by Wood, Vivian
Protection
A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance
Vivian Wood
Contents
Author’s Copyright
Dedication
Get News
Protection
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
If You Loved Protection
Shifter’s Ascent
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
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About Vivian Wood
Author’s Copyright
Cover Design by ResplendentMedia.com
Copyright Vivian Veritas Publishing 2016
May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner without express and written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
I have a lot of people to thank for helping this book happen.
Margaret and Olivia — y’all are always in my corner.
Nate, Rox, Aubrey, Sen, Jesse, Hayden, Kat — you guys rock. You make it all possible.
Pam — thank you for giving me the tools I needed to get this moving, it’s so appreciated.
I’d also like to thank my fans — thanks for sticking with me, through thick and thin, novella/novel/genre and every other kind of transition. You all make this job worthwhile.
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Protection
Chapter One
Elly
I’m in the midst of a mad crush in Times Square, and there’s no escape in sight.
“Elly! Elly! Sign my copy of your album!”
“Elly, can I get a selfie with you? Elly!”
“Elly, what do you have to say about the rumors that you and fellow pop star Derek Lively have a sex tape together?”
“Elly, over here! Elly, touch my hand!”
To tell the truth, I’m starting to get a little warm, with this many people so close, hands reaching out to touch my shoulders, my hair.
I’ve been getting claustrophobic lately, but I refuse to freak out right now. There are a hell of a lot of people watching, and I will be fine once I’m in the car.
This is my job, after all. Elly Parsons, Pop Star.
Flashes are going off like mad, taking in every single detail of my person: dark, glossy hair, bright red lips, artfully made-up violet eyes.
The fans press in around me, heedless of the fact that I’m just one tiny five-foot-tall girl in heels, that their teeming mass is much, much bigger than I am.
They don’t care, they just want something I’ve touched or signed, something they can show to friends or sell on eBay.
To them, I’m not a person. I’m a brand now, as my PR team keeps reminding me.
Just before I get to the limo, a tall, dark-haired man scuttles in front of me, waving one of my posters from a few tours back, when I was first starting out. His face has an oddly pinched quality to it, like someone dangled him by the nose for a long time.
He also looks very determined, and I’m already resigned to giving him whatever he wants before I even reach where he’s standing.
“Elly, will you sign my poster?” he says in a sharp nasal voice, his words definitely more demand than question. He thrusts a sharpie in my face and I take it, giving him a smile.
“Sure, of course,” I say.
I slow down, forcing my entourage to stop and gather near the limo. Most of them get in the car, leaving Brad to wait for me with his arms crossed, an impatient expression etched into his face. The other fans have followed us over to the limo, and they’re pressing in around me again.
One more autograph, then I’m out of here. And, Damn, maybe I can even eat a real meal since most of the press events are over.
All of this is running through my head in the background, and I try to focus for just a few more minutes so I can get out of here.
“Who should I make this out to?” I ask the fan in front of me, trying to ignore the chaos all around.
“You can make it out to Gregor,” he says, stabbing the poster with a long, thin finger. “I’m your biggest fan, Elly. I have all your albums, I’ve been to ten of your concerts.”
“Oh, wow! I really appreciate that,” I say, glancing up at the crowd. It might be my imagination, but it feels like they’re getting closer and closer, like the crowd is going to swallow me up any second now. Damn, I hate feeling like this. This never used to happen.
What’s changed?
“You don’t seem very thankful,” the man snapped, grabbing the sharpie from me as soon as I’m done signing the poster.
“Oh… no, I am. I just… I’m a little tired, if I can be honest with you,” I say, pulling a face.
“Well, that’s quite disappointing,” he says, baring his teeth oddly as he enunciates the last word. “I really expected you to be less of a bitch in person, Miss Parsons.”
“Ummm…” I look over to my assistant Brad, but he’s texting and not paying attention to what this creep is saying to me. “Sorry about that? I should go, but it was nice to meet you…”
“It’s Gregor,” he snarls. “It’s not that hard to remember.”
He shoves his hand into the pocket of his ripped jeans, and something in my chest lurches. Everything seems to happen in this weird slow motion: he raises his hand and I see silver glinting in the camera flashes.
A younger girl screams and Brad finally l
ooks up, his eyes going wide.
The crazy guy grabs me by the ends of my hair and yanks really hard. Pain bursts through my skull and he tugs my head down, easily controlling my movements.
My heart pounds wildly. It’s all happening so fast.
I start to really struggle, trying not to touch him. I don’t want to get anywhere near the blade in his free hand.
A scream catches in my throat as I imagine him slashing my face, my own blood dripping on my hands.
In reality, people are shouting and pulling away from us, abandoning me to this crazy guy. Tears threaten to pour down my face as he grips my hair with a nasty snarl.
Why is this happening? A panicked sob claws at my throat. Why isn’t anyone helping me?
I hear Brad shout for security, but no one can reach me. The guy turns my head, thrusting his face close to mine. His b.o. and bad breath choke me and I can see the broken blood vessels in his eyes. I feel bile rise in the back of my throat as I take in his expression of maniacal glee.
I see the blade in his hand now, a silver box cutter I think. Then he’s bringing the blade down toward my shoulder and I’m squeezing my eyes shut, thinking that I’m about to fucking die.
One, two, three seconds pass as I wait with my eyes clenched tight.
Then I’m suddenly free, springing backward and falling against another strange man. Every second is painfully slow, but it’s all happened so fast, tears are just now breaking free and rolling down my face, smudging my beautiful makeup. Cameras are clicking and flashing, tightening the tension in my chest.
I look up into the face of the big, muscular guy who’s got me wrapped in his arms. He’s crazy gorgeous, looking down at me with all the worry in the world, like I’m something precious.
A weird outside-myself voice tells me, duh, a famous starlet just got attacked, people are going to react to that.
The man picks me up and carries me toward the SUV that’s waiting for me. I see Brad on the other side of him, shouting something into the guy’s ear.
When I look down again, I see the guy holding me is wearing a shirt that says AMBROSE SECURITY. I want to look at him again, to see if he’s really as good-looking as I imagined, but he’s pinned me against his chest as he pushes through the crowd.
I look wildly around for the crazed fan, but all I see is people closing in with their camera phones, recording. My hands come up to clutch at my chest, and I briefly consider that I might be having a real live heart attack in front of all of these people.
When Brad grabs me, dragging me away from the security guard, I let out a little shriek of fear. He pulls me into the car, ignoring my struggles.
“Sit down. Put your head between your knees,” Brad tells me.
The car door slams, shutting the shouting crowd and flashing cameras outside.
My head feels light, dizzy but also… less heavy than normal? I reach up to touch my hair, and realize that a big chunk of it is just… gone. The attacker didn’t cut my skin, he took… my hair?
I look out the window, on the other side of the limo. There, running away from the SUV, I catch a glimpse of the crazy guy booking it. No one will catch him, he’s too far away.
He’s running, his arms pumping up and down. Each time his right hand comes up, I see a flash of black; he’s still clutching that fistful of shiny sable hair.
My hair.
I feel sick. Sick and numb. What the hell just happened?
“Get your fucking head down, Elly, for god’s sake! There are cameras everywhere!” Brad screeches in my ear.
I let him push me down, pressing my face against the leather seats and they drive me away. Sarah presses a bottle of water into my hand, a few pills in the other. I take them, and things start to get fuzzy.
I let my people take me back to the hotel. I let them file the police report, let them speak for me during the whole thing. I’m glassy, my mouth dry. The whole thing seems ridiculous to me; surely it was captured on camera from a hundred different angles, so there can’t be any question of what happened.
Have you seen that man before, Elly?
No.
You’re sure you don’t know him?
No. I mean… yes. I’m sure.
Can you think of any enemies you have, people who would want to hurt you?
No.
No one?
No one.
Finally, mercifully, I’m released from questioning. The police pack up and leave me to my entourage, who are all full of jittery energy that’s putting me even more on edge.
I’m worn out and shaky. By the time my personal trainer arrives with my pre-portioned non-fat, gluten-free, high-protein meal tray and a handful of melatonin, I just take the pills and push the meal to the side.
I strip off all my clothes, throw my raggedly severed hair into a high bun, and scrub away all my makeup. It takes ages, but eventually I get all the concerned employees out of my hotel room and crawl into bed.
Alone, finally.
Someone knocks on the door, but I don’t answer.
I’m way beyond caring at this point, just totally overwhelmed and freaked out and unable to absorb any more of anyone else’s crap right now.
Because fuck today. Fuck that guy. Fuck having my hair stolen, getting attacked on the street.
This isn’t what I signed up for, no matter how much money I make.
The Elly Parsons that people think they know is barely a real person, but even she doesn’t deserve this kind of crap. No one deserves that.
I shut my eyes, closing out everything that’s just happened. Tomorrow will be a new day, I promise myself.
Before all the stressful thoughts about just what tomorrow will hold can creep in, I’m asleep, dead to the world.
Chapter Two
Elly
Smile, I tell myself. This is your moment. No one’s going to ask about your attack.
The stage lights brighten on the set, and the audience cheers. Showtime.
“Elly Parsons, it is so awesome to have you here with us today! You are just crushing it right now, with how many number one songs this year?” Roxie Summers asks. Roxie is the gorgeous, famous blonde host of Early Morning America, and this is my moment in the spotlight.
We’re sitting on a matching pair of tall white leather stools, before a wall of glass windows. She leans close and I catch the scent of alcohol on her breath. Vodka, but so much that it’s almost unbearable to look her in the eye.
All these people, here to see me, here to judge me. Watching my every movement. Yeah, I can understand why Roxie probably starts her day off with a martini or six. But damn, she really is just hammered.
How the hell is Roxie this drunk and still sitting upright, having this conversation with me?
I hesitate a moment longer before answering her question, turning to the big plate glass windows, the crowd stealing my attention for a moment.
Outside, a screaming mass of fans jumps up and down, waving signs with my name on them. It’s mostly teenaged girls, my core audience, but here and there I see an older face, or maybe a guy.
They’re nearly as excited to see me as I am to see them; last night I lay awake, worrying that no one would show up to cheer me on, no one would buy tickets to my tour, that my soaring pop career would be over in the blink of an eye.
It’s a recurrent worry in my life, even though my handlers keep telling me not to worry, to be clear and focused.
I resist the urge to stick a finger in my mouth and nibble at my nail bed, to soothe myself like I did as a nervous teenager. Ever so briefly, I go to my happy place, imagining myself utterly alone on a black sand beach, sipping a fruity drink from a coconut.
Focus, I chide myself. This is your moment to shine. Don’t let them think you’re some kind of victim.
“Gosh, I think… seven singles this year?” I say, bringing myself back to the present and splaying my fingers out in front of my blood red lips. I bite my lower lip, drawing attention to my lip color. My lips
are one of my most-touted features, and I’m supposed to take every opportunity to subtly promote my lip gloss and perfume line. “It’s been a crazy year, Roxie!”
“I bet! I have to ask, what does it feel like to be the biggest name in pop music today?” The cheerful blonde host of this morning talk show is practically glowing with drunk exuberance. They’ve been trying to book me on Early Morning America for ages, and finally here I am. Impressing the studio heads and fans alike, selling tickets and albums, looking my personal best. That’s my job on press tours like this one, really… Just look pretty and say the lines they fed me just so.
“I feel busy!” I joke. That’s the understatement of the year; I feel like every second of my life for the next two years is planned for maximum sales engagement… because it is. Busy doesn’t begin to describe the schedule I’ve allowed my entourage to set for me.
“Well you look great,” Roxie says, patting me on the arm. Like we’re old friends having a chat instead of two strangers holding an interview in front of hundreds of people, plus the millions watching at home. I swallow and press my hands against my knees, not wanting anyone to see how badly they’re shaking.
“Oh, thanks! I’ve been hitting the gym a lot in preparation for the tour,” I say. That much is true, although that’s not really the reason why I look so great today. The real secret is a pinch of movie magic, makeup, lighting, and a handful of B12 vitamins with my coffee this morning.
“And I’m working with my stylist on a line of hair products, some great herbal remedies that have worked really well for me. Just between us.”
I wink, and Roxie laughs. We both know that it was hours of hair and makeup that produced this effect, not herbal remedies. My sable hair is cut into a fresh new style to hide the jagged edges after the attack. It’s blown out, sleek and straight, not a hint of the natural curl showing. My violet eyes are rimmed in gold eyeshadow and dark mascara, my aquamarine silk dress making them brighter than ever.
