Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) (6 page)

Unsettled

S
he was grateful
he let her sleep until afternoon, but when she woke, there was another healthy breakfast, another forced walk through the busy streets of Hamburg. This time they walked around the lake beside the hotel, through the touristy area. A couple of people recognized her and stopped to ask for photos and autographs, which made her feel better even if she felt like shit.

Ransom said nothing about her meltdown the night before. She’d been stone cold sober enough to remember everything, which sucked. He hardly spoke at all on their walk, aside from telling her which way to go when they came to a corner, and coaching her through intersections like she needed help crossing the street.

Whatever. She was coming to accept this as her life for now, but it was only a few more weeks before the tour ended and she could return to her regular activities in L.A. She had a great house there, and lots of friends to party with. She’d also accumulated a sizeable stable of fuckbuddies. Tons of men wanted her, so she could take her pick and demand whatever she wanted from them. Now that she had money and fame, she could pretty much get whatever she wanted from anyone.

Except one person.

She slid a look to the side, to the tall, suited bodyguard who shadowed her. What kind of freak exercised in a jacket and tie? She wore a sweater and jeans, which made more sense for a walk, but whatever. Nothing about him made sense. Walks were stupid. He wouldn’t let her listen to music when they walked either. He said it wasn’t safe for her to wear earbuds, that she needed to be able to hear who was around her, and listen to his directions if something happened.

But what the fuck was going to happen? This walk was a waste, and she had work to catch up on back at the hotel. She had samples to preview and songs to listen to, beats that people sent her from all over the world. Even big artists sent her music, asking her to use excerpts in her tracks or live sets. Her whole life revolved around music now. Walking aimlessly? Not so much.

“When do we go back?” she asked.

He pointed to the hotel in the distance. “We’re walking around the lake. We’ll be back when we’re back, unless you want to swim across.”

He was always saying snarky shit like that, although it didn’t exactly sound snarky because of his deep, formal voice. He looked Hispanic, and his last name was Hispanic, but he didn’t have any noticeable accent.

She looked across the lake. Ugh. Walking was so boring. That was the only reason she decided to talk to him, to kill time. “So, where are you from?” she asked.

He shoved his hands in his pockets before he answered her. “Los Angeles. Eastside. Lived there all my life.”

“Oh. You’re not from, like, El Salvador or something?” She said
El Salvador
with an obnoxious Spanish accent. She thought it was funny, but he gave her an irritated look.

“Do you realize that’s offensive?”

“What?” She blinked at him. “Are you racist against
El Salvadorans
?” She used the accent again. His frown deepened.

“I’m an American, Lola. I was born in L.A. My grandparents lived in Ohio and Pennsylvania before that. I’m not racist against anyone, except maybe people with pink hair.”

He never smiled when he said anything, but that made it funnier. She grinned at him. “I’m just giving you a hard time because I don’t like you very much.”

“Unfortunately, the feeling is mutual.”

They walked another moment or two in silence. Then she asked, “Do you hate all your clients?”

He gave a big, dramatic sigh. “No. Not always. But nine times out of ten, my protectees and I don’t get along.”

Ooh,
protectees
. How official and bodyguard-y. “If you don’t get along with most of your protectees, why do you do this job?”

It took him longer to answer this time. “The money’s good,” he finally said, “and the opportunity came along at the right time.” She could tell by his expression that wasn’t the whole story, just what he was willing to tell her.

“I suppose you earn that money, working with pains in the ass like me. How long have you been doing this? Bodyguarding and stuff?”

“A while now. Almost eleven years.”

“You’re married, huh?”

He turned to her, his brows drawn together. “Why do you think I’m married?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re old, and you always wear a suit.”

“First of all, I’m not old. I just turned thirty-seven.” He straightened his tie. “And I wear a suit because I’m a professional, not because I’m married.”

“So you’re not married?”

“Not yet. But I’ve got a pretty big extended family. Parents, stepparents, four sisters, three brothers, and all of them have been churning out kids.”

“Do you like to hang with your nieces and nephews?”

His frown deepened. “When I get back to the old neighborhood, yeah. It’s tough to make time in this business. I work a lot.”

“Building up a nest egg for when you get married and have kids?”

“What’s with you and the marriage and kids?” He turned the question on her. “Do you want to get married and have kids?”

She gave him a flirty smile. “Thanks for the invitation, but no. You’re way too old for me.”

She was hilarious, but he didn’t appreciate her sense of humor. He only rolled his eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest, sighed, and stepped up the death march toward the hotel.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“I’m bored.” She didn’t want to look at him and his judgey expressions and eye rolling. She kept her gaze forward. “I want to get back. I’ve got shit to do.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Work shit. I do work, you know. I’ve got to spend time mucking around and putting beats and melodies together. Those festival sets don’t just materialize out of my ass.” Defensiveness crept into her voice, although she usually tried to maintain a flippant, carefree vibe. People found that more attractive than the stressed-out reality. “I have to listen to a lot of music in order to create music. I have to plan dance sets. I have to come up with new mixes or people get bored.”

“People get bored, or you get bored?”

She shrugged. “What’s the difference? The point is, I have to stay on my game, even when someone’s trying to fuck things up.”

“If you’re talking about me—”

“Who else would I be talking about?” She turned to him, not being flippant or carefree at all. Oh well. He saw through her cool girl act by now. “You’re the one who’s living in my space and rooting through my shit, and taking away my stash so I can’t relax. You’re the one cock blocking me when I had two big-ass, gorgeous German guys on the hook—”

“Sometimes you act like a pig, you know that? It’s not attractive.”

“I’m not trying to attract you,” she shot back. “And it’s obnoxious to call a woman a pig.”

“I call it like I see it. You would have just used Hans and Franz and sent them home?”

“Why not? Guys do that kind of thing all the time.”

“Some guys,” he said under his breath.

“What?”

“Not all guys do that,” he said in a louder voice. “Not all guys objectify women and use them as throwaway objects for sex.”

Lola huffed out an irritated noise. She was done with this conversation. What the fuck did he care, anyway?

“It’s none of your fucking business,” she muttered.

“Your safety and well-being is my business, at least until the end of this tour.”

They stepped out of the way to let some young kids run by. “You keep saying that,” she said, “but you’re making me miserable.”

He didn’t answer. She thought if he had, he would have said
The feeling is mutual
again, so she was glad he kept his mouth shut. They returned to the hotel in stony silence. Lola retreated into her solitary, aural world for the rest of the afternoon, blocking him out with headphones. She made notes for that evening’s set, and saved a few ideas for future mixes. She categorized each song in her library by beats per minute, whether it was her work or someone else’s. The cardinal law of EDM mixing: know your beats.

Later, backstage at the festival, Ransom followed her like a fucking bloodhound. She’d hoped to score some pills before her set, but in the end, she had to take the stage sober. It was still fun to rile up the crowd and make music. Just not as fun. Now and again she looked to the side, and there he was at the top of the stairs from backstage, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He never danced, just watched. He made her feel imprisoned a little, and smothered.

But in some way, he also made her feel safe.

*

Ransom banged out
a second set of push-ups, tensing his muscles as the purple-carpeted floorboards vibrated beneath his palms. As soon as they boarded the Lady Paradise tour bus, Greg and Lola had disappeared into their rooms, leaving Ransom to cool his heels in the central living area.

They were on their way to Amsterdam, on a drive that was almost, but not quite, long enough to say
Fuck it, let’s take a flight.
When you factored in airport and security nonsense, it just made more sense to drive. Tour buses were part of the musician mystique, he supposed. This one had dark velvet covered benches, gleaming chrome walls, and royal purple shag carpet that didn’t quite stifle the noise of the road.

Or the other noises.

Ransom completed his set, sat back on his heels, and listened. She was still at it. At first, he’d thought she was masturbating. Lord knew she was a horny little monster. She’d almost taken his head off when he’d refused to let her enjoy her Hamburg threesome.

But no, she wasn’t masturbating. She was crying, and trying to be quiet about it. Ransom had pretty good ears, and those ears were attuned first and foremost to his client. She was making pitiful sounds, muffled sobs and gasps, and occasional squeaks that could only be described as injured-baby-animal grief.

He didn’t think her set was that bad. Maybe she wasn’t crying over that. Maybe she was crying because of Hans and Franz.

No. Women didn’t make injured baby animal sounds over men they’d picked up in a nightclub. Those types of guys doubtless offered themselves to Lady Paradise in every city.

He lowered himself to hands and toes and did another set of push-ups with his tie tucked between the buttons of his shirt. When he was finished, he stood and stretched, and did some squats along the abbreviated length of the common area before coming to rest beside the kitchenette. He took out a water bottle and drained it. He could still smell the smoke machine chemicals in his clothes. That shit had to be toxic. Lord knew how much of it Lola inhaled in a typical week, but that might explain her erratic behavior and crazy ass moods.

He walked back over to her bedroom door and stood outside, listening. They were on the highway, so there were no stops or starts, just smooth, uninterrupted cruising. He didn’t hear any more crying. He thought she might be sleeping, but then he heard a soft, melodic strum. A guitar?

He sat at the end of the velvet-cushioned bench nearest her room and listened to her aimless noodling. He didn’t play guitar himself, but he recognized capability. Interesting. Lady Paradise could do more than push buttons and move levers. Why hadn’t she told him so when he’d mocked her?

He decided he’d better check on her since she’d been crying. It was his job to supervise her, to make sure she was safe. He wasn’t one to coddle and comfort a sobbing client, but now that she seemed to have her shit together, he ought to poke his head in and see if she needed anything.

Oh, you want to poke your head in, all right.

He ignored his all too savvy conscience and went to the kitchenette to grab more water and some kind of healthy snack. Finding nothing on the bus that qualified as “healthy,” he grabbed a box of crackers instead, and headed back to her room. She was still messing around on the guitar, plucking out a hesitant melody that sounded both wistful and sweet.

He knocked when the meandering notes came to a stop. Her abrasive “What?” was in direct opposition to her soulful playing.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Go away.”

“I have food and water. Are you dressed?”

She slid open the narrow pocket door without getting up, and glared out at him from her bedroom, which was really just a compartment built around a queen sized bed. The sheets were rumpled, and the back of the platform was piled with pink pillows that matched her pink plaid pajamas and pink hair. Her eyes were still red.

He held up the water and crackers, and she reached for them. “Give me. Then go away.”

“Are you playing the guitar?”

She still had it cradled in her lap. She gave him a withering look. “What, are you listening at my door?”

“I can hear it from out there.” He flicked a thumb over his shoulder. “It sounds nice.” He paused. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she said too quickly. “I was just winding down.”

“Must be hard to wind down after those sets. They’re pretty loud and intense.”

“Yeah.”

He leaned against the narrow doorway, thinking of topics that might engage her. If he could bond with her, even a little, the next few weeks might be easier for both of them. She gave her light wood guitar an accidental strum as she opened the box of crackers.