Theirs to Risk: A Forbidden Bodyguard Novel (Fame & Fortune Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

  "A rest?" I say. I’m blinking like a cat crossing the road blinded by headlights. Is this what she thinks? I’ve been having a rest? Rehab is the single most hardest thing I’ve ever done. An intense shudder runs over my body, shaking me from top to toe as I think back on those first two weeks of intense agony. "I’ve just been through rehab, it wasn’t three months in the Seychelles." A rest? I can’t believe Charlie would say that. She knows how low I sank before I hit bottom.

  Does she know about Johnny, how he likes to be? His depraved ways? I watch her, trying to read how much she knows and her dark, kohl-lined eyes hold mine.

  "Babe, we’ve all done rehab. You aren’t special. What is special is how you spin it."

  Spin it?

  "And what about Johnny? Are him and I supposed to act like nothing happened? Is that how this is going to work?" My heart hammers in time with the thumping bass. I don’t think I can act like nothing happened, like one night Johnny Fairweather and I, Hollywood’s royalty hadn’t nearly destroyed one another. Charlie’s absent gaze slides over my shoulder and a smile spreads across her face.

  "Guess you are about to find out." She nods, but she doesn’t have to tell me he’s here. My stomach congeals, and my limbs resemble the rigid branches of an old oak. Charlie leans in one last time, whispering low into my ear. "Remember, Fee, everyone is always watching."

  She sashays off, her hips flouncing the netted edges of her full skirt. She looks like she’s about to step onto the stage of Swan Lake. Anyone else wearing such an outfit would look like a hooker playing dress up. Charlie just looks class.

  For the millionth time, I wish she’d got the lead role and not me.

  She’s just left me—exposed.

  Fuck, I can’t turn to face him. I just can’t. My breath becomes erratic and I want to puke. I want the earth to open me up and drag me to hell, which is where I deserve to be.

  "Sophia?" Johnny tries to look surprised to see me. "I wasn’t sure you’d actually make it to your recovery party." He drags on a cigarette, pulling hard, and smoke curls from his lips in a whirling cloud.

  He nurses the same crystal glass as me. When I look closer, I notice his fingers grip it tight enough to leave steam marks where his hot fingers meet the iced surface. "How are you?" He’s asking how I am?

  I can barely look at him, barely breathe, but I keep a smile on my face aware of the glances landing in our direction. I definitely can’t answer. There aren’t any words I can form. I search his face for any sign he may be as hurt as I, but within the planes of the handsome worldwide famous face there is nothing apart from the smooth calm he always exudes. He watches me with almost appreciative amusement as I flounder to get my act together. "I’m glad to have my leading lady back," he hooks an arm around my waist, shifting me tight into his body and his lips skim my cheek. I freeze like a popsicle. "Relax, Fee, just relax."

  Relax? I’m going to puke. Clawing rivers of nausea climb up my throat. How can he tell me to relax? But then hadn’t he told me to relax before and I trusted him. I push at the black fog of my memory, hoping that maybe now I’ve seen him my recollections will come back, but it’s still just an endless dark in the pit of my mind.

  As if he can sense my thoughts he says, "I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you once my own treatment was over." His fingers fall to my hand and grip it tightly, entwining with my fingers and lifting them to his lips. The camera’s flash. "I don’t really remember much about that night." His other hand lifts and slides through a lock of my hair. I want to slice his fingers off—how dare he touch me—but I smile, knowing we are being watched.

  "Me neither." I sigh, and the lie falls easily. It’s easier this way. Easier than kicking up a hornet’s nest of recrimination. The lines between us are so blurred I don’t believe either of us knows who’s right or wrong anymore. I force my smile a little higher, until it strains at my cheeks, bunching them into painful bulbs. "Shouldn’t you dance with me or something, make this look real?"

  A flicker crosses his face and he lurches forward with the grace of an unoiled robot. With a rigid arm he pulls me tighter until my body is pressed against his. I hold my breath, not permitting myself to release the shrill scream bubbling in my throat. Guiding me toward the dance floor, he slinks his arms around my waist, his hands in the safe zone of my lower spine. I drop my head to his shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin spread through his T-shirt and press against my lips. My expression can’t be seen from within the depths of the crook of his neck. I know this. It’s one of my safe poses.

  "How was rehab?" I ask. One of us has to acknowledge where we’ve been, we can’t ignore it like a proverbial elephant stomping and crashing around us.

  His pale blue gaze rests on my face. "It was hard. We took it too far that night, Fee."

  Too far?

  This is the understatement of the year.

  Too far was falling down drunk and breaking your legs. Too far was throwing up in front of the press and being ridiculed worldwide. Overdosing on Class-A’s and tearing yourself to shreds—that’s beyond 'too far'. It was in a different universe to 'too far'. And it’s a universe we went to together on our rocket of doom for two.

  I scour my memory again as he twirls me further onto the dance floor, desperate to remember just how far 'too far' may have been but again I’m met by a wall of black.

  "I have missed you." His breath rushes over the skin of my cheek and my head swims with the scent of Armani. Using the tip of a finger, he lifts my chin so I’m forced to look at him, to meet his gaze. His lips are too close for my liking and I hold still, trying not to react. "Rehearsals have sucked without you."

  "Rehearsals?" I start with surprise and loosen his hold, but it’s not for long as he glances over my shoulder at our audience and once again binds me within his arms. A scream of trapped frustration gurgles in the base of my throat but I force it down. I won’t allow it to rise. "When did they start?" My heart pounds. Maybe they’ve replaced me? A flicker of relief kindles inside my ribcage.

  "Two weeks ago." His pale blue eyes flicker over my face. "I think the studio were getting prepared in case you weren’t ready. But," he chuckles, "Erica has been there every day, ensuring no replacement is drafted in."

  Oh, I’m sure she has.

  "Johnny, did you do your programme properly?" Surely he should only have been coming out of rehab when I did? I watch him closely, his delicate pale skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, the fair hair at his temples damp and curling.

  He throws his head back and chortles. "I’m fine, totally fine. I just needed a rest. These damn movies are taking their toll. I can’t wait for them to be over."

  We watch one another, unspoken words flowing between us like an un-crossable deep river. We both need these movies to be over so we can move on and actually live our lives, stop pretending because it’s what’s expected of us, what the fans want.

  He reels me around, stepping to the beat of the music. "So, my therapist says I need to stay away from you," he murmurs into my ear. His breath brushes along the sensitive skin of my neck.

  "You, need to stay away from me?" I stare at him aghast, my mouth hanging slack. Is he having a laugh? If anyone needs to be doing the staying away, it’s me from him.

  "Yes, you’re a troubled young woman who could lead me off my path of fame and glory." His lips brush the skin of my jaw and I feel them spread into a smile.

  Pushing him away with splayed hands, I steady myself. I’ve so many things to say but in the back of my mind is a little voice wondering how long and successful his path of fame and glory would be if people knew the truth about him.

  "Is that all that matters—" My words are halted by a shrill greeting from behind.

  "Darling." A wave of Chanel hits me like a migraine inducing brick wall. "Darling, I am so pleased you are back in the land of the living and not in that awful place anymore."

  Erica extracts me from Johnny and gives me a delicate squeeze as if she’s scared she’s go
ing to wrinkle her outfit. This is my warm welcome from my mother. I offer her a tight smile. It’s all I have to give. An array of flashes illuminates the party and my eyes see the darkened recesses of the room for the first time. Drunk girls are falling over one another; at a far corner a couple bend low over a small table, their attention focused on a trail of white powder.

  The room whirls with terrifying speed and I cling onto Erica even though it’s the last thing I want to do. My focus clears on her face. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to expect to see concern there. She’s always the same: she hasn’t aged since we moved to LA ten years ago and she always wears the same smile of condescending politeness. "Erica, is this party not clean?" Please tell me it’s clean—I mean come on!

  Her rigid expression twitches, which is as close as she’s going to get to a frown. "Darling, don’t be silly, it’s a party. No parties are clean."

  And this sums up my entire life.

  "But you’ve got two recovering drug abusers here." I don’t know why I bother to say the words but a flash of white hot frustration forces the syllables out into the air before I can tell them it will be a waste of time.

  She waves an exasperated hand at me. "Don’t be silly, darling. If you don’t want it, just ignore it."

  My mother has said some stupid things before. Telling me my drug overdose was good for publicity being the finest example, but this is pretty damn close.

  She has no idea of how offensive her words are, she just keeps on smiling and nodding like a performing puppy.

  This is her dream and I’m her commodity.

  She pats Johnny on the arm and I cringe at the overfamiliarity. He’s not your son-in-law. "Now, I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your girl here, but she’s got to say hi to some people who’ve missed her." Her voice is loud and shrill. She’s talking to us. The room is her audience.

  Johnny rolls his eyes over the top of her head, flashing his world famous smile, but I don’t reciprocate. I’m not in the right place for him to be back in the ‘friend zone’.

  It’s a funny thought. My friend zone is empty. Sarah and her skinny little arms and wide smile pop into my mind. I’ll call her when I get home from this debacle and give her a shout out, check how she is.

  Erica steers me away from Johnny and the shitty awkwardness which was the dance—I could almost thank her, but I don’t. "Come and see Alan." She hooks me along by the arm as one would encourage a reluctant child scared to go down the big slide at the park.

  That’s a joke, she stopped taking me to the park when I was eight and began acting and singing classes after school every day.

  For a split second, I long for those days. Days when I’d sit on the couch in my navy school uniform and Dad used to come home from work, smelling of the office and smoke. Back in the days when I could sneak brownies out of the tin and tuck my feet under my legs and just be. In the days before my brownies were laced with hash and there were never any moments of calm.

  God, I need a mental bitch slap.

  I’m Sophia Jennings. I’ve earned more money in the last five years than most girls could dream about. I’ve been the youngest star on the cover of Vogue and I won a Best Actress Oscar at the age of twelve.

  Something else other girls dream about.

  So why when I look in the mirror do I hate everything I see?

  Sighing and knowing there is no chance of escape, I plaster on my cheek-aching smile and allow Mum to guide me around, while she waves at people and shows them like an over-proud parent that I’m there and I ‘survived’ my trauma. I pretend to know who they are, but the whole time I long to butt in and tell people just how awful the last three months have been. The pain, the withdrawal, the shakes, the sweats, the lack of sleep, as my body craved the things I never knew it really needed. These people don’t want to know about that. They only want to see Sophia Jennings smile. So I do.

  As we mill around, nodding and shaking hands, one thing becomes apparent. Three months is enough time to forget people's faces. I pull out of Mum’s tight grip. "I don’t know any of these people," I state, watching her expression carefully.

  She frowns—well she tries. "Of course you do. There’s Jennie, she worked your make-up on the last film.

  I scrutinise the woman with raven hair and bright red glasses through a sideways glance. Chewing on my bottom lip I try to place her. She’s striking in her green swing dress, you’d think I’d remember her. I should remember her that would be the decent thing.

  "Darling, you need to try not to take so many hard drugs after set closes this time. You should be able to remember Jennie. You guys got on great, in fact you said she was the best make-up artist you’d ever used." Erica’s eyes flit over me as if I’m a Japanese puzzle box she’s grown bored of being unable to open. "The studio gave her a permanent contract on your word."

  Yikes. "I’m sure she’s very good." I give the dark-haired woman a timid wave and she returns an ecstatic grin and double handed greeting. Turning, I scrutinise Erica. "What do you mean hard core drugs? I’ve just been in rehab; you’re supposed to be helping me not touch any drugs at all, hard or otherwise."

  Erica’s smile turns smug. "Oh, darling, I’ve taken care of that."

  I fold my arms, a prickle of unease settling on me like a too heavy winter coat in the height of summer. "What do you mean you’ve taken care of that?"

  She pats me on my arm as if I’m a small child and I bristle under her touch. "Don’t pull that face, darling, it’s not becoming. What I mean is I’ve hired another bodyguard."

  My stomach lurches to my feet at the thought. "I don’t need a bodyguard. I want to live my life unwatched and alone." This is the reason I have the nondescript condo although Erica has never tried to understand my choice in purchasing it. And she’s never deemed it worthy enough to step a foot in there.

  Okay, the nondescript condo provided the perfect setting for getting smashed out of my head, but it’s still mine. Only mine.

  Erica, for the briefest moment looks like she may sympathise with me, but then she speaks. "Darling, that’s never going to happen. You are Sophia Jennings, alone time is something you can have when you’re dead. Now you know I organise your team, I always have."

  I go to turn away, shaking my head in disbelief. The woman has just made a death comment to her daughter who overdosed only months before. What a parenting win. "Maybe you could stop hiring pricks then," I mutter, my shoulders slumping. Talking to Erica is like being battered by a baseball bat, but infinitely more painful.

  "Oh, by the way, Davies has organised some PR for tomorrow, so don’t drink too much tonight."

  I stared at her, my mouth hanging open. Is this woman for real?

  Sadly, I think she is.

  "Didn’t I sack Davies?"

  Her smile grows tighter. "As I said, I organise the team, and he’s the best agent in town."

  He may be the best but I’m not sure he always has my best in mind.

  "I’m tired, Erica, can I go? When does the new bodyguard start?"

  She glances at the Cartier on her wrist. "He’ll be waiting."

  Thank fuck. The one thing I need right now is a ride, and the silence of my own home.

  Chapter Four

  Sophia

  The air is fresh outside the private club, and I gulp it down into my desperate lungs. I’m alone for the first time since I left rehab, and it feels golden. Swinging my bag over my shoulder I hesitate and frown when I spot my own car tucked alongside the curb.

  As far as I’m aware my Jeep is safely located in the garage of my private condo—where it’s been since I lost my right to drive it.

  I’m going to rip this bodyguard a new one for touching my stuff. All I want is to sleep in my own bed, to be in my own home and I’m not going to allow anyone to prevent it from happening. Not my mother, not my stupid agent and his plans for my career recovery, and most of all especially not some regimented stiff in a suit.

  Bodyguards. I hate them. Suited
muscle with an overdeveloped idea of their own importance. I like to make their life as difficult as possible. Not because I’m a total bitch, but just because I don’t want one. There is no need. Maybe once, when that loser with the threatening letters was looming, sure, but now this waning star didn’t require being tailed by steroid fuelled muscles in a suit.

  I sigh and shuffle forward, my gaze sweeping from side to side. At least if I’m in the car then I am one step closer to my own bed.

  It’s funny because even as I pull on the handle and swing the door wide open, I’m completely, obliviously, unprepared. I’m thinking of Sarah and how I want to drop her a text and tell her I survived my first real challenge. I’m thinking of those crisp white sheets stretched across the mattress of my bed and how they will feel when I slide into them for the first time in ninety days.

  If there’s one person I’m not thinking of—for once—it’s the person staring back at me from within the depths of my leather upholstered car. The smell of new leather hits me, the chemical valet stench stings my nose, so strong I recoil, but it’s not the smell stopping my lungs from being unable to inhale air.

  No.

  Dark blue eyes peek with luminosity from within the shady canopy of endlessly sweeping dark lashes and long fingers drum the steering wheel to a silent rhythm. "Blake?" Saying his name torments my insides. They twist and turn until they resemble baked sourdough and I’m clutching my stomach, pulling at my shirt and twisting my fingers into the material. "What are you doing here?"

  "I’m giving you a ride." I watch his mouth move, not quite believing I’m seeing this or hearing his voice again. That he’s here, after all this time.