
Colt smiled and tipped his bottle to his lips. He and Roman, both freelance bodyguards, had been working together for over a year now. While Roman had always been freelance, it was a fairly new world for Colt. He’d had a job as a bodyguard at one of the best security firms in California, and he’d managed to get his ass fired, naturally. He had a tendency to ruin anything good that came into his life—people, jobs, you name it. Getting fired from Virtus Security meant that no one else would touch him, and he’d been forced to strike out on his own. Working in the field, protecting people, implementing security plans—it was the only thing he was good at. But if he were honest, most days he missed working for a firm. He missed the job security, and he missed being part of a team. But he’d fucked it up, and he had to live with that. He’d misread a situation, had made a bad call, and because of Colt’s mistake his boss, Sean Owens, had ended up injured. In the months following his firing, he’d tried several times to get his job back, but considering his mistake had almost led to Owens losing an eye, he hadn’t been surprised when he wasn’t given another chance.
