by Elaria Ride
“—washed-up, former fame!” I correct. Please. As much as I’d like to be a household name, you’ve got to call a spade a spade.
“Between your family’s fame—” Twit continues, over me, “and the… other circumstances… the Matthews siblings have found themselves in—”
I scoff. C’mon, dude. “Yeah,” I drawl sarcastically. “I’m sure getting drunk and stealing a yacht are right up there with the crimes of the KGB!”
Twit’s eyes flash in warning; looks like I’ve finally found his limit.
“Miss Matthews,” he says, like he’s explaining punishment to a toddler, “your life is at stake. And frankly?” He shakes his head. “Your lack of concern over the first three threats tells us quite a lot about your interest in, how did you put it? Handling things on your own?”
I roll my eyes again. Clearly this man was never bullied as a kid. In what universe does it make sense to show a bully how scared you are?
“The first two were nothing,” I defend, staring at the desk’s mahogany wood-grain. “I’m barely home, so there’s no need for protective detail! I’m always around people! I spend most of my time in the studio prepping for the tour, and—”
Now it’s Twit’s turn to snort at me.
Crap.
My stomach sinks. I walked right into that one, didn’t I?
“Perhaps you see my point now, Miss Matthews. Because if you recall, the third threat was sent—”
“—directly to my dressing room,” I huff, repeating the phrase of the night.
Granted, nothing would’ve happened if Marcus (my closest brother) hadn’t been snooping around my dressing room, putting his big, overprotective nose right where it doesn’t belong.
Marcus has always been such a narc. I’m not surprised he ran off to tell Dad the second he saw the creepy newspaper cut-out letters on the front of that package. What had surprised me, though, was Dad’s sudden decision to treat me like an infant. Smack dab in the middle of rehearsal, he stormed on stage, dragged me off by the shoulder, and ordered a damn SWAT team to escort me to the police station.
Which is where I’ve remained for — I check my watch — three hours. Three hours of vocal rehearsal, down the tubes…
Dad heaves another sigh as his body slumps into the chair beside me. “Mary,” he starts, massaging his temples. “This is the way it has to be. Believe me, if there were any other option, we’d—”
“You’d worry about it?” I deadpan. Lord knows the man takes worrying about me (and only me) to new levels.
Dad snorts. “Well, maybe when you have kids of your own one day, you’ll see how worried parents really are!”
I shoot my father a disgusted look. Out of all the embarrassing things he’s done tonight, bringing up my (admittedly disastrous) love life is by far the worst.
Especially in front of Captain Twit.
“This surveillance should be done by the time you go on tour,” Twit says smoothly, giving me a placating look.
Huh. He’s better at de-escalating family feuds than I’d give him credit for.
“Three weeks, max. Your dad here —” He nods at the traitor beside me — “cares about you very much, Miss Matthews. He’s arranged for the very best.”
“Well I guess that’s his job,” I mutter, my words bitter with defeat.
I glance into my lap and fiddle with the ring on my right hand. It sounds stupid, but staring at this faded jewelry might help me regain some of the patience and decorum I’m sorely lacking.
This ring is nothing special… but it was Mom’s. So it’s my favorite.
I twist the turquoise and seed pearl inlay beneath my fingers, loving how the steel dips and twists over the stones. A shiver cuts up my spine. For some reason, the echo of my mother’s lilting country accent sounds in my head. All at once, I hear her voice, plain as day... as if she hasn’t been dead for 13 years. “Ladies are also pretty on the inside,” she’d always told me, a wry edge in her voice. “But to make in this world? Just like this ring, we have to be wrapped in steel, too, darlin’.”
I shudder.
My mother isn’t even here — but she’s right.
When had I become so bitter, so enraged?
I know I’m a professional singer. I know I have a reputation as a diva. But the last thing I want to do is disappoint my family — especially when I compare myself to Mom.
I heave a sigh, leaning back in the chair. I guess those fiery, short-tempered Matthews genes are bubbling closer to the surface than ever before. Dad’s the only one of us who can stay calm when he’s mad.
I know I owe Twit an apology; none of this is his fault. So I bite my lip and raise my head, prepared to make amends, just as the door creaks open from behind me.
“Ah, yes!” says a beaming Twit. “It seems your protective detail has just arrived!”
I turn around in my seat, curious to meet my captor… but the second I see him, my best intentions vanish like dust in the wind.
No. Fucking. Way.
All I can do is sit there, dumbstruck and seething, as I face the man who will be controlling me for the next three weeks. To my horror, Dad hasn’t hired some random dude. He hasn’t picked an older guy with lots of experience or a retiree who does some surveillance on the side.
No… I’m staring at the one and only Luke Hunter. Who is about as far as possible from a nameless, faceless stranger the world has ever seen.
I can only watch in aghast slow-motion as the cockiest man alive struts into Twit’s office, looking for all the world like he’s strolled off the set of a modern-day High Noon. His cowboy boots clunk and chime as he steps across the pearly linoleum, his white hat casting a shadow across a face I’ve seen on tabloids more times than I can count.
I give him an appraising stare. How is he described in the tabloids these days? Carelessly handsome? I shake my head. For once, those phot-hog vultures have gotten something right.
From the way Carter carries himself, you’d think his all-American features and chiseled jaw are a mere afterthought. His broad chest is stuffed into a flannel button-up shirt, one nearly bursting across the wide muscles of his upper arms. The top two buttons of this shirt are undone, leaving little to the imagination about the muscle definition below.
As Hunter closes Schmidt’s door and removes his hat, I concede that the tabloids are right: There’s a reason he’s been featured so much as a former-war-hero-turned-naughty-cowboy. He’s definitely grown into his looks, I’ll give him that much. Which is more than I can say for the bullying prick he’d been on the playground.
Because in addition to being neither nameless nor faceless, Luke Hunter also isn’t a stranger. And unfortunately, it seems he hasn’t developed any manners in the 20 years since I’ve seen him.
Instead of greeting me with a kind smile or a handshake, Luke simply crosses his arms over his chest, stares me dead in the face, and arches an eyebrow.
He hasn’t said a word, but with a single look, I’m suddenly back on Biggal Mountain… I’m a chubby 6-year-old being teased by her jerk brother and his jerk friend.
Great.
The jerk in question curls his lips into an arrogant grin as he relaxes against the thick mahogany door of Twit’s office.
I haven’t seen this douchecanoe in 20 years, but I still know exactly what he’s trying to tell me with that self-satisfied smirk. His hazel eyes are conveying a phrase he’d repeated about a million times before we’d moved away: “Your move, Princess.”
Then he has the nerve to arch an eyebrow. A challenge.
And that’s when I finally snap.
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