Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2)

by Molly Joseph

  “What?” she asked. “Who is this again?”

  “The tour producers hired a bodyguard to look after you. He’s going to stay with us until the final venue.” As Greg’s features wavered in and out of focus, he turned to the kidnapper and frowned. “This might not be the best time for this conversation.”

  Oh. Lola knew how to make conversation. She could be a great talker when she wanted to be. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, because…politeness. She meant to offer her hand but it wouldn’t move. Fuck, she was winding too far down.

  “It’s nice to meet you too,” he replied. His voice sounded low and growly. Greg said something else but she didn’t hear it, because the bodyguard’s deep, thick voice was still traveling through her brain like syrup. The edges of her vision started to flame.

  “I’m so high,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t, because there was a cop on the bus. She was going to pass out, she could feel it.

  Ugh.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Bodyguard

  When Lola woke, the faraway beats had stopped. It was quiet and dark, and she wasn’t on the bus anymore. She was in a bed in a hotel room, in some unknown European city. A sliver of light shone through a gap in the curtain and bisected the wall across the room.

  Scary that she didn’t remember how she’d gotten here. What the hell kind of shit had Marty given her last night? They must have driven here and checked in while she was dead to the world. That wasn’t good. Too much lost time she couldn’t account for. At some point, she must have put a tee shirt over her bikini and gold shorts. Her eyes felt crusty with makeup, and a dull pain throbbed in the middle of her skull.

  “Fuck.” She sat up and passed a hand over her face. “Fuckity fuck.”

  She had to stop with the party pills. She said that every time she woke up feeling like this. Her empty stomach rolled over, and then she rolled over, grasping the sheets. As she stared into the darkness, two eyes stared back at her. There was a man in a chair by the window, and he was too big to be Greg or Marty.

  She didn’t know whether she should scream for help. Maybe she’d invited him to her room the night before. She tried to call up a memory, a name, but her stomach revolted before she could find it. She pushed back the sheets and stumbled in the dark for the bathroom. When she found it, she hunched over the toilet, hacking up dry coughs and cloudy spit.

  Gross. She hated throwing up. She hated that the bathroom spun like a planet off its axis. She wanted everything to be still. She closed her eyes tight, pressing her fingers to her lids, trying to calm the nausea. Her head pounded with unbearable pressure. She’d need to have a talk with Marty about the shit pills he’d given her, because “related to ecstasy” felt more like “related to brain damage.” The high had felt incredible while it lasted, but now…

  She cringed and coughed, heaved again, and realized the man from her room was standing behind her.

  “Tell Marty I need him,” she said over her shoulder. “Get Marty for me.”

  “Marty’s gone.”

  “Gone? Where…gone? Who the fuck…?” Questions sputtered out, none of them complete. “What?”

  She wanted to ask who this dude was and why he was here, but she couldn’t seem to string together a coherent sentence. He looked too old to be a groupie, and too grim to be a gigolo, but she’d been with enough of both to know they came in all shapes and sizes.

  Had she picked him up backstage last night? Or in some bar? Blackouts terrified her. She might have done anything while she was out. She peered at the guy from between her fingers. Tall, muscular, dark, just the type of guy she’d pick up for drug-fueled sex. Had she fucked him?

  Two-day stubble. Strong jaw. Those hands. If she’d fucked him, she’d probably enjoyed it. She was sad she couldn’t remember.

  “Did we fuck?” she asked, because she was tired of feeling confused.

  “Excuse me?”

  Great. Now he was offended. Whatever. He looked so uptight, he’d probably never fucked anyone. He wore a dark red tie and a starched white shirt, like he’d gotten lost on the way to Wall Street. Maybe he was a preacher or drug counselor. Maybe he was trying to stage some kind of intervention.

  “Go away,” she said. “Close the door. Can’t you see I’m sick?”

  “What can I do to help you?”

  Through the blackout haze, she remembered the sound of his voice from yesterday, the low, liquid growl.

  “You can help me by going the fuck away. Where’s Marty? Go get Marty.”

  “Marty’s gone,” he said in a patient, fuck-you voice, and that’s how she remembered he’d told her that already.

  Why was Marty gone? Where the fuck was he? He was her paid assistant. He was supposed to help her. “Greg, then,” she groaned. “Tell Greg I’m sick and I’m not going to be able to perform tonight unless…” Unless Marty comes back here with some new, different pills to make me feel better.

  “Your next show isn’t until tomorrow, and your manager knows you’re sick. We were both with you last night when you passed out. And you’re not really sick. You’re fucked up from whatever drug you ingested. What were you on last night?”

  “Some ecstasy thing.” She rubbed her temples and sat back against the tub, and pulled the white hotel shower curtain around her. There. No more guy in a red tie, asking her irritating questions.

  He yanked the curtain back and crouched in front of her, and held out a bottle of water. She took off the lid and drank. It tasted weird.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Electrolyte water. Do you remember passing out?”

  His curt question triggered delayed memories, backstage bustle and distant music, a suit jacket. An ID badge. This guy wasn’t a gigolo or groupie. Greg had told her he was a bodyguard.

  But why was he here in her room, peppering her with questions? She didn’t need a bodyguard, even if he was handsome as fuck. The festivals were huge and she was surrounded by tons of strangers all the time, but they were ravers, not criminals. The only thing they were violent about was dancing. The man had a ridiculous set of muscles under his pristine white button-down. Huh. Overkill, those muscles, cause no one was after her.

  He nodded at the bottle. “Drink some more water. You need to rehydrate.”

  She took a sip and grimaced, feeling trapped between the tub and the man’s large frame. Why wouldn’t he leave? Why was he looming over her and staring at her that way?

  And what the fuck had he been doing in her hotel room while she was sleeping? She felt violated. Or pissed off. She didn’t actually know how she felt. At least the room had stopped spinning. She drank more water and sat up straighter.

  “Ready to get up?” he asked.

  She glared at him. “I like sitting on bathroom floors.”

  He took her arm and dragged her to her feet. “Keep drinking the water. I’ll order us something to eat.”

  Order us something to eat? That sounded awfully cozy. Maybe she had slept with him. No, she’d remember if she’d gone to bed with this monster. He was built like a fort.

  He dropped her off at the chair by the window and drew open the drapes, causing her to shy away like a vampire. He frowned and drew them half closed again. There was still too much sunlight. How long had she slept? What city were they in? Marty usually answered all those questions, but her assistant wasn’t here. What had the guy said? Gone. Marty was gone. Gone where?

  The bodyguard stood in front of the window and ordered breakfast in slow, patient, neutral-American English. She took the opportunity to study his face, now that he wasn’t looking at her. The sun illuminated his dark brows and strong cheekbones, and his prominent, masculine nose. His lips were sexy, full and expressive even when he wasn’t speaking.

  “Yes, I know it’s after two o’clock,” he said, turning away. “Could you please make an exception?” In the end he got his way, because he said thank you in both English and some Euro language. Show off.

  But w
ow, he had a marvelous ass for an older guy. He had a really, really great, firm, sculpted ass beneath those Wall Street pants.

  He turned back and caught her staring at his ten-out-of-ten posterior. She quickly dropped her gaze. Now that the ache in her head had subsided, reasoned thoughts emerged. It wasn’t polite to stare, and she was suddenly, painfully conscious of her skimpy bikini and skintight shorts. She wondered if he was the one who’d put a shirt on her after she passed out last night.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking back up at him. “I forgot your name.”

  “Ransom Gutierrez.”

  Oh yeah, the whole kidnapping thing. “Look, Mr. Gutierrez—”

  “You can call me Ransom. We’re going to become very good friends.”

  She hated the way he said that. “I don’t need a bodyguard.” She downed the last of the electrolyte-enhanced water. “Greg keeps the crazies away, and I have another assistant who helps m—”

  “If you mean Marty, he’s been fired.”

  “What?”

  Shit, shit, shit. Fired? Marty was her lifeline. He helped her dress and eat and sleep, procured her drugs, and even fucked her sometimes when she couldn’t find anyone else.

  “Why was he fired?” she asked. “He was my employee.”

  “I think you know why he was fired, and I think you understand why I’m here. Your illustrious tour sponsors are concerned about you becoming a liability.”

  “A liability?” She threw up her arms. “Those assholes. I’m the entire fucking reason for this tour. If I’m not here, no one shows up.”

  “Exactly. They lose a lot of money if your lifestyle renders you unable to perform.”

  “My lifestyle?” Her stomach started churning all over again. “What lifestyle?”

  “The alcohol. The drugs. The shady friends. The all-night parties and marginal nightclubs.”

  But… But… “I didn’t go out last night.”

  “Because you blacked out after your show.” He sat on the bed across from her chair, so they were eye to eye, and regarded her with his hands braced on his knees. “Rule number one, Miss Reynolds: No more drugs, not on this tour.”

  She couldn’t stand the imperious way he talked to her, like he was the master of the universe and she was some peon. She was Lady Paradise, and she’d sold twenty-five million singles last year. “I don’t use that many drugs,” she said.

  He gave her an arch look. “You’re talking to the person who carried your limp, boneless corpse through the hotel lobby and up to this room last night at four in the morning.”

  “They were bad pills, or I took too many or something. Lesson learned.”

  “Have you really learned a lesson?” His nostrils flared like he smelled something unpleasant. She didn’t know why she noticed that. She didn’t know why everything had turned so scary and serious. “MadDance, Inc. thinks you’re getting worse, not better,” he said.

  “Who’s MadDance Ink?”

  “MadDance Incorporated. They’re paying for your tour expenses and manager, in exchange for your fitness to perform. You understand how all this works? You signed a contract, Miss Reynolds.”

  She remembered signing a contract. She didn’t need some towering, muscle-bound bodyguard throwing it in her face. What the fuck kind of name was Ransom anyway? “My name’s Lola,” she snapped. “You calling me Miss Reynolds in that fucking tone doesn’t make you a polite guy.”

  “I’m not here to be polite. I’m here to keep you alive and healthy for the next two months.”

  Ugh. Jerk. Smartass. He was going to throw attitude at her all fucking day and all fucking night. She stared out the window at the sunlight and wondered what city she was in. She didn’t want to ask because she didn’t want to admit how out of touch she’d become with the day-to-day schedule. She didn’t want to admit how dependent she’d become on Marty during this tour.

  “Why don’t you get out of here so I can sleep?” She left the chair and went back to her rumpled bed, burrowing under the sheets. Had he slept in the other bed? She couldn’t tell. It was neatly made up.

  “You should take a shower before the food gets here,” he suggested. “Or are you just going to wear that same outfit on through to tomorrow night?”

  “That’s none of your fucking business.” But yeah, she was gross. Her clothes were wrinkled and slept in. She needed to take off her stale makeup. Her haphazard braids looked like rats had been gnawing on them. “I want to take a shower, but not with you in the room.”

  “Sorry, I can’t leave. I’m on supervisory detail.”

  Ugh. She’d known he wouldn’t leave.

  “If you stay here, you’re probably going to see me naked,” she said, in some pathetic attempt to rattle him.

  “I pretty much saw you naked during your set last night.”

  No, not rattled at all. He raked a gaze over her body, and even with the shirt on over her skimpy costume, she felt exposed.

  “Listen, kid,” he said when his dark eyes finally meandered back to her face. “I’ve seen plenty of bare skin in my line of work. It doesn’t matter to me. I have a job to do, and that job is getting you to each venue of this tour on time and in shape to perform. You can parade around naked if you like, or you can wrap up in a towel. You can sing in the shower. You can pick your nose or scratch your ass. You can pretend I don’t exist, but I’m going to be within ten feet of you for the next couple months, so if I were you, I’d just take that shower.”

  She went to her luggage in a huff, dragging it with her toward the bathroom door. She thought she might still have some ecstasy tablets stashed in the front pocket of her cosmetics bag.

  “Oh, and just so you aren’t disappointed, I’ve already been through your things and confiscated the items you’re not allowed to have.”

  She froze mid-step. “What do you mean, you’ve been through my things?”

  “I mean that I looked through all your belongings and confiscated items you’re not allowed to—”

  “What the fuck! You pawed through my personal shit?”

  She had private journals and lingerie with her. Condoms and lube and sex toys. She could see from the glint in his eyes that he’d found all those things and more during his illegal luggage search.

  “Just doing my job,” he said.

  “You’re an asshole. I never agreed to this. I’ll quit this fucking tour and they’ll be sorry.” She put her hands on her hips and let him have it, even though he was so much bigger than her. “I don’t need the money from these festivals, you fucking prick. Do you know how much I made last year? Enough that I don’t have to put up with this kind of bullshit.”

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They both knew she couldn’t quit, because she’d signed a contract, and somewhere in that contract it probably said they reserved the right to hire asshole bodyguards to interfere in her life.

  She went into the bathroom and slammed the door, then leaned on the sink, taking deep breaths. She felt like she might vomit again, but there was nothing to bring up but a bunch of shitty electrolyte water. Fuck this shit, fuck him and his judgey frowns, and his illegal searches and confiscations. He wanted her to stop partying and going to nightclubs? Fat fucking chance. She was Lady Paradise and she had an image to uphold.

  MadDance, Inc.? Fuck em. At the end of the day, they needed to dance to her tune, because this tour was nothing without her.

  *

  Ransom sighed and sat by the window to wait for the food to arrive. Fuck. That hadn’t gone well.

  Not that he’d expected it to. He’d assumed he’d get some blowback for ousting her assistant/drug mule, and informing her he was going to be living inside her ass for the rest of the tour. Rich, successful artist types rarely enjoyed hearing news like that.

  But everything would be okay. From what he could see, his client wasn’t a hardened junkie, just a dumb kid who wanted to party. He didn’t know what was worse, that she’d asked him if they’d slept together, or
that she actually believed he would have slept with her while she was blacked out. Had that happened to her in the past?

  Dumbass kid. She didn’t have the body weight for the chemicals she was ingesting. Last night, when he’d picked her up and carried her off the bus, she’d felt so light she might fly away.

  If she was a true junkie, she would have flipped out to find her small stash gone. He’d thrown away ecstasy and pot, amateur shit, although she’d been wired on something harder last night. He wasn’t sure what she’d taken, only knew he’d arrived here just in time.

  Fucking Marty. He could tell in the course of one conversation with her “assistant” that he was a horrible influence, a hanger-on taking advantage of a rich, gullible young woman. Money led to drugs, drugs led to partying, partying led to questions like Did we fuck? It led to exploiters and users, and danger.

  But Ransom was here to keep the danger away. The hard partying was over, at least for the rest of the tour, and if she had a problem with that, she could try to fight him. He was pretty sure he’d win.

  Room service arrived just as she turned off the shower. By the time she opened the door, he’d set out the German idea of late breakfast: bread and cheese, fruit, yogurt, and miniature glazed doughnuts sprinkled with cinnamon. He wanted to stuff about twelve of them in his mouth. Wrangling hungover, immature brats made him hungry.

  She came out of the bathroom with a thump of her luggage and a muffled curse. He looked up and paused mid-doughnut.

  Lola Mae.

  Those were the first two words that came to his mind, because he wasn’t looking at Lady Paradise the mega-millionaire DJ anymore. Without the slut makeup, without the riotous braids, without the bikini and booty shorts she looked…

  She looked like a lost, befuddled kid named Lola Mae.

  He felt a puzzling rush of attraction, a reaction to her rumpled, vulnerable freshness, and quickly turned away. It wasn’t his business to find his clients beautiful or attractive, especially when they were half his age. He hadn’t fallen for a client once in his career, and he wasn’t going to start now, not with this one. Her hair was pink, for fuck’s sake. It was darker pink now that it was wet. She wore a pale gray tee that made her blue eyes pop, and some worn jeans that fit obscenely well.