by Molly Joseph
He’d helped with that. He’d reformed her, put her in touch with her inner strength, and he ought to have been proud. But he wasn’t proud. He’d broken the cardinal rule of protection and gotten sexually involved with his client. Not just once, in a moment of weakness, but many times. He’d succumbed to her youth and vitality, and preyed on her loneliness. She was twenty, a kid, and he was a dirty old lecher. An ex porn star. Sad.
The doorbell rang. He’d known his boss would show up once they were in London, but now that he was here, Ransom felt unprepared.
“The media’s found you,” he said as soon as Ransom opened the door. “There are reporters outside. How’s the client?”
“Tired. Sleeping.”
Liam looked around the unassuming, hyper-secure flat, then turned back to him. Ransom tried to keep his expression neutral beneath his boss’s regard.
“Sleeping or sedated?” Liam asked.
“She won’t take sedatives. She’s very anti-drug now, even though she could probably use some. She’s devastated by what happened. She blames herself.”
Liam shook his head as he sat on the couch. “That’s bullshit. I don’t know what they were thinking, packing those kids onto that hill in the mud and rain.”
“It wasn’t a hill.” He took a seat in the armchair across from him. “More like a slope. But they were crazy before the show even started, throwing mud all over each other. When the lights went out, they lost their shit.”
“Did you see it happen? Did you see the kids go down?”
“No one saw it happen. Even the security guys didn’t know.” He swallowed hard. “No one knew. The crowd was surging back and forth and no one realized there were kids underneath. Or if they realized it, they couldn’t do anything about it.”
“I saw the footage of you yelling at the crowd.”
“By then it was too late. By then…” He suppressed a shudder, remembering the twisted bodies revealed when everyone stepped back. “By then, so many of them had already died.”
“Now the tour’s over.” Liam put his hands on his knees and sighed. “I may have an option for you to work with the client a while longer. We put in a contract bid with her label in L.A., since they pay for security when she’s stateside. I haven’t heard back yet, but…”
Ransom wanted to pounce on the opportunity. He wanted to stay with her.
But he knew he couldn’t. They’d continue sleeping together, and he couldn’t guard her properly if his heart was involved. “I don’t know,” he said, because that made more sense than please, no.
Liam studied him a moment. “It’s been a tough tour, and an awful week. Maybe you need a break? A leave of absence?”
“No, I…” He’d just spend a leave of absence following her around. “I’ll be fine. I’d just prefer a different assignment. Some time away from the ear plugs and raver kids.”
“The raver kids love you. There are fan blogs about you, you know.”
Oh, yes. The Gilberto and Lady Paradise bloggers, who posted and captioned photos of them together, and even wrote bawdy stories about their sexual adventures. Thank God none of them had discovered his porn background, but it was only a matter of time. He looked his boss in the eyes and said the sentence he’d practiced beforehand. “I think it’s best if I take a new assignment once she’s back in L.A.”
His lips twisted as he said it, because it was the exact opposite of what he wanted. Liam’s brow creased and his mouth turned down in a frown.
“I see.” He looked back at his phone. One of his fingers tapped the side. “Perhaps I should have removed you from the situation after she overdosed.”
The situation. Ransom’s mind stuck on those words. Lola wasn’t a situation. She was a person, a scared kid who was full of moxie and feelings. He loved her. He would always love her, no matter how inappropriate it was. But he couldn’t say that. Instead he squared his shoulders and shuttered his aching heart. “She’s an…emotionally taxing client,” he said. “She’ll need a bodyguard with his head on straight.”
“What do you mean, ‘emotionally taxing’?”
“She’s just…” He wanted to explain her complexity, her vulnerability, but how to do that without veering outside professional bounds? “As famous as she is, there’s this conflicted person inside her. Not Lady Paradise, but a person who’s lost both her parents, who makes impulsive choices, who’s struggling to grow up, to grow beyond all the fame and immaturity.”
Liam made a sound. “About the immaturity: she’s twenty years old.”
“She plays the guitar when no one else is around, and pours out these songs that could break your heart—”
“Your heart, Ransom?”
The man’s voice stopped him cold. It was a warning. Say any more, and he would have to investigate the nature of their relationship, and shit would come out that Ransom could never explain. An uncomfortably long silence stretched between them. He didn’t dare open his mouth.
“Speaking of immaturity,” Liam finally said, “how do you think she’s doing as far as her drug issues? Will she still need a minder?”
Ransom thought about that, his heart sinking in his chest. Would she remain stable once he said goodbye to her in L.A.? Or would she fall back into her crazy party girl habits? The overdose had scared her straight for a while, but when she was back with her posse, she might forget what he’d taught her. She might even act out in order to reclaim his attention.
This sucked. Holy hell, this entire thing sucked. He’d thought, by the end of the tour, he’d be able to say goodbye. He’d thought she’d be bored of him by then, but the tour had ended too quickly.
“I don’t know if she’ll need a minder. That might be something to discuss with her label.”
“I think it makes more sense to discuss it with you.” Liam leaned back, tapping his knees with a questioning expression. “You spent the most time with her. What do you think?”
“I think she needs someone young to look after her. Someone flexible and energetic. Someone patient. She might go off the deep end again, but I don’t think I’m the best person to deal with it.”
“Why?”
Had he worried about Liam opening an investigation? This was the investigation. His boss’s close regard didn’t waver, and he didn’t dare look away. He felt like he was on the opposite side of an interrogation table. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.
“The thing is, she’s just a kid. Like you said, twenty years old. It was hard for me to relate to her in a…in a professional way.”
He met Liam’s searching gaze. He’d told him the goddamn truth, as much as it was a lie. After a moment, Liam scratched his neck.
“She was a pain, huh? Too much of a handful for you? You’re getting old, my man.”
Ransom smiled and said the expected line. “Way too old.”
“The bloggers are going to be sad.”
“Maybe the next bodyguard will be more photogenic.”
Liam chuckled and the danger seemed to pass, even though he still felt on the defensive.
“I have a job in Vegas,” his boss said, looking back at his phone. “Sixty year old soul singer who hits the pills and booze too hard. You could start as early as next weekend. You sure you don’t need some time off?”
“No.”
Liam nodded. “We can take care of Lola from here on out.”
“I’ll see her back to L.A. I promised I’d take her home.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that. And once she’s in L.A., we’ll get another bodyguard on the case.” Liam smiled. “Someone younger and more photogenic.”
“Someone more blogworthy,” joked Ransom, even though it was hard as fuck to banter when his heart was cracking in his chest.
A knock interrupted their conversation, along with a strident male voice. “Lady Paradise? I’m a reporter with National News Network. Could you answer a few questions?” Another knock, and a second male voice. “Lady Paradise?”
Li
am raised an eyebrow. “I’ll assemble a team to hold the perimeter and keep them out of your face. When Lola’s ready to go home, let me know.” He stood and straightened his tie as the reporter knocked again.
“Lady Paradise? Lady Paradise?”
The banging and yelling must have woken Lola. She appeared in the living room doorway in her wrinkled robe, with a grievous case of bedhead. She frowned at Liam, as if the tall, suited man might be the interloping reporter.
“This is my boss,” Ransom clarified.
“Liam Wilder, Ironclad CEO. I came to see if I could help with anything.” He approached her with his hand outstretched, as if he did business with pink-haired DJs all the time. “Don’t mind the reporters. I’ll take care of them on my way out.”
“Good luck with that.”
He paused, holding her hand between his. “I know you’ve had a disheartening week, but I don’t want you to worry about anything. All of this will die down. Everything will be okay.”
Liam had a way of speaking that reassured people even in the most fraught circumstances. He could see his magic working on Lola. Her shoulders relaxed and she almost smiled. Almost.
The reporters pounded on the door again and Liam excused himself to deal with them. A few sharp words, a few legal threats, and they were gone. Liam was great at his job, but Ransom felt like a failure. He’d slept with a client, and now he was going to leave her. It was wrong and terrible, but he had no other choice.
“It’s going to be okay.” He took her in his arms and stroked her hair. “Liam’s right, things will get better. This won’t last forever.”
“I know.” She clung to him, still groggy with sleep. But no sedatives, no drugs. That had been her choice. If he had to leave her, at least he knew he’d changed her for the better.
Small solace, when both of them would be alone.
*
By the time they left London and flew over the ocean, Lola had finally begun to emerge from her numb haze.
So many people had died. The staff at Ironclad’s Barcelona office helped her send cards and money to their families expressing her grief. A third of them had been returned with furious replies. She forced Ransom to translate those replies for her, even though the words hurt. They accused her of riling up the crowd with some evil, murderous purpose. She knew she hadn’t done that. She’d only been riling them up to help them have fun.
I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I never meant to hurt anyone. Ransom woke her one night and told her she’d been crying those words in her sleep. She believed it, because her sleep had gone to shit, and the fact that people had lost their lives during her set weighed heavily on her heart. The EDM movement was supposed to be about freedom and happiness, not drugs and death. At some point she’d have to explain that to the media, give interviews and tell her side of the story, but she didn’t have the energy right now. She didn’t even want to play her guitar.
But she’d brought it home for when she felt better. It was packed, along with everything else, in the hold of Ironclad’s private jet. On the way through the airport the media had ambushed her, because it was hard to blend in with pink hair. Teams of reporters had trailed her and shouted questions about her guilt, her regret, her future plans.
Ransom had shielded her and turned them away so she didn’t have to deal with it. He’d used his bodyguard voice and his stern expression and told them to leave her alone. Lola had gotten a little teary because she would have been lost without him.
She would be lost without him, very soon. He had told her, kindly and gently, that he’d accepted an assignment in Las Vegas, guarding some drugged up soul singer. She understood why he had to move on. He had a career, he had to keep working. He couldn’t stay with her just because she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with him.
She let out a sigh and he looked over at her. “Okay, kid?”
She nodded. His hand moved closer to hers on the center armrest, but he didn’t take it. Since the tragedy in Barcelona, he’d been all bodyguard. He called her kid and acted as if they’d never been lovers, as if they’d never found ecstasy in each other’s arms.
She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to have any other lovers for a while. She’d learned a lot of things on this ill-fated tour, and one was that she didn’t need to be so free with her body. She could be choosier about her partners. Sex could be special and emotional, and maybe she’d hold out for that. She’d also learned that life was short, that tragedy could strike down anyone, even kids younger than her. She needed to reassess everything.
“I’m going to be different.” She said it out loud, because she needed someone else to hear it and acknowledge it. She wanted that person to be Ransom.
“What’s that?” He looked over at her in the harsh cabin light.
“I’m going to be different from now on.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to elaborate, because she wasn’t sure she could put her feelings into words. He never pressed her when she felt thoughtful or conflicted. She appreciated that about him, the way he let her work through things. He knew when to be quiet. No one else in her life did.
“I mean that maybe…I know myself better now than I used to. I understand that I can be who I want to be, not the person everyone expects me to be. The person everyone pressures me to be.”
He nodded after a moment. “You should strive to be yourself. The best version of yourself.”
“Yes, the best version. That’s what I mean. I wasn’t thinking about that before. I was just…being. Reacting. Trying to make people love me.”
A corner of his mouth tilted up. “People will always love you.”
“But they should love me for me. And I should love myself…for me.”
His approving nod warmed her. She wanted to take his hand but she didn’t want it to be awkward.
“I think you’re on the right track,” he said.
She thought so too, and he’d been a big part of getting her there. The Love and Tragedy Tour. Next time she went on a club tour, that’s what she’d call it. She’d honor this turning point in her life, and in doing so, honor the people who had died.
She’d honor the people who had convinced her she needed to live a better life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sex and Sadness
Ransom braced for another media ambush when they got to Lola’s residence, but the sidewalk outside her gate was empty. After two weeks, the story was dying out. A Spanish court had handed down a judgment, fines levied against Danzamia and MadDance for negligent business practices, but the deaths themselves had been ruled an accident, and Lola wasn’t named in any of the litigation. There was no longer a reason for reporters to congregate outside her door.
It was a relief to be left alone, to have some privacy. It made all of this easier, this long, wretched goodbye.
Lola’s place was nothing like he’d imagined. He’d expected something more pink, more pop-star, a cavernous chrome and glass confection overlooking the sea. Instead, she had a solid wood bunker in Hollywood Hills. Wood paneling, wood tables, wood beams, wood bookcases full of CDs and audio equipment. You could almost imagine yourself in an old Memphis club.
He left his luggage and suit jacket by the door and helped her carry her electronics downstairs to her music studio, then roll her suitcases down the hall to her sunlit bedroom. The room where she slept looked homey, especially to someone like him, who never took the time to make any place feel like home. Bright red curtains, a sage and crimson quilt on a raised bed, and piles of pillows, many of them in the shape of one-eyed creatures or tufted monsters. Cute. Twisted, but childlike. You little monster, he thought. You’ve brought me to your bedroom, and you know I’m weak.
Since Barcelona, he hadn’t touched her except to hug and comfort her, or draw her from a nightmare. Now, looking at the sun shining across the bed, he wanted to lay her down and comfort her in earnest, and make all her troubles disappear.
I’m g
oing to be different from now on, she’d said, and he was in full support of that, so instead he turned toward the door.
“Show me the rest of your place, Lola.”
She indulged him, showing him the two guest suites, the expansive kitchen, the living room with a huge floral couch and more wacky pillows, and then her recording studio in the basement.
That was when she came alive. They sat in front of her massive work console, lounging in black ergonomic chairs while she pointed out her four high-line laptops, her rack of expensive headphones, her mixing tables and hi-def monitors. A disco ball dangled over their heads. “This is where I make the magic,” she said.
“Do you record all your music here?”
“I didn’t at first, but now I can. All this equipment is production quality. There’s even a booth for recording vocals.” She pointed to a door in the corner.
“Could you record your guitar songs down here?” Her guitar was propped over in the corner. When he was gone, he’d miss hearing her play it. “Maybe you can record a few of your songs for me. Send them to Vegas.”
They hadn’t talked about whether they’d stay in touch, but he hoped they would. He’d like to remain her friend so he could keep tabs on her, just in case her life started spiraling out of control again once he was out of it.
She shrugged. “I told you, no one’s interested in my folksy bullshit.”
“You’re interested in it. You said you were going to start being who you wanted to be, not who everyone else wanted you to be.”
“Still, I can’t do whatever I want and damn the consequences.” She ran a hand through her hair. It looked especially disheveled today. “I have to give people what they want, or I can’t pay my bills.”
Ransom understood all that from his porn years, about giving people what they wanted to keep the money flowing. But he’d also learned a thing or two about being true to yourself.
