Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) (23 page)

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.

Sex and Sadness

R
ansom 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 going 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.

“Anyway,” he said, “if you ever feel like recording your ‘folksy bullshit,’ send me a copy. I can’t stand your electronic songs, but I love your voice.”

She laughed. “You’re so judgey, Ransom. Where will I be without your judgment in my life?”

He didn’t know. He was afraid to think about it. His chest ached with unspoken emotion as the silence strung out between them.

“Play me one more song,” he said, just to fill the oppressive emptiness.

She hesitated a moment, looking down at her lap, then said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to spend my last moments with you playing the fucking guitar.”

“I like when you play the guitar.” But it was hopeless. His arms opened and she crawled into his lap. She pressed her face against his cheek and traced fingers over his stubble.

“Don’t try to seduce me,” he whispered.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said with perfect Lola sass, and then she lifted her face and kissed him. God, he’d miss her so much. He’d miss the way she always took what she wanted without caring about the consequences. Right now, she wanted him, and he didn’t have the power to deny her this last hookup. As their kiss intensified, he ran his hands up under her shirt, over the lithe, powerful body he’d come to crave.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said.

“No, here. I want to remember you here when I’m working. I want to remember us together.”

He’d never had sex in an office chair, not even during his porn days. The reclining back worked well for the girl-on-top position. He kissed and groped her as she worked open his shirt and undid his fly. They had to pause a moment while she went for a condom. By the time she returned, his shirt and pants were on the ground, and she was gloriously naked. She knelt between his legs to roll on the rubber, prepping him to fuck her like some imperious queen.

Lady Paradise. That’s what she was in these moments. Raw, courageous, open to anything, greedy for everything.

“Come here.” He pulled her into his lap. “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

She straddled him, but when he would have thrust inside her roughly, she prevented him. “Not this time,” she said. “Soft and sweet.”

Soft and sweet.
Jesus Christ. He gazed at her, lost in lustful misery. If she wanted it soft and sweet, that’s what he’d give her—something emotionally moving to remember him by.

Not that either of them could ever forget.

He moved into her slowly, impaling her inch by inch. Her tight wetness challenged his control. He wanted to fuck her hard, bounce her up and down on his lap, but he kept himself in check and went at her pace. Her deep blue eyes held his in a connection that went deeper than physical mechanics. As she rode his cock, he stroked her soft skin, marveling at the taut, responsive muscles underneath. She was so strong from all her dancing.

As for him—his strength was hers to exploit as she wished. She ran her hands over his muscles, massaging, squeezing, controlling the depth and speed of his thrusts with her hips. She made sounds more beautiful than any music, even her guitar music.

His shaft felt alive with the slow, sensual pleasure of their joining. This “soft and sweet” thing wasn’t half bad. He felt subjugated and yet powerful, holding true paradise in his arms. “I want you,” he said over and over, in low growls or whispers against her skin. “I want you.” Because he wanted her forever, not just for this moment in time.

Lola ignored the
steel chair arms digging into her calves and concentrated on the feeling of his warm hands roving over her skin. She couldn’t get close enough to him, no matter how hard she tried. His cock stretched her in long, heavenly strokes, pushing her open, making her feel like he was a part of her. But that was nothing compared to the depth of his gaze.

When she neared the last few quivering steps to climax, she took a moment to study his beloved face. Strong brows, dark eyes, the ever present five o’clock shadow, the tentative smile. Why didn’t he ever smile full out? He was such a serious person.

“Smile for me,” she said. “A real smile.”

“Every smile I give you is a real smile.” He moved his hips so his cock rubbed over some ecstasy nerve inside her. She gasped and he smiled, a real smile. He squeezed her breasts and rubbed over the spot again, making her breath shudder and her legs tremble. Their bodies arched together, so different in size and strength but so necessary to each other. Her pussy felt heavy, ready to explode. She ground her clit against his pubic bone, grasping him close, forgetting inhibition. “Oh, God, please…”

He groaned in answer, teasing her nipples until her hips bucked. “I know, baby,” he told her. “You’re going to get what you want.”

Not everything I want
. But she’d take what she could get. She held onto him and watched his face, his lips, the intelligent intensity in his eyes, all the things she’d have to learn to live without.
I want you. I want you.

I want you.

“I’m coming.” She clenched around his cock, grateful for his arms holding her on the chair as her body went wild. The orgasm shook her, wave after wave of pulsing completion. His grasp on her tightened and he growled in her ear as he rode out his own climax. God, she loved his forcefulness, even though this was supposed to be soft and sweet.

When he finished and went limp, she melted against him, skin to skin. Eventually she drifted back to reality, to the dark metal and glass of her home studio. This chair would forevermore be her favorite chair. She told him so and he chuckled so his chest moved against hers. It felt so perfect to be close like this.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she said. “Not yet.”

“I won’t. Not yet.” His voice sounded thick. With sex? With sadness? “But I can’t stay too long.”

“How about dinner? And maybe…I don’t know…” She gave him a flirty look from under her lashes. “Some assfucking later, that’s not so soft and sweet?”

She could feel his response to that suggestion in his cock. “You’re such a bad girl, Lola. So naughty.”

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, pressing into his delicious warmth. “You make me feel naughty. It’s all on you.”

He laughed and she lifted her head to see his smile. His real smile. She drank it in like a drug, still buzzing from the orgasm.

“I’ll stay for dinner,” he promised. “As for the rest…” He shook a finger at her, the stern-faced bodyguard again. “We’ll see.”

*