by Anna Brooks
So for the next forty-five minutes, I putz around on my phone. He introduces me to Damien, a tall and super serious man with dark eyes and a bald head, and then leaves for the night. I pull the salad Beverly made earlier in the day out of the fridge and sit at the island to eat it. Damien is somewhere. I’ve seen him outside and heard the beep of the door when he comes in to walk around.
When I hear his voice, it’s accompanied by my aunt’s irritated one. “Quinn, what’s going on?”
I sit up straight. “I hired security.”
“Why? We have gates and security guards who drive around at night.”
The need to explain my decision is thwarted when Damien clears his throat. “I’ll leave you two be.”
“This is unnecessary.” She hisses as she makes her way over to me.
“I don’t think it is,” I disagree. “You said yourself I needed to figure it out so I could sleep at night and- ow.” I flinch when she pinches my side. Like she always does. Right where leotards cover up. She picks out my outfits, so she makes sure the bruises are strategically placed. And if I have a big shoot coming up, she manages to keep her hands off me.
I wish I didn’t have to allow her to treat me this way, but unfortunately, life sucks sometimes.
“Don’t be a smartass. This is going to cost way too much money. I already hired that company to come on the tour with us, and the venue’s security will be adequate.”
If I wasn’t used to this, I’d probably be disappointed. “It doesn’t affect your pay, and I’ve already signed a contract with Royal Ace Security. If I cancel their services, I’ll be penalized, so I don’t have a choice now.” Lie. There was nothing in there about being fined for canceling, just that I’d have to pay for services rendered.
“Yet another stupid thing you’ve done. Do you even know how expensive it is to hire them? They’re the best in the business, and their prices are through the roof.”
“I understand that.”
“I don’t think you do. This was a big mistake. You should never have gone behind my back.”
Chapter 2
Wesley
“Then you have back-to-back performances at Williamson Studios. First, you’re on the radio with Jerry McAfee at seven, then recording tonight’s talk show with Chris Wilson at nine. After that, we have interviews with new dancers and—”
“No, you don’t,” I interrupt Quinn’s aunt slash manager who, if she were a man, would have met my fist about a dozen times already in the past thirty minutes. And it’s only five in the morning. “I didn’t get any reports.”
She waves me off, and her dirty brown bob moves in one fluid motion. “We’ve reviewed their résumés. They’re fine.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and Quinn.”
I look over at my client and see her head down as the stylist curls her hair, but in the mirror, her eyes are on our conversation. Lowering my voice, I say to Gail, “Your job is to give me the names so I can do my job.”
“I hardly think—”
“Do you know how easy it is for a psychopath to get close to their obsession? How simple it is for him to pay off someone who’ll slip out the back door to let him in. Then once he’s close, he’ll just wait.” I lean closer to her, hoping Quinn can’t hear. I want to scare her aunt, not her. “This guy has patience, Gail, and you do not. And if you keep doing shit like this, she’s gonna get hurt. Again.”
“She hired you to keep her safe, not slow down her schedule. We got too far behind when he did what he did.”
“He assaulted her,” I growl. “Say it, Gail. He held a knife to her and hurt her. Put his hands around her throat and tried to squeeze the life right outta her.”
Her phone beeps, and she looks down at it, no compassion whatsoever.
“Unbelievable,” I say to myself since she’s not listening anymore.
“I’ll forward you the names, but we’re not pushing these auditions back,” she says without taking her attention off the screen.
“Socials, too.”
Her heels click against the floor as she walks across the room to the makeup chair Quinn is in but mumbles, “Fine.”
Jesus, that woman is a nightmare. When I go to stand closer to Quinn, her eyes catch mine in the mirror, and I give her a quick nod, reassuring her I’ve got her back. Not just because nobody else does, but because I actually give a shit about her. She smiles at me, her cheeks rosy and eyes soft. But then Gail starts yapping again, and Quinn pretends to be busy.
It’s been a week and a half since I took her assignment, and I can’t believe how much I hate Gail. I’ve never met a manager so fucking demanding and straight-up mean in my life.
When I did the walk-through at Quinn’s place last week, I didn’t even glance at her awards and shit because that’s not a concern for me. But Gail made sure to point each and every one out to me as if she was the one who earned them. When we went over the schedules, she only highlighted what would bring Quinn the most exposure and money. When I tried to discuss Quinn’s security, she waved me off and said it was fine. When she tried to rip her away from me in a crowd to introduce her to some bigwig, I came dangerously close to strangling her.
But Quinn takes it, and I don’t know why. I’m about at the end of my rope because even though the very first rule of this business is not to get emotionally attached, I’ve already broken it. Quinn is amazing. She’s a completely different person than who I thought she was.
She’s shy, she’s sweet, she’s kind. She’s giving and thoughtful and talented. She’s damn gorgeous, too.
But she’s also scared out of her mind.
And I don’t blame her one bit.
The makeup artist paints a bunch of shit on Quinn’s face that’s not needed. She’s ridiculously pretty without anything. Her eyes are ice blue and blond hair so long if it’s not up, it gets caught under her ass. She has a little dimple in her chin when she laughs and a very faint splattering of freckles across the bridge of her button nose. I think she should highlight those, but every time she goes into hair and makeup, she comes out and they’re covered.
Of course, I shouldn’t be thinking that.
I cross my arms and slide my shades back on as I look around the room until it’s time for her first interview of the day. When she’s done with her makeup, she pauses at the door and waits for me before I push it open. We walk down the hall together, her short legs taking double the strides of mine. Coming around a corner, I apply some pressure on her lower back. The tightness in her spine melts away, and in the reflections of all the pictures hanging on the wall, I get a glimpse of her next to me.
And I really fuckin’ like it.
The tips of my fingers tighten as voices get louder, and she inches closer, her right side pressing against my left. Her arm grazes my thigh, and when I come to a stop, I lift my arm up to stop her from going any farther. But she doesn’t. My open palm nestles against her stomach, and she jerks her head up as I do the opposite, staring down at her. My pulse hammers in my neck, and her lips part.
That’s all it takes.
Shit.
I take a beat, then two, and then three because I can’t look away from her. But then I check my ass back to reality and step away when her name is called, and she’s introduced to a producer who ushers her out to the stage. I look around as she walks into the small studio. As a bodyguard, you’re not in the business of staring at your client; it’s everyone around them who gets your attention.
During the interview, I get the message from Gail with the names and social security numbers I need. At least she followed through with that. If she didn’t, she knows I’d straight-up kidnap Quinn before I let her in a room in that intimate of a setting without vetting the people first.
Our tech guy will be able to breeze through these, so I forward him the info while she’s doing her interview.
Time passes quickly, and before I know it, this interview is over. The ride to the television studio is a fast one, and the next two me
etings go by smoothly. But as we’re walking out of Williamson Studios, Quinn stumbles a little bit. “You okay?” I grab her tighter.
She straightens. “Fine. Thanks.”
Luckily, we’re on a private lot, so we get into the SUV with no problems. Quinn sits in the back on the passenger side, and Gail sits directly behind me.
I pull away and glance in the rearview mirror. “Quinn.”
She lifts her head off the window. “Yeah?”
“You haven’t eaten today.”
“I’m fine.”
Gail sits up straighter. “There’s catering at the auditions.”
“Quinn,” I snap. “You need to eat. Jesus, Gail. You’re so busy you can’t get the girl a fuckin’ sandwich?”
“She doesn’t need the carbs,” she answers without lifting her face from her phone.
Quinn drops her head, and I grip the steering wheel, then crank it. They both slide in their seats, and Gail screeches. “What are you doing?”
Ignoring her, I continue pulling in through the drive-through. Since she’s in back and the windows are tinted almost black, nobody can see through them. I order Quinn’s favorite, and after paying and taking the food, I hand it to her with a wink. “Thank you.” She takes a drink of the chocolate milkshake and turns her back to her aunt. In the reflection of the window, I see her smiling.
Quinn
“Tell me you want it.” His face is inches from mine. He’s so close. So close that I can see his bloodshot eyes as his anger rises.
“No.”
His hand wraps around my throat while the other squeezes my cheeks. “Tell me.”
“Please.” I gasp for air. “Stop.”
“Tell me.” His entire body shakes from the amount of effort he’s using to choke me. I’d rather die than let him do this to me, but if I live, I need my voice.
Without it, I’m nothing, and if he’s going to take anything away from me, he can’t take that. Take whatever else he wants, just not my voice. “I want it.”
The moment the ‘t’ leaves my lips, he lets up. I gasp for air, and as he cuts the strap of my tank top, I scream.
“Quinn. Wake up.” Warmth spreads through me at the sound of that voice. “Wake up. Come back to me.” Something touches my face, and I flinch. “It’s just me, Quinn. Wake up and come back to me. He’s not here. He can’t hurt you.”
He’s not here. That’s right. He got away. But he’s coming back.
I open one eye, fearful that Wesley is a figment of my imagination. He smiles, and I open my other eye, but I know the upturn of his lips is a façade. A muscle in his cheek jumps, and his eye brows furrow in concern. “Just breathe.”
Nodding, I take a few breaths, feeling my heart rate slow as his fingers play with my hair. I love it when he does that. He’s the only one who can calm me down at night. Psychiatrists, drugs, hell, even a service dog didn’t help me. But Wes? He breathes the same air as me, and I feel safe.
“Same thing?” he asks when I sit up.
“Yes.” It’s always the same thing. Looking up into the mirror, his ominous voice, the knife. During the day at the most random times, his face will flash in front of me, or I’ll think I see him in a crowd and his parting words will play like a scratched CD, repeating over and over, “You want it now, and you’ll want it then.” He’s coming back for me.
“He’s not going to touch you.”
I lick my lips but don’t necessarily agree with him. That man—who I have no idea who he is—got through two locked gates, a security system, and my double locked doors.
Wes doesn’t like my response. “He’s not going to touch you.”
“Okay.”
“You didn’t have me then. You have me now. He’s not going to fuckin’ touch you.” He practically growls the words at me, and I want to believe him. He sounds so certain, so sure he can protect me.
“Okay, Wesley.”
He stands from my bed, and his looming figure towers over me as he studies my face. And here I go again wishing even though I know better. Wishing he saw more than what everyone else sees. No amount of makeup, fake eyelashes, and bleached hair can cover up my pain, and I wish that for once… just once somebody would notice that.
Every time I look in a mirror it’s noticeable. My dead eyes stare back when I take selfies with fans. And there will be thousands of them screaming my name. Chanting. But if I look up at the big screen, even through all the pixilation, I can see the life drained right out of me.
Why can’t somebody else notice?
Why can’t he?
It’s really a stupid question because I know the answer. I may be a great singer, but I’m a phenomenal actress. I let them see what I want them to. But what they hear, what I didn’t let him take from me, is still beautiful. And it’s all I have. So I’ll walk through life, dead on the inside, and when it’s time to put on a show, the world only knows the Quinn Valentine I want them to.
And that’s the only one they will ever know because they make me feel like the Quinn I want to be.
But in here, in my bedroom in my ridiculous mansion my aunt insisted I buy, I just want, for once, somebody to notice me, and I want that somebody to be Wesley.
Although, he did earlier today. He saw I was teetering on the edge of starvation and dehydration and didn’t listen to my bitch ass aunt. Nobody has ever stood up to her before. Ever. I can’t stand up to her, but I love that he did. And because I went behind her back and hired him on my own, she can’t fire him. That’s one of her favorite tactics; to fire people when they realize how insane she is.
She’s the definition of a narcissist. It’s always somebody else’s problem. Nothing that’s ever wrong is her fault. She’s lied so many times that I genuinely think she believes her own stories and takes them for a fact.
I didn’t have Wesley sign an NDA, either. So when he’s done here, he can talk all he wants about her, and there’s nothing she can legally do about it. I hope he does, too. But then again, I hope he never leaves.
“You need anything?”
“No. Thanks.”
“I’m across the hall.” He hesitates. “Though, the way these nightmares are comin’, I’m tempted to camp out on your floor. Even better yet, I should climb in that bed with you and hold you tight so you can sleep more than three hours at a time.”
He only gets three hours of sleep at a time, too, since he always comes in, but I don’t point that out.
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you need me, just holler.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He walks backward until he gets to the door. “Sweet dreams, Quinn.”
“Thank you, Wesley.”
He closes my door, leaving it open a crack. I can’t see him anymore, but I know his door is the same across the hall from me. When he took over, he took over. Fired the crappy security Gail hired for the tour and brought his guys with him. He is never out of earshot and usually within arm’s length.
And with that thought, I drift off to sleep, and when I dream this time, it’s not a nightmare.
* * *
“You’re not going in there.” Wesley’s gruff voice comes through the door, and I roll to my side, looking at the curtain-covered window. I wish it was open, and I could see outside, but ever since I was attacked, the curtains and my balcony doors stay closed. Always. I might as well have bars on them because I feel like I’m in a prison.
“It’s ten thirty in the morning. She has two shoots this afternoon, so she should know better than to sleep in. She needs to get up and work out so she doesn’t get fat.”
“She’s far from fat, and she sleeps for shit, Gail. If you cared about her well-being at all, you’d let her get a couple of extra hours whenever she can.”
Wow. Nobody has ever talked to her like that. When I hired him, I didn’t expect him to be so… caring. I just assumed he’d make sure I was safe from the stalker; I had no idea he’d actually care about my health. My sanity. Yesterday wa
sn’t just a fluke in the car, and that makes me like him even more that he’s not backing down from her. “I do care about her well-being, but I am her manager, and in order to keep her schedule going, she needs to move her ass.”
“She hired me, right?” Wes asks.
I hear nothing for a moment before she snaps, “Yes.”
“So that means my job is to protect her and do what is best for her. Quinn. Not you. She’ll be ready for the shoot. I’ll ensure she gets there early enough for hair and makeup. You can walk away or stand here and face off with me, but understand, you’re not going in there.”
My aunt’s signature huff can be heard as her shoes clink on the floor when she walks away. I hug my pillow but don’t get up—even though I know I should—because I am exhausted. The auditions last night with the dancers took longer than I thought.
Between press gearing up for this tour and the nightmares, I’m lucky if I even get that elusive three hours a night. And when the tour starts in a couple of days, I know it’ll be even worse.
But it’s not right now because of him.
My eyelids drift closed, and it takes no time at all for me to fall back asleep.
* * *
A gentle hand brushes the hair off my face. “Hey, sleepyhead. Time to get up.” His voice floats through me, and I almost want to pretend I’m still sleeping so he’ll keep touching me. “It’s almost noon, Quinn. You’ve gotta get some food in you before we leave.”
“I don’t wanna go,” I mumble into the pillow.
He chuckles, and I squint one eye open to ask, “When was the last time you slept until noon?”
His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he thinks. “I don’t even remember.”
“You should try it sometime. On a beach, on one of those little islands where nobody else is there to wake us up. The sound of the birds chirping and waves crashing can be our alarm clock.”
He raises a brow. “You’re coming with me?”
I shoot up in bed, embarrassed as hell I just said that out loud. One of my fantasies. One of the several I have had starring him in the short time I’ve known him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
