Protecting Her Pride

by Jade Webb

  “Thanks,” Roman mutters as he crosses his arms at his chest.

  “You’re welcome," I reply, making an effort to bestow upon him my sweetest smile.

  As soon as his coffee finishes, I make my own and we both drink in silence. I focus my attention on the coffee in my mug, refusing to look at him or, God forbid, his abs.

  I clear my throat and feign an intense interest in my coffee mug. “So, I’m just going to hang out for the day. Maybe do something with Mel. You can have the day off, or whatever.” I shrug my shoulders, doing my best to look unaffected as I add, “Maybe go see Shakira.”

  I dare myself to look up and read his reaction. His face hardens. “You hired me to protect you. I’m not leaving your side.”

  I roll my eyes. “Protect me? Please, get over yourself. Just say ‘thank you’ and take the day off.”

  “The whole idea of a protective service, Daphni, is that I need to be with you. I know you have a habit of shrugging off your protective detail and finding trouble.”

  I give him an annoyed look but before I can even open my mouth to object, Roman takes a step in my direction, holding up his hand to silence me.

  I clench my jaw in annoyance and roll my neck, ready to engage in yet another battle with this man. But before I can shoot out my next barb, another genius idea pops into my head instead.

  Okay, Roman Brantley. Game on.

  Pasting a bright smile on my face, I nod eagerly instead of arguing, drawing a suspicious look from Roman.

  “You know what? You are right. And I just remembered that I have an appointment. In an hour. So please get ready.” And before he can object, I drop my coffee onto the counter and rush out of the kitchen, revenge the only thing on my mind.

  “Daphni! Welcome back!” Trina, clad in her usual uniform of muted navy-blue scrubs and white clogs, greets me as I step through the door. Even with short notice, she is always able to accommodate me, and that is the main reason I keep coming back. That, and because they make killer mimosas.

  I smile at the warm reception and give Trina a quick kiss on each cheek. “Thank you for squeezing me in.”

  “Of course! We have you booked for the manicure, pedicure, massage, and facial today. Will you be adding any specials today?”

  “No, that sounds perfect.”

  Roman clears his throat behind me and digs the keys out of his pocket. “What time should I pick you up?” he asks.

  “Pick me up?” I ask in mock horror as my hand clutches my heart. “But Roman, you can’t leave my side. You need to protect me,” I say, throwing his words back at him.

  His eyes darken and he crosses his arms again over his chest. He elected for his usual uniform today of a plain white T-shirt, faded jeans, and high-top Chuck Taylors. If he wasn’t so jacked and muscular, he would look like a band geek who kept his iTunes fully stocked with every Phish song. On him, though, the whole thing just works, and looks effortlessly sexy. It’s obnoxious.

  “You need to be protected here? Getting a massage?” he asks.

  “I do,” I insist as I bat my eyelashes. He glowers down on me and I know I’ve won this round. I turn to the receptionist. “We’ll be needing to add an extra person for my treatments today.”

  12

  Daphni

  I almost spit out my mimosa when I see Roman walking into the lounge, pigeon-toed, with bright pink toe separators, his toes shiny from the chip-resistant clear nail polish they had convinced him to apply. His pedicurist had been new; it was her first week at the spa. She was so nervous, and had fretted that if Roman didn’t use any of the services, her supervisor would be upset. Roman had instantly agreed to let her trim his nails, push back his cuticles, give him a stone foot treatment, and polish his toe nails. My eyes had almost permanently rolled into the back of my head every time she had gushed about how "handsome" his feet were, or how "elegant" his big toe was. And with a smug grin on his face, Roman had eaten up every word. Thank God for the buzz from my mimosas or I doubt I would have been able to stomach another minute of that drivel.

  “Enjoying your spa day, big boy?” I ask as Roman waddles over to the empty seat next to mine.

  Kicking out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles, Roman leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “Actually, I am. I could get used to this.”

  A loud shriek of laughter captures my attention and I turn and watch as Roman’s pedicurist and another spa attendant, a pretty brunette with very generous curves, giggle and whisper in the corner. The pedicurist elbows the brunette until finally, with another loud giggle, she saunters over to Roman.

  “Mr. Brantley, is there anything, anything at all, I can get for you?” she asks as she bats her thick eyelashes and thrusts her chest toward him. Her voice, a good five octaves way too high, is dripping in innuendo and beginning to give me a nasty headache.

  Roman opens his eyes, offering her a lazy smile. “It’s funny, but now that you mention it.” He pushes up from the chair and brings his arm to rub his neck. “There’s this knot in my neck.”

  A wide smile jumps to her lips. “Oh, I can most definitely help—”

  “He has a girlfriend.” I blurt out, instantly cringing at my tone. I sound like a complete neurotic bitch.

  A flaming red blush of embarrassment creeps up the brunette’s cheeks and she nods furiously. “Of course,” she murmurs.

  “And isn’t it time we head in for our massage anyway? Perhaps they can help work out that knot for him?” I ask, my question directed to the brunette, but my eyes on Roman.

  Rather than looking annoyed, Roman gives me a wide, cocky grin. He thanks the brunette, who rushes off and out of the room, her cheeks still stained a bright pink. I down the remaining contents of my mimosa as our two massage therapists arrive to bring us to the massage room.

  As they lead us down the long hallway, they both stop at a door and I peek inside. The room is dark, with the only light coming from a pair of sconces on the wall. Soft music plays and a diffuser in the corner sprays a fresh, floral mist throughout the room. Two massage beds take up the majority of the room and the dim lighting and small quarters makes the space feel so intimate. No way can I spend the next two hours cramped inside this tiny room with Roman.

  “We’re going to need separate rooms,” I explain, turning back to the massage therapist.

  “Oh, I’m sorry Ms. Monroe but we only have the couples massage room available.”

  “We’re not a couple,” I correct her.

  “Oh, of course not," she answers, her brow quirking in confusion. "It’s just what we call the room," she explains.

  “Right,” I reply, feeling like an idiot. “You know what? It’s fine.”

  I paste on a smile and move past her to step inside. Somehow that same obnoxious smile on Roman’s face is even bigger. I hate how uncomfortable I am right now and how obvious it is for Roman to see. This whole plan has completely backfired and I don’t have anyone to blame but myself. Instead of a nice, relaxing day at the spa to distract myself, I forced Roman to come, thinking it would be fun for me to see someone even more miserable than I am. Yeah, right. Roman is in heaven here and every single woman he crosses seems to fall immediately under the spell of his gorgeous blue eyes, thick sculpted arms and adorable, easy-going smile. How can he be both so completely irresistible and so utterly irritating?

  “You both need to undress and then please start on your back,” the massage therapist explains before quietly slipping out the door.

  We both stand by the two massage beds, and suddenly the room feels that much more smaller, and about ten degrees warmer.

  “I’ll undress first. Turn around," I order.

  “Turn around?” he asks with unmistakable amusement in his voice.

  “Yes, turn around!” I repeat, unable to reign in my frustration.

  “So even though I’ve seen you naked dozens of times and you do photo shoots in G-strings, you’ve suddenly become modest?”

  I glare at him until
he throws his hands up in defense and turns around. I quickly jump out of my robe, throwing it on the chair, and crawl under the blanket.

  “Okay, you can go now,” I say once I am safely tucked in.

  He stays turned around, with his back toward me, and sheds his robe. I watch the robe fall and let out a gasp. He turns around to face me, a wide smile on his face.

  “Oh, okay so you can watch me?”

  “I didn’t mean to!" I protest as I pull the sheets around me even tighter. "But why are you naked?”

  “I like to be naked when I get massages,” he explains with a shrug as he slips under the sheets. At this moment, I am very grateful for the dim lighting in this room because I am sure that if I caught just one glimpse of Roman, one hundred percent in the nude, that I might not be able to resist jumping him and giving him the damn massage myself.

  No Daphni! No more dirty thoughts!

  I turn my body away, tangling myself in the tight sheets. “Pervert!” I hiss out.

  “Look who’s talking,” he shoots back.

  Thankfully our two massage therapists enter at that moment and I force my eyes closed. I vow to ignore Roman and fully enjoy my massage. I will not let him get under my skin.

  My massage therapist starts working on me, her hands soothing the tension radiating within my body. It had been several weeks since I’d been here, and the familiar oils and comforting music slowly lull me into a peaceful rest. I push away all thoughts of Roman, of my stalker still somewhere out there, of the pressure to finish a new album. I just focus on the warm hands gliding up and down my shoulders, rolling out the tension and making me want to moan in pure pleasure. God, I love coming here. It’s so relaxing. Well, it is, until I hear a high-pitched giggling. Instantly, I feel all my muscles tick in annoyance. Did that big-boobed brunette seriously follow us in here?

  Shifting my head to the side, I open my eyes and see that it is, in fact, not the brunette, but a completely different woman. Roman has turned over on the table and her hands are sliding up Roman’s slicked-up back. She’s wearing the most obvious wide-eyed grin as her hands greedily glide over the hard ridges of his body. I grit my teeth in annoyance and force my eyes closed.

  My eyes shoot open after I hear yet another giggle, and this time I see she has her hands on his lower back, just above where his sheet ends. How had she managed to get all the way down there in the five minutes we’ve been here? My therapist is still working on my freaking shoulders.

  After the fifth giggle, I lose all my restraint. I push up, holding the sheet against my chest.

  “Excuse me, but I am trying to relax here. Can you guys take the show outside if you insist on continuing?”

  I know I sound like a complete psychotic bitch, but I can’t stop the words rushing out of my mouth. Roman’s amused smile disappears, and he shoots me a dark glare. I know I’m embarrassing him, but the baser side of me wants him to feel as miserable as I do. It’s pathetic and petty, but I don’t care.

  I lay back down on the table. “Besides, Roman didn’t you mention having a knot in your neck? Perhaps you should focus on that instead of making that poor girl trying to remove the stick stuck up your ass.”

  His massage therapist lets out a shocked gasp and I force my eyes closed again. I can feel Roman glaring over at me, but I choose to ignore it. Because yet again, I let Roman get under my skin, and the pit in my stomach is making it loud and clear that me getting over Roman Brantley may be an impossible task.

  13

  Roman

  “Uh, let’s try it again. From the top.”

  I watch from the soundproof booth as Daphni lets out a rush of air and props her hands on her hips. Her shoulders slump forward and I can see her lips moving quickly and silently, as if she’s trying to talk herself off an invisible ledge. Finally, after a long moment, she takes in a deep breath, nods, and looks up again to the producer on the other side of the glass. “Hit it.”

  As the track starts up again, I can almost catch the exact moment when Daphni completely checks out. It’s as if she just leaves her body and some hollow shell remains, still hitting every mark and belting out every lyric, but without any sort of depth or emotion.

  I look around the booth to see the producers bobbing their heads along, wide smiles on their faces. I stare at them incredulously: how do they not see that Daphni is totally phoning it in? This song is idiotic, about seeing a guy at a yogurt shop and wanting to take him home. Seriously, there’s even a line about licking the toppings off his abs. I have no idea why she ever agreed to sing this crap. She had shown me her songs a few times, when we were together. She would write about the disappointment in her parents, the hope she had, her faith in love. This—this was idiotic drivel meant to appeal to the mass market. It was infuriating to watch, especially knowing that the woman singing this bullshit has more talent than all these idiots playing on their laptops combined.

  “Great. Let’s just take a quick second to play back that last one. I might want to try something new. Why don’t you take five?” one of the producers says into the mic as his thick, pudgy fingers type furiously into the keyboard.

  Daphni nods and takes off the headset. The door behind me slides open and Melissa walks in, her nose buried in her cellphone. When she sees me, she smiles and slips her phone into her back pocket.

  “How is she doing?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Not sure. She’s singing this ridiculous song and she looks just so… checked out.”

  Melissa’s face darkens as she bites down on her lower lip. “It’s tough for her,” she says. “I know she doesn’t want to record these songs, but she just has a lot of pressure on her right now to get her next single out.”

  “It’s bullshit that she’s forced to do this,” I spit out, surprised by how sharp my tone is. I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much, but I can tell she’s miserable and it feels like such a waste of her talent.

  Melissa places her hand on my forearm. “It’s what she has to do,” she says.

  And while I know she’s trying to reassure me, her answer annoys me. I turn back and continue to watch Daphni behind the thick glass. She’s perched on a small stool in front of the mic, her hands clenched uncomfortably at her side.

  I still feel so protective over her. I tell myself it’s because she’s hired me to watch over her, but I know that’s bullshit. My only job requirement is to keep her safe and alive. Worrying about her feelings is pushing that boundary. But I don’t care. Not when I can see how miserable she looks.

  I want to talk with her, tell her that she doesn’t have to do this. I feel this inexplicable need to ask her what she really wants. I shoot a quick glance at her team of producers, still preoccupied with finishing the edits on the last go. Taking advantage of them distracted, I follow her into the booth.

  “How are you doing?” I ask when I reach her.

  She looks up at me, seemingly surprised at my question. “I’m okay,” she answers quietly, with a small shrug as she continues to play with the near-empty bottle in her hands.

  “Daphni,” I start, and she looks up at me. Her normally sparkling green eyes look dull and faded, catching me off guard. She looks exhausted and worn out. “Why are you recording this song when you so clearly hate it?” I ask her.

  “How do you know I hate it?”

  “Daphni, the minute they started the track you cringed. And when you sing it, you look like a robot. And really, why wouldn’t you? I mean, how else can you sing ‘I want to lick your yoyo like my strawberry fro yo’? I mean, what does that even mean?”

  Daphni chuckles, but it’s a hollow laugh. “It means I want to suck his—”

  “Okay, yeah I know that,” I say, holding up my hands to cut her off. “But come on, what happened to all the songs you wrote? The ones you shared with me? Those were poetry, not this crap.”

  Daphni shrugs. “That’s not what the label wants from me.”

  “They want this shit?”

  “This �
��shit’ sells,” she says, dejected.

  “Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you want to sing this song?”

  Daphni looks up at me again and lets out a defeated sigh. “No. No I don’t.”

  I look at her, unable to hide my confusion. “Daphni, you have no problem telling me exactly what you want. In fact, you do it constantly. According to you, everything I do at every minute is wrong. Why is it so hard for you to do that to them?”

  “I don’t know,” she responds. “I don’t want to disappoint them.” She looks up at me, her eyes assessing as she lifts her shoulder. “But I don’t mind disappointing you.”

  I hesitate a moment, taken aback by her honesty. “Daphni, just tell them you want to record one of your songs. Tell them to give this 'song' to someone else.”

  “That isn’t how this works, Roman,” she says with a shake of her head.

  “Bullshit. You are the face of the brand. I’ve seen you wreak havoc when you know something isn’t done right. How is this any different?”

  “It just is,” she responds, her voice wilted.

  “When did you become so…apathetic, Daphni?”

  Laughing bitterly, Daphni shakes her head. “I was always this way, Roman. You were just too naive to see that.”

  I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t, Daphni. You used to love life. You used to have so much passion. But now?” I let the question linger in the air and before I say something cruel that I would regret, I turn and walk away, closing the door of the booth behind me.