Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2)
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DIVA
(Ironclad Bodyguards #2)
by
Molly Joseph
Copyright © 2016 Annabel Joseph/Molly Joseph
Kindle Edition
Cover art by Bad Star Media
www.badstarmedia.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One: Paradise
Chapter Two: The Bodyguard
Chapter Three: Crazy
Chapter Four: Unsettled
Chapter Five: Breathe
Chapter Six: The Money
Chapter Seven: Lightning
Chapter Eight: Sex
Chapter Nine: No Feelings. Just Beats.
Chapter Ten: Porno Sex
Chapter Eleven: Not Worth It
Chapter Twelve: Tidal Wave
Chapter Thirteen: Love and Tragedy
Chapter Fourteen: Sex and Sadness
Chapter Fifteen: Dear Lola
Chapter Sixteen: Worth the World
Chapter Seventeen: Deal
Chapter Eighteen: Our Song
A Final Note
Coming Soon
Also Available
Explore More Worlds with Annabel Joseph
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Paradise
Ransom followed the back of Greg’s bald head as the two wove through bobbing, jumping ravers at the edge of the festival grounds. A twenty-something man screamed at them and waggled his tongue. Rhinestones lined his eyelids—and his tongue. The woman beside him wore a bedraggled fur hat and little else. Beads of perspiration made her glow blue in the pulsating lights.
There were so many freaks here, and it was fucking claustrophobic, a bodyguard’s worst nightmare. The gyrating spectators steamed with sweat even though Belgium was chilly in March. The festival crowd packed together in one huge mass, the heat of their bodies billowing upward in a stifling, drug-scented fog exacerbated by the twenty smoke machines lined up along the edge of the stage. The ground shook under his feet in time to the beats.
“How many people are here?” he shouted at Greg, his client’s tour manager.
“What?” He made the universal sign for I can’t hear you, shrugging and gesturing toward his ears. Ransom leaned closer and tried again, now that the woman beside them had stopped shrieking on every downbeat.
“How many people are here?”
“Here on this field? Or here at the festival?”
When the wiry, beak-nosed man shouted “festival,” droplets of spit spewed through the air and landed on Ransom’s face. He turned his head to the side, then shied away from a raver with electric blue hair. The dude was his height—over six feet—but unlike him, the guy looked thin and lanky enough to collapse as he writhed in time to the music.
Greg pulled Ransom forward as they worked their way closer to the stage. “I’d say there’s fifty or sixty thousand kids here on this field, now, because Lola’s the main event. The whole festival? Maybe a hundred thousand? Brussels isn’t a huge venue. The German and French festivals bring one-fifty, one-eighty, easily.”
“One hundred and eighty thousand people?”
Greg nodded and dragged him deeper into the center of the crowd. One hundred and eighty thousand people in attendance? How was that organizationally possible? How was that safe?
He should have done his research before he took this assignment. He would have done his research if Ironclad hadn’t yanked him off a detail in Dallas and diverted him to Belgium with barely enough time to pack his shit. The big boss, Liam Wilder, said this Lola person “needed his skill set.” That meant she needed more than a bodyguard. She needed someone to keep her in line.
From what he could gather, his twenty-year-old client suffered from a combination of insta-fame, immaturity, craziness, and a newfound interest in recreational drug use. Tons of performers and celebrities used drugs and alcohol, but not all of them were headlining a multi-million dollar tour across Europe. Ransom’s job, above and beyond protecting her, would be keeping her safe from her young, crazy self.
A cluster of blonde, topless girls rubbed against him as he eased past. One of them grabbed his ass with a throaty coo. “Jesus,” he muttered, not that anyone could hear him over the blaring music. Kids these days. How old were those girls? He was only thirty-seven, but he felt way, way older, and it wasn’t just because of the suit he wore, or the badge on his hip.
They were halfway to the front now, in the middle of an undulating, glowing sea of wacked-out Belgians. The music was so loud it rattled his teeth, and the stage rigging swam with what must have been a million lights. The bulbs flashed in time to the throbbing rave beats, running in patterns so disorienting that it took him a moment to locate the performer at the sound console, the DJ who was making this crowd lose their ever-loving shit in the crisp night air.
Her legal name was Lola Mae Reynolds. Her stage name was Lady Paradise, and at a mere twenty years old, she’d risen to megastar status in the EDM universe. EDM was short for Electronic Dance Music, which Ransom hadn’t known until Lola’s manager told him half an hour ago. The EDM scene apparently involved a lot of repetitive music, rhinestones, iridescent bracelets, and spirit hoods.
Greg demanded his attention and pointed to the stage, to the petite, Memphis-born woman who’d become too difficult for the tour brass to control. Lady Paradise. He’d read her file on the flight over the ocean.
Lola Mae Reynolds was the daughter of blues legend Mo Reynolds. She’d grown up in a musical family, enjoying an “unconventional” childhood, whatever that meant. According to her file, she had tons of energy, tons of personality, but not much self-control. Of course, what twenty year old had self-control?
He studied his new client as she mixed music at the sound console. She looked small but strong, with blazing pink hair and a massive pair of headphones half on, half off her ears. Were those dreadlocks on a white girl? Ransom shook his head. He preferred music created by people playing actual instruments. All she seemed to be doing was pushing buttons, adjusting knobs, and occasionally pumping her fists while screaming into a hand-held microphone.
But he wasn’t here to critique her eardrum-assaulting version of music. He was here to protect her from overzealous admirers, and to make sure she stayed sane enough to finish out the last twelve stops on this tour. He’d built a reputation as a celebrity wrangler over his ten-year career, and had used those skills to reach the top echelon of Ironclad’s pay scale. His latest performance review was full of words like solid, dependable, trustworthy, and unflappable. In the end, it all boiled down to not taking any shit.
The pink-haired girl onstage would doubtless give him shit in the beginning, but he could handle it. She’d learn soon enough that he wouldn’t put up with her craziness the way other people around her did.
He watched her work the crowd, riling the ravers into a bouncing mass of adrenaline. One moment her spiky head was lowered over the sound console, and the next, she was waving her arms and jumping up and down with the same abandoned energy as her audience. She looked minuscule on the massive stage amidst the obnoxious lights, but anyone would look tiny up there. Well, except for him. He was six and a half feet of hard-eyed, muscular Latino male; he often depended on his size to gain cooperation from his clients.
But slutty didn’t matter. Safety mattered. He maintained his focus even as he shouldered through a maze of sweaty, blissed out ravers. This crush and noise would become his world for the next two months, until the end of Lola’s tour. The lights made his brain throb and the volume seemed to work itself into his chest, causing his heart to pound twice as hard as usual. Ear plugs. He’d have to invest in some quality ear plugs for this assignment, and maybe a defibrillator for the irregular heartbeats. Shit.
Greg nudged him and spray-shouted another volley of words in his face. Ransom didn’t have the first clue what the manager was trying to say, but it was pointless to attempt speech this close to the massive bank of speakers. At this point, they were near enough for him to make out Lola’s features. She was pretty, yes. Animated. She was a kinetic sculpture in a bikini. He’d bet his life she was high as shit.
The beats tumbled over each other, louder and louder, faster than seemed possible. The ravers around him were going crazy, out of their minds. His bodyguard radar pinged Danger Danger Danger. There were too many uncontrolled bodies, and too little space to move if something went wrong. Up on the platform, Lola leaped on top of the console and turned her back to the audience, and started to twerk wildly along with the building beat. The melody, such as it was, climbed in time with the mania of the audience, and Lola…
Well, she clearly wasn’t wearing panties under those gold booty shorts. They were pretty much painted on her round, taut ass.
He was a man. He had to stare just for a moment. He had to admit to himself that her ass was magnificent, and that it would probably feel like paradise to bend her over and jam his cock between those cheeks.
He narrowed his eyes, mentally berating himself. Looking at his client was okay, but fantasizing about having filthy, twerking butt sex with her wasn’t. He stopped ogling her and glanced over at Greg instead. He was staring at her ass too. It was hard not to when she flaunted it so recklessly, so confidently in front of thousands of pairs of eyes. She crouched down to push some more buttons and twist some switches on the sound board. The beat intensified and slithered into something even harder and sexier. As Greg whooped beside him, the crowd chanted “Drop, drop, drop!”
Lola straightened and reached toward the sky, and shook her short pink dreads, then turned and opened her arms to her audience as the music barreled to a fever pitch.
Jesus fucking insanity. He couldn’t look away. She seemed to focus the crowd’s ratcheting energy as she held her majestic pose. Screams assailed his ears, and then the drop arrived in a thumping spill of audio. The deep bass explosion vibrated his testicles. Sixty thousand people went euphoric.
And Lola soared into the audience, arms and legs flung wide.
Ransom shouted and surged toward her without thinking, shoving kids aside as the bass boomed over and over like a cluster bomb attack. “Get out of the way,” he yelled. He had to help her, rescue her and check her for injury. She was lost in the convulsing mass, wearing only a bikini and a pair of skintight shorts. Greg grabbed him from behind and shouted something he couldn’t understand. Ransom turned away, fighting to get to Lola, but the manager grabbed him again. This time Ransom made out the words.
“Stage dive, yeah? She’s okay.”
As Greg said it, he pointed to the front of the crowd, where Lola surfaced on the audience’s upraised hands. Ransom quivered on the balls of his feet, still poised for rescue. She wore a beatific expression, her arms spread to each side, her scrap of a bikini top still somehow in place. Not safe, Lola. Holy fuck, so not safe, but wow. She looked wild and fearless, a goddess carried on the up thrust palms of her worshipers.
“What the fuck?” he shouted to Greg. “That’s fucking dangerous.”
“She’s not supposed to stage dive.” He shrugged. “But that’s Lola. She loves a good drop.”
Ransom followed her progress with impatience until the security guys at the front hauled her back onstage. She grabbed the mic from the console and exhorted the crowd to “fucking dance, motherfuckers.” He wondered how many of those motherfuckers had groped her through her booty shorts. He wondered why he cared. Greg grinned at his flabbergasted expression.
“I know, right?” The screams had tapered off to the point Ransom could just about hear him. “She’s crazy. Stage diving is risky, and the tour company doesn’t like risks.”
No, a tour company investing millions of dollars in an entertainer generally didn’t like risks. Now that he was here, Lola wasn’t going to stage dive anymore, or perform while she was high, or let dozens of people molest her through her golden shorts. Fuck no. He threw his shoulders back, trying to shake off the shock of seeing his client dive headlong into a roiling mass of strangers who were most likely as high as she was.
Fuck. This one was going to be more trouble than he’d anticipated.
“Her set’s winding down,” said Greg. “Let’s head backstage.”
*
Lola shoved her hair out of her eyes and grabbed the water bottle Greg handed her. Thirsty. So thirsty. She tugged her bikini straps into place as she tipped back her head and chugged. The set was amazing and she was still buzzing hard. It wasn’t a huge crowd, but they had a great vibe, and the small white pills Marty had given her only made it better.
As she guzzled the water, Greg waved his hands for her attention. His lips moved as he gestured to a giant, dark-haired guy behind him. Nice suit, but man, she was fucked up. She couldn’t hear a word. Her manager frowned and pointed at his ears. Huh?
Oh, her ear plugs. She took them out and tried to shove them in her pocket, but she was wearing shorts with no pockets, so she held them instead and stared at both men, trying to focus. She was on some new designer drug, something Marty had described as “related to ecstasy.” She felt like she was swimming through warm glue. It was loud behind the stage, almost as loud as out front.
“What?” she asked, squinting at Greg.
“This is Ransom. Ransom Gutierrez.” He pointed again at the man in the suit. That’s when she noticed the badge clipped to his waistband. Holy shit. A cop. Was he one of those DEA undercover guys? Why had Greg brought him here? She thought in a panic of all the drugs stowed in the tour bus.
Oh.
No.
No, the stash wasn’t there anymore. Marty had decided it was safer to buy small amounts on the way, rather than drive around holding a bunch of stuff the way they had during the U.S. tour. There were always pharmaceutical pipelines at these festivals, not that it was all about the drugs.
It didn’t used to be all about the drugs.
Lola had always been a “Just Say No” type until she’d taken her first dose of ecstasy midway through her last tour. She’d done it so she could better understand what her audience was feeling and hearing when she played her sets, and she’d decided she really enjoyed the high. Now Marty, her assistant, acquired pills to keep her energy up, to keep the party rolling while she was onstage. He took care of everything, kept her from taking too much, kept her from sleeping too much, kept her safe when she went flying too high.
Where the fuck was Marty? She was flying pretty high right now on whatever he’d given her. He must be cleaning the drugs out of the bus.
She eyeballed the suit guy. Did they have DEA agents in Europe? Fuck. She reminded herself again that there were no drugs on the bus. But maybe he had other evidence of her drug use. Maybe she was about to be arrested. Maybe Marty was already in jail. Fuck, why were the cops here? And why pick on her when ninety percent of the people at this festival were wasted off their faces?
“I’m totally clean,” she said. She reached to turn out her pockets but she didn’t have pockets, so she ended up pulling at the crotch of her too-tight shorts. “I’m clean, officer.”
Greg rolled his eyes and took her elbow, and led her through the chaot
ic backstage area to the much quieter bus paddock. The tall man in the suit followed behind them. Fuck.
“There are no drugs on the bus,” she whispered to Greg.
“You and your fucking drugs.”
“At least, I don’t think there are.” Her voice trembled with anxiety. “But maybe there are. You’ll have to distract the cop while I take a look.”
“He’s not a cop,” Greg said in an exasperated tone. “He’s a bodyguard.”
A bodyguard? Lola sometimes used bodyguards in L.A., but she didn’t need one now. Marty provided all the security she needed for this tour. She opened her mouth to say that, but then she thought she better not lose her shit in front of this fucking cop.
No, bodyguard.
They climbed onto the bus and she backed away from the two men. The bodyguard looked even taller here, where everything was scaled down to create more space. She’d let Greg handle this. That’s what tour managers were for. She headed toward the back, to the private compartment that served as her bedroom.
“Lola!”
She only stopped and turned because Greg sounded so angsty. “What?”
When she said “What?” it slurred out into a long, distorted sound that confused her. Shit, shit, shit, she was coming down too fast, considering what she’d paid for these “designer” pills. The dark-eyed giant stood with his arms at his side, assessing her with a frown. She didn’t like his scary looking badge or his menacing shadow of stubble.
“Sit down,” Greg said, pointing at the sofa. “We need to talk.”
She sat where he indicated and stared at both of them. In the distance she could make out the faint disco beat of the next set. She’d had a good set though. Yeah.
“This is Ran-som Gu-ti-er-rez,” Greg said, speaking to her as if she was three years old. He pointed to the giant, who folded his outsize frame into the seat next to her manager. “He’s the bodyguard from Ironclad Solutions. The one the tour producers hired for you.”
Ransom? she thought. Like, the thing people demand for kidnap victims? What kind of name was that for a bodyguard? Wait, was he a cop or a bodyguard? Was he here about a kidnapping? Her brain wasn’t working so great.