Cindy Gerard - [Bodyguards 04]

by Over the Line

  “Let’s get something straight here, Maxie.” Herb’s chum smile disappeared. A sneer that had earned him the nickname Herb the Hatchet morphed his face from bulldog sad to pit bull mean. “You ain’t callin’ the shots on account of you got nothing for collateral. Nothing but that girl.”

  Max felt his blood gel in his veins, smelled his own sweat. “Look. I screwed up. I know it. But you want retribution, you take it out on me.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d raised his voice until the bartender shot him a questioning look. He turned to face Herb. “You take it out on me,” he repeated in a low, strained voice.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy.” Herb offered up another one of his good-ole-boy smiles. “Have you heard me say anything about retribution? Course not. We just want our money, but we’re getting into that blood-out-of-a-turnip area here, Maxie. Can’t be done.”

  He clamped his beefy hand on Max’s shoulder, squeezed until it hurt. “We ain’t gonna hurt you. And that pretty little blonde?” He shook his head. “I understand she’s like a daughter to you, right? Must be hard for her, what with her momma getting killed and all.”

  Max locked his gaze onto Herb’s. And froze statue still. Jesus. They wouldn’t have killed Alice Perkins. Would they?

  “Be a damn shame if something was to happen to little Janey now, too, wouldn’t it?” Herb went on, his eyes on Max as he hoisted his beer.

  “So help me God, if you hurt her—”

  “Hey. No cause to get excited. I was just making conversation.”

  “I don’t have the money.” Max pleaded with his eyes, not for himself but for Janey.

  “She does,” Herb said with a long, meaningful look. “She does.”

  “Forty-eight hours, Max,” he repeated. Then he finished his beer and walked out of the bar.

  Max breathed past the pain in his chest.

  Jesus.

  Jesus. What the hell was he going to do?

  He sat for another half an hour, downed another gin and smoked his last two cigarettes before he was calm enough to get up from the bar stool.

  Outside, under the blinding July sun, he told himself he’d figure something out. Get a loan. Hit up a friend.

  Who was he kidding? He didn’t have any friends with that kind of cash. And the only way he’d get any money out of a bank was if he robbed it. His credit was for shit.

  Janey. God. He couldn’t ask her. Couldn’t bear to have her know about his gambling problem.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, startling him.

  He dug it out, fumbled with the flip cover when he saw Wilson’s name on the digital readout.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” the kid said.

  “I’ve been busy, okay?” he snapped for no particular reason except that he felt guilty for being out of touch and his control was pushed to the limit.

  “You might want to get back to the hotel, sir,” Wilson said. “There’s been an incident.”

  Janey.

  The bastards. The bastards had already gone after Janey. He gripped the phone in both hands, a film of sweat suddenly covering his body. “Is Janey okay?”

  “She’s fine. A little shaken but fine.”

  Christ. Oh, thank you, Jesus Christ. She’s okay.

  The sweat on his body turned cold and clammy as Wilson filled him in.

  Grimm. This wasn’t about Meyers and his muscle but Grimm. Grimm had gotten into Janey’s room. The bastard had gotten close to her!

  But she was safe. She was fine. Max pulled himself together—then literally felt himself falling apart when Wilson told him the rest.

  Alice Perkins had not been a random victim of a hitand-run. Alice Perkins had been murdered.

  Meyers’s words came back to haunt him.

  “Must be hard for her, what with her momma getting killed and all. . . . Be a damn shame if something was to happen to little Janey now, too, wouldn’t it?. . .”

  He couldn’t believe it. But what else could he think? Had Meyers and his “bosses” ordered a hit on Janey’s mother? Why else would Meyers have brought it up?

  Because he wanted Max to know they meant business. Because they wanted Max to understand that they wouldn’t have any qualms about hurting Janey if he didn’t come up with the money.

  Wilson was still talking when Max hung up.

  He started walking. He had to think. He had to think of something fast.

  Midmorning Monday, July 17th, TriBeCa, New York City

  “Move it or lose it.”

  Jase stood away from the setup for the photo shoot, close to the catering table, where fruits and cheeses and everything from milk to freshly ground coffee waited for anyone who might want to nibble. He wasn’t close enough to Janey to hear her whispered warning to Derek McCoy but could read her lips. Out of necessity, Jase had gotten better at that over the past months.

  Just like during the past few days he’d gotten better at reading Derek McCoy and the rest of the entourage on the tour.

  They’d made the quick flight from Atlantic City to the Big Apple this morning while the road crew had torn down the set after the concert last night and driven the semis with the set and sound equipment here. Another sold-out concert was on tap for tonight at Madison Square Garden, but at the moment, Janey was in the middle of a photo shoot for a new album cover.

  Janey being Janey—not nearly the spotlight hound Jase had pegged her for—had insisted on including the band on the cover.

  Jase suspected she was now having second thoughts—at least where McCoy was concerned. He glared at McCoy, who had positioned himself directly behind Janey—apparently for the sole purpose of taking liberties with his hands. Hands that were currently clutching her low on one bare hip and high on her bare rib cage, just below her left breast.

  The guy was a frickin’ weasel. And in the background, Chris Ramsey was filming it all for posterity, a pleased smirk on her face.

  “I said move it,” Janey warned McCoy again.

  Jase shifted from one foot to the other, stalling an itch to add a little of his own suggestions to the mix. But in a very short time he’d learned not to underestimate Janey Perkins.

  A weaker woman would have fallen apart yesterday. Janey had had some bad moments, yeah, but then she’d put them behind her. She’d let it go. And today, you’d never know she was being stalked by a sicko who might have murdered her mother.

  Janey was tough and she was strong. And short of McCoy getting flat-out abusive, Jase was going to let her handle the creep in her own good time.

  That didn’t mean he liked seeing McCoy paw at her. Still, he watched, and he waited, his jaw clenched, his entire body coiled tight in anticipation of a reason to move in and flatten the asshole.

  The photographer was going for a film noir look. The background was stark white. Everyone was dressed in black—which seemed to suit these leather-loving head-bangers just fine, Jase thought without an ounce of charity.

  Okay. That was a bit harsh. As far as he’d been able to figure, McCoy was the only true asshole in the lot. With his bleached-blond hair, sleeveless vests, bare chest, chains, and engineer boots, McCoy preened and pranced and generally made it known he thought he was God’s gift.

  Jase thought of him more as God’s joke—especially when Janey put the hammer down and stomped the hell out of his instep with a four-inch spike heel.

  “Fuck me!” McCoy howled, stumbled, and landed flat on his pansy ass, knocking the carefully choreographed tangle of legs, limbs, and leather into a tailspin.

  “What the hell’d you do that for?”

  “Oh,” Janey said innocently, tucking a fall of hair behind her ear. “Was that your foot?”

  For the first time since the shoot began, Jase relaxed. He crossed his arms over his chest and somehow managed not to grin too broadly when Russ Bryant, the band’s lead guitarist, grabbed the back of McCoy’s vest and hoisted him to his feet.

  “It’s not like she didn�
�t warn you, mate.”

  Jase thought he could like Bryant but was still working his way past the guy’s full body suit. He had to have spent years collecting all those tattoos. The tall, rangy, and very bald Aussie played a mean guitar, though. He was quiet, quick with a smile, and pretty much kept to his own business. Cam Logan, keyboard, was much the same—although Jase could have done without the yard of black hair that was always flying around his face like a cobweb.

  “Be nice if you could keep your hands to yourself long enough to get this done, McCoy.” The photographer—some high-ticket guy who’d been flown in from L.A. because Janey’s schedule didn’t have room for her to go to him—was checking his light meter and repositioning umbrellas. “But hey, I’m getting paid by the hour, so what do I care?”

  The rest of the band members, Avery Blanchard, rhythm guitar, Eric Holmes, synthesizer, and JoJo Starbuck, bass, grumbled good-naturedly.

  “We’d like to get in a few sets of handball before the concert, so give it up, McCoy. Get used to the rejection.”

  “That wasn’t rejection. That was foreplay, right, Janey?” McCoy joked, trying to reclaim some of his macho.

  “Yeah, I’m all atwitter.” Janey flashed McCoy a warning glare when it looked like he was going to tailgate her again.

  “JoJo,” she said, “why don’t you move in right here?” She made room directly behind her, edging out McCoy, and sending him into a surly pout.

  The guy was a piece of crap.

  “How’s Cara?” she asked as JoJo got in position.

  Jase had heard JoJo talk about his wife and the baby on the way.

  “Wondering if it’s too late to back out,” the guitarist said with a laugh that showed a wide gap between his front teeth—both of which were gold. “I’m thinking she’s about eight months too late.”

  “Baby’s doing okay?”

  “Better than okay. Ultrasound showed him with a guitar in his hand.”

  Even Eric Holmes, who rarely showed any emotion, smiled. All the boys, it seemed, were excited about the procreation of one of their members. All but McCoy, who rolled his eyes to show he was bored by the conversation.

  A strobe flashed. “Fantastic!” The photographer beamed. “A real Kodak moment. You guys almost looked like normal folks in that one. Now let’s get this done for real, shall we?”

  This time Jase had to smile. Normal folks? Between the excessive tattoos, the body piercings, the leathers, the Mohawks, the soul patches, and the makeup—most of it on the men—“normal” wouldn’t come within a transport bird of this motley crew.

  Two hours later, they called it a wrap—Chris Ramsey, however, kept on shooting. Something about her still didn’t feel right. Jase had felt something off about her the first time they’d been introduced. Chris Ramsey was too much, well, everything. Too professional. Too intense. Too pleased, sometimes, to see friction and tension. Like it all fit into some master plan or something. He’d figure it out eventually.

  The door opened again, and Neal Sanders ambled into the rented studio, helped himself to a table loaded with drinks and food while Max talked with the photographer and Chris shot more video.

  Jase still didn’t have a bead on Sanders, either. He’d asked Janey about him on the quick flight from Atlantic City. They’d been sitting beside each other in the butter-soft, gray leather seats of her Gulfstream.

  She’d given him a closed look, then a dismissive, “Creative consultant and old friend, so you can quit staring at him like you’re trying to decide if he’s an ax murderer.”

  To which Jase had responded, “Actually, I was thinking gigolo.”

  She’d barked out a laugh. Shaken her head. “You’re a laugh a minute, Iowa,” and she’d gone back to listening to a CD of demos, searching for new material for her next album.

  Okay. So that was exactly the reaction Jase had wanted from her about Sanders. Dismissive and ludicrous. Which meant there wasn’t an ounce of fact in his little bit of fiction about them possibly being an item. For reasons he didn’t want to explore, he’d been relieved as hell.

  He could have been right, though. Since the tabloids had missed the mark on McCoy being Janey’s love interest, for all he’d known Sanders could have been her boy toy. He sure as hell didn’t seem to be taking up anything but space in the overall scheme of things. Taking up space and drinking complimentary booze and acting like he was someone everyone ought to get excited about.

  “Don’t try to figure that relationship out,” Lakesha Jones had advised Jase later when they had both been standing by the jet’s galley, stretching their legs.

  “Pardon me?” He’d thought he’d heard her right, but the cabin pressure and the hum of the engines played hell with his hearing.

  “I heard you ask Janey about Neal,” she’d clarified. “They go way back. Friends in school. Performed together at one of those amusement parks during the summer.”

  Jase had had an opportunity to talk to the ebony-skinned backup singer a couple of times and enjoyed her quick smile and straightforward take on things.

  “Ah. So he’s just a tagalong.”

  “In my book, yeah. In Janey’s, however, he’s a friend. And Janey’s as loyal as they come.”

  “But what does he do?” Jase had asked. He hadn’t added, Besides mooch.

  “He’s a songwriter. A wannabe performer.”

  “He writes material for Janey?”

  Lakesha had shrugged. “Tries to. So far he hasn’t hit the mark.”

  “And this would be in how many years?”

  “Never said he was any good at it.” She’d smiled and headed back to her seat.

  Jase watched Sanders now, thinking the guy had no class. The exact opposite of Janey was true, however, when she hugged Sanders hello.

  A teenage girl who’d been helping as a cater waiter and who was obviously a fan and clearly starstruck sidled up to Janey.

  “Could I have your autograph?” the girl gushed and babbled and dropped all pretense of being cool.

  “For chrissake. They just come out of the woodwork, don’t they,” Sanders sputtered with a glare at the girl before mumbling under his breath, “Another goddamn cheerleader.”

  The girl—who probably was a cheerleader—blanched and fell silent.

  “I think she’s sweet,” Janey said, giving the embarrassed girl a reassuring hug.

  “That’s because you’re a Pollyanna,” Sanders said with a grunt. “I need to take a piss.”

  And with that charming announcement, he went looking for the head.

  No class, Jase thought again, wishing he could be the man to teach Sanders some.

  “Everything okay?”

  Jase nodded at Max, whom Jase had seen sneak in a few minutes ago. “Fine. We’re about to leave for the Garden and sound check.”

  “You’ve got security set up?”

  Because Jase knew the incident in Atlantic City had shaken Max, he didn’t take the question as an insult. “Everything’s taken care of, sir. And so you know, I called the Garretts back at E.D.E.N. They’re tracking Edwin Grimm’s financial transactions. He’s not using a credit card, but if he hits another ATM, we’ll know where and when. He’s not going to get the jump next time.”

  Max nodded, but not for the first time Jase wondered if there was more than concern about Grimm and the new information about Alice Perkins’s death bothering him. Not that it wasn’t enough, but Max had impressed him as a roll-with-the-punches type of guy. He’d been as spooky as a ghost since yesterday.

  “Pardon my asking, but are you all right, sir?” Jase asked.

  Max seemed to visibly get ahold of himself. “Fit and fine,” he said with a forced smile. “I’ll be off then. Just wanted to check to make sure the photographer got what he wanted.”

  Jase stopped him with a slight move in his direction. “I’m not going to let anything happen to her,” he said, sensing that Max was more shaken than he wanted to let on.

  Max nodded and squeezed Jase�
�s arm. “I’m counting on it. Oh,” he said before he walked away, “and you can count on a little additional distraction tonight. Almost forgot. I just found out that the Reverend Samuel Black, our favorite televangelist, has dispatched a contingent of his local supporters to picket the concert tonight. And the missus has rallied her cookie squad again. They’re already camped out in front of the Garden and are bound to be a bit disruptive.”

  Jase grunted, didn’t bother to tell Max that he already had it covered. “Just so their cookies are as good as the Palm Beach bunch.”

  When Sanders sauntered out of the restroom, a surly scowl on his face, Jase made a mental note to have the crew back at E.D.E.N. put a rush on his background check.

  He didn’t like that guy.

  10

  Six thirty that night, arriving at the Garden

  “We’re thirty seconds and counting.” In the backseat of the limo with Janey, Jase spoke into his walkie-talkie as they rounded the corner and headed for the back entrance of the Garden. “What’s it looking like there, Mike?”

  “The usual.” Jase had been working with Mike Smith, Garden security for this gig. “Hundred or so diehards milling around hoping for a look and thirty or so picketers with ‘Jesus Save Us from Sweet Baby Jane’ signs.”

  Jase swore under his breath. The Reverend Black’s contingent must have opted out of the cookie business tonight. “Okay. Keep it tight. You should have a visual of us by now.”

  “Got ya,” Mike answered, and in the background Jase could hear the swell of screams. The crowd had spotted them, too. “We’re ready.”

  “What about you?” Jase turned to Janey. “You ready to run another gauntlet?”

  She sat silently beside him, staring with unseeing eyes out the tinted window. “As I’ll ever be.”

  “No stopping in the crowd tonight, okay? No signing autographs. No shaking hands.”

  She turned her head. Looked at him. “They’re fans,” she pointed out.

  “We don’t know what they are,” he countered as the limo pulled to a stop and Mike stepped forward and opened the door.

  Jase stepped out first, checked to make sure the boisterous crowd was contained, then turned and took Janey’s hand to help her. When she stepped out of the limo, the throng erupted. They stood ten deep on either side of the barricades of sawhorses and orange cones set up in a ten-foot-wide path leading from the limo’s back door to the Garden entrance.