Double Down

by MB Austin

  After losing lives on a mission gone wrong, Maji Rios feels anything but ready for a covert operation to protect volatile Spanish pop star Erlea from the paparazzi and death threats.

  Celeste, in-house physician for the hotel hosting Erlea’s show, has had enough of putting on a pretty face for the public to protect celebrities. That mistake cost her a thriving sports medicine practice and her trust in herself. When an unlikely friendship with Erlea turns deeper, she has a choice to make—run or double down on love.

  Somewhere on her climb to fame, Erlea’s reputation as the wild child of Europe’s pop scene overtook her love for creating music. Can she reclaim her personal and artistic integrity with the help of the two women working to keep her life from imploding?

  Double Down

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  Double Down

  © 2019 By MB Austin. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-424-3

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: August 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Tammy Seidick

  By the Author

  Strictly Need to Know

  Running Off Radar

  Double Down

  Acknowledgments

  This story turned out to be even harder to write than I expected. For Maji, Double Down functions as a prequel, occurring in her lifeline very shortly after a devastating combat-related trauma. When we met her in Strictly Need to Know, she had already put significant work into her recovery. That allowed me to leave the hardest parts of that process out. But now I had to tackle that.

  Concern for getting the interior world right for Maji, Erlea, and Celeste led me on a deep research dive into trauma recovery and resilience. Are the experiences of soldiers and civilians fundamentally different, or can they understand each other well enough to help one another? Surviving combat is not the same as surviving political violence or intimate partner violence or the loss of a loved one to suicide. Yet the body and mind have common responses, and similar resources and techniques can help survivors move from merely coping with aftereffects to rebuilding a healthy sense of self to fully thriving as they tackle new challenges in life. Three awesome professionals in this arena gave generously of their time and expertise to help me more realistically convey the thoughts and feelings of Erlea, Celeste, and Maji as they supported one another: Julie Graham, Lauren Osinski, and Dr. Shannon M. Baird (Mental Performance Specialist). They deserve credit for any detail that rings true.

  Regardless of the challenges in a specific story, writing about badass women in love and danger remains a joy, and I always want the reader to share that. Julie’s early feedback and Basha’s careful beta-reading helped keep me on track. Ruth’s clear, compassionate, and meticulous editing ensured that the final version will please readers who want both an exciting thriller with a satisfying romance. And many thanks as well to the production team at Bold Strokes, whose work on every book makes it as shiny as possible. Finally, to my partner in life and travel, thanks for making every day (at home or in Spain) a great adventure.

  For the survivors.

  And for those who support them.

  Chapter One

  “I am packing right now, as we speak,” Erlea assured her manager.

  Nigel’s constant harping on image wore on her. On tour, jeans and sweatshirts were fine for rehearsals and on the bus. Costuming conveyed her carefully crafted rock star image during performances. Nigel insisted she live up to that image for the occasional party or night of clubbing as well. But a two-month residency show on the Mediterranean island of Majorca would give the media a chance to see her outside those controlled settings. “I can get a swimsuit there, right? And something for the VIP reception?”

  “No one is going to see you in a bikini, unless you’ve made more progress than your trainer tells me,” Nigel replied. “And I’ll select an appropriate outfit for the reception. For now, just make sure you don’t look like a street urchin tomorrow morning. The car will pick you up at seven.”

  Erlea rolled her eyes at the reference to the fantastical narrative he created for her backstory, the rough-edged waif plucked from the gutter and catapulted from Barcelona’s bar scene to fan-packed arenas across Europe and Asia. She let her cat in from the balcony and closed the doors, shutting out the perpetual hum of traffic below. The plaques and instruments adorning the walls of the spacious living room bore testament to both her years of formal training and her grandparents’ support. This apartment was hers now, swapped with them for the quiet house they enjoyed in the countryside; but the paparazzi didn’t know that. Which made it the perfect haven in the city.

  Erlea stared down at the Barcelona street dark with late afternoon drizzle. Why did she have to leave when it was so lovely and quiet, the beaches and markets nearly free of tourists? She could record a few more tracks, maybe even pen another song if she could just relax. No one had warned her how much the stress of having to be likable to the whole fucking world, fans and industry alike, would impede her ability to pull the words and melodies together. Not so long ago, music was her passion. “Seven?”

  “Seven sharp. You know how traffic is. Please refrain from staying out late tonight.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be ready.” Nigel’s view of her as a party animal fit his narrative, and it was nearly as fantastical as his rags-to-riches story. At least here at home. “It’s just, does that make me the last stop? Earlier is fine if it lets the others sleep in.”

  “I need you rested when we land, looking every inch the rock star. Try as I might to keep your arrival a secret, you know how word leaks out.” Nigel paused. “Besides, the others will find their own way to the airport.”

  Erlea didn’t try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Oh, so it’s just me and my minder.” The new assistant hired for the residency was a nice enough young woman, but she resented Nigel’s thinly veiled attempts to keep tabs on her.

  “Ah, the girl. Did I forget to mention? Nico let her go.”

  “What? When?” Erlea might not want a minder, but her assistant was outside the production director’s arena.

  “Yesterday. She gave notice by text.” Nigel sighed loudly. “Youth. No manners.”

  “She wouldn’t quit on a whim. What the hell did Nico do to drive her off so quickly?” Erlea fumed. “No—never mind. Are we insured for homicide? Because if I don’t kill him first, one of the crew is bound to.”

  Athena wound her lithe, silky frame around Erlea’s calves, a welcome distraction. Erlea scooped her up and cradled her in one arm, rubbing a thumb along her chin and cheekbones just the way she liked it. A little massage to the ears and the lanky cat pressed her nose into Erlea’s jaw, purring.

  “Don’t even joke like that,” Nigel said. “Once you two get settled at the Gran Balearico and start setting up the show, I’m sure you’ll work together like the professionals you both are. Remember, you’re the o
ne who asked for an alternative to another tour.”

  Erlea’s shoulders sagged. “I remember.” It was a compromise, making audiences travel to her, with the added draw of the resort setting. But even there they would lock her in the hotel to shield her from the paparazzi. At home she knew how to dodge them when she didn’t want to be seen. Erlea knew Barcelona intimately, every back street and shop of her favorite neighborhoods. She could sit in a café with friends, anonymously buzz down the streets on her moto, even ride the metro most days. Like a real person. “I’ll do my best. But he’d better meet me halfway.”

  Erlea hung up on Nigel and followed the cat to the open suitcase on the bed. “If I put you down, will you help me pick what to take? Or will you curl up in there again? You know I’d go naked, if I could take you with me instead.”

  Athena springboarded onto the floor and off to her bowl of crunchies in the kitchen. The telltale tinkle of her tags on the bowl told Erlea she was eating again, feeding another growth spurt. By the time the residency was over, the lanky kitten would be a cat. Would she still want to play, batting at everything and maniacally chasing the red dot? Or follow Erlea from room to room, wanting to be with her while awake and curl up next to her to sleep? “You’ll forget me and adopt Jordi and Maria, won’t you?”

  Well, it would serve her right. Getting a kitten had been selfish. She knew Nigel wanted her on the road again, not in the studio or at home composing. Erlea could get by just fine on song royalties alone, but her career wasn’t just about her. The band and crew and all the bit players on the production side needed jobs. Now she was Erlea, Inc., an industry supporting at least a hundred people with homes and families. And if she fell off the public’s radar, her next album would tank. Assuming she ever wrote enough decent songs to fill another.

  Stop it, already. Erlea paced from the bedroom out to the living room, finding Athena by the balcony door, washing her silver-gray face with one paw. If only cats liked to travel. It would be so comforting to have her there, but caging her wildness in a hotel room would be cruel. Erlea let her out, then watched Athena leap in an agile arc toward the balcony next door. Thank goodness she loved the neighbors, and they her. The cat was like all of Erlea’s lovers, providing temporary comfort and then finding better homes than she could offer. With her life on this trajectory it was foolish to wish for more.

  “Bona tarda, Athena,” the neighbor said, scooping her up.

  “Bona, Maria. I think she’s changed alliances already. Are you sure about this?”

  Maria beamed at Erlea. “You know we’ve wanted a cat for years. And she’s the perfect cushion for my retirement. Maybe when you get home again we’ll get a kitten and they can both go back and forth together.”

  “Who knows when that will be? I may have to tour after.” Erlea cut the complaint off. She chose this life, and she didn’t need pity from anyone, even herself. “If she gets hurt, take her to my vet and they will bill me. I can’t stop her from climbing up to the roof, so don’t feel bad if you can’t either.”

  “I wouldn’t try to tame her wild nature,” Maria replied with a wink. “She takes after you, no? We will keep her as safe as we can, but love her as she is.”

  Erlea felt her spirits lift. “Good advice from the happiest married woman I know. You must have trained Jordi well.”

  Maria set the cat down with a humble shrug. “We have had years to learn how to trust each other.” She gave Erlea a look of real concern. “I only wish you had someone on the road with you, Beatriz.” Like family, Maria was allowed to use her given name—and to meddle in her love life. “But not that drummer. You don’t have to see him again?”

  Erlea loved Maria for taking her side without ever asking the details. “No. I hired a new drummer. A gay one this time. I’m swearing off cigarettes and dating the men I work with.” Dating was too genteel a word for her last romantic disaster, but she moderated her language around Maria. Some days she envied Jordi his life in the symphony, getting to come home every night to the woman he loved.

  “All the bad tour habits, eh?” Maria asked. “What about the parties, the clubs? I know you don’t do drugs but…still, I worry for you.”

  Erlea looked at the tiles beneath her bare feet. She only drank hard when she was miserable, when she had no place to run home to. But would a residency really be better than touring? “I can’t make any promises.”

  Maria reached across the divide for her hand. “Just remember we are here for you, in the same time zone and only a short flight away. You are not alone out there.”

  “Thank you,” Erlea replied, keeping hold of Maria’s hand. She leaned over the rail and gave Maria a parting kiss on both cheeks. “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  “Split and double,” Maji instructed the dealer in Spanish. Just to be clear, she made the hand gesture, too—without touching the cards in front of her. Touching the cards was forbidden, forgivable only once and only if they really believed you didn’t know better. Otherwise the Gran Balearico would ban you from the premises just as surely as any Vegas casino. And while Majorca offered white sand beaches surrounded by the Mediterranean, it did not offer any other places to play blackjack. So Maji couldn’t afford to wear out her welcome.

  Reimi, looking as attractive as she had every day that week in her dealer’s uniform, quirked an eyebrow but made no comment as she reached across the table to separate the aces on the felt in front of Maji. Any experienced dealer could tell who the counters were, and Maji made sure neither Reimi nor the floor manager minded. She tipped well, acted pleasantly surprised by her wins, chatted with the other players, and—most importantly—kept her betting spread modest. Playing the tourist meant fewer euros won per hour but more hands available to reach her goal to afford Dr. Lyttleton’s expensive services.

  The minute she hit that magic euro mark, she’d be out the door. Well, maybe she’d ask Reimi for a date first. Casinos had a hands-off-the-players rule for dealers, a firing offense. And although she didn’t expect Reimi to gamble with her livelihood, Maji wondered what other games she might enjoy. Maji smiled as she pushed her second stack of chips out to double the original bet. “Hit me.”

  “Stop. You’ll regret that, trust me,” the player to her right said, speaking in English as if of course it should be the island’s lingua franca. The clipped authority in his tone matched his upper-crust British accent and expensive leisure clothes.

  Maji spared him a sideways glance. “I only regret having to share the table,” she said in Spanish.

  “Miss, I implore you.” He’d switched to Spanish. “At this game, I am something of an—”

  “Interloper,” Maji said in English, looking him squarely in the eye. “And too late. The bet is placed. So kindly sod off.”

  He recoiled. “I beg your pardon. If you want to throw away your chips, be my guest.”

  Maji turned her attention back to Reimi, who dealt two more cards onto the split aces. A ten on one, a nine on the other. Maji waited to watch the house break, which it certainly would. No magic involved. You simply had to maintain perfect play while watching several other players and keeping the count on what the dealer held in a two-pack shoe.

  Magic was starting with a banged-up brain barely able to add two cards for a saintly occupational therapist, with no stressors or distractions, and after only a few months of rehab being able to stay in the zone even with real money at stake and an asshat pestering you. Talking back was a slip, but sleep had been rough again lately. Better watch that.

  Reimi congratulated her on the double win and laid a final card on the asshat’s hand. Maji felt no sympathy when the ten pushed him over twenty-one and he forfeited the foolishly large bet in front of him. Then Reimi dealt the final card onto the house’s hand, breaking at twenty-five. No magic, just simple math that dictated when to risk and when to pull back.

  Reimi paid out and began shuffling the two decks of cards, resetting the odds. Maji indulged herself by staring at the Bri
t, giving him a look that dared him to try mansplaining again. He began to stack his chips, grumbling about needing a fresh start.

  A wave of fatigue rolled over Maji, the hours of concentration catching up. “At last we agree on something,” she said to him in Spanish. “I’m out.”

  Maji gathered up her chips and tipped Reimi generously. As she turned to go, a clammy hand on her elbow sent her to high alert. She twisted free and stepped back, glaring at the handsy jerk. “Hands off.”

  “I do hope I didn’t scare you away,” he said, apparently oblivious to her climbing adrenaline. “Clearly you know what you’re about here. May I buy you a drink?”

  Maji forced herself to breathe. Not a threat. Just an idiot. “No. You may leave me alone.”

  “Of course—I see it now.” He looked delighted rather than put off. “Wait until I tell my wife I played at the same table with Erlea. She’ll never believe it. Wait—” He reached for a napkin, adding, “Do you have a pen?”

  Maji shook her head in confusion and stepped farther away.

  “I’m not with the media,” the Brit assured her, holding the napkin out like an offering. “Just here for a nicer place to work, like you. Good to get away from the spotlight, eh?” And then he winked.

  What the actual fuck? “Whatever you think is going on here,” she told him, “you are mistaken.”

  “Right, of course. You’re not officially here yet. And I hate to impose, but my wife is smitten with you,” he said, reaching for her. “If you could just…”

  Maji didn’t wait to hear what nonsense followed. Before his hand could latch on to her arm, she took control of it and twisted. His body responded predictably, turning and yielding to avoid damage. He stumbled toward the nearest table, and Maji’s instinct to protect kicked in. With another simple move she redirected him toward the floor boss, whose late arrival to the party spiked her pulse anew.