Authors: Bella Wild,Bella Love-Wins
Amanda
Another three days of security guard duty spilled into my weekend and had left me more desperate than ever to break free. I had to find a way to start my own business. My agent, Greg and I spoke about doing some commentator work. He also thought he could secure a few endorsement deals for vitamins and protein bars. I was getting antsy. None of it was happening fast enough to satisfy me.
By the time Monday rolled around, I was feeling like a caged tiger—cooped up, frustrated, and downright grouchy. When my phone rang and I saw an unlisted number, deep down I hoped Gary had come through for me. I couldn’t bear another day in this job.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is this Amanda Baker?” a male voice asked.
“Yes, who is this?”
“My name is Kevin Willis. I manage Johnny Q Venom,” the man explained.
“Johnny Q who? Is this a prank call?”
“No, Ms. Baker. It’s not a prank call. This is a serious business call.” I could hear the mild irritation in his voice on the other end of the line. “You don’t know Johnny Q Venom?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry, what’s this about?” My patience was wearing thin.
“He’s a popular rock music performing artist, ma’am. With twelve platinum albums all in the soft rock and classic rock genres.”
I wrinkled my nose. It didn’t sound familiar to me, but then I had to admit I wasn’t exactly up to date with those kinds of things. I was the type to listen to streaming music on my iPhone and never stopped to wonder whose voice it was I was enjoying so much.
“The reason I am calling is we have a summer mini-tour scheduled to begin in a little over a few week. It’s only seven stops at this point, because he has a world tour starting in the fall. We’re looking for a security firm to assemble a team that will accompany Johnny and provide protection in all seven cities.”
My mouth had dropped open at some point in the conversation. “And you want
me
?”
I heard him let out a sigh. “Your name came up, Ms. Baker. I was hoping you can come out to Los Angeles to meet in person with Johnny and me. We’d like to discuss the assignment and determine if it would be a good fit for everyone.”
“Of course, Mr. Willis. That makes sense. Um, when would you like me to come out?”
“Would a week Tuesday be possible? Obviously I would handle all travel arrangements. I understand you’ll be traveling quite a distance.”
With the phone at my ear, I bolted down the hall to the kitchen where my paper calendar was hanging on the fridge. I scanned along the glossy page and stopped on the following Tuesday. Yoga with Kyle. Damn. Kyle was an uber-popular yoga instructor here in Miami. I had been getting private lessons with him every other week. It was something I eagerly looked forward to—mostly the part that involved staring at his ass and anything involving a position where he needed to touch me to correct my form. The only problem was every woman in Florida also wanted to snag him, so his waiting list was ridiculous. If I gave up this slot with Kyle, it would be weeks before I’d be able to see him again. Just when I was starting to feel maybe there was some mutual interest, too…
Logically, this was a far better opportunity. And they were willing to fly me out to LA? That had to be good. I silently cheered myself up, and got the image of spending my time off being seduced by a drummer in the back of a tour bus somewhere.
“Yes, I can be there,” I said, forcing my mind back to reality.
“Good. I’ll email you the contract details and flight itinerary,” Mr. Willis continued.
I gave him my email address and thanked him before ending the call. As soon as I set down my phone, it chirped to alert me I had a new email message.
“That was fast,” I said to myself, grabbing the phone back and flicking my email app open.
Sure enough, it was from Mr. Willis. I scanned through the email. It was cordial, but felt so formal and stiff. I opened the attachments inside. The first was a non-disclosure agreement. Pretty straightforward stuff. The second document was the actual working contract. I scanned through the beginning portions, and scrolled to the bottom, where it covered the expected security team size, contract payment breakdowns and the total value of the contract.
“Holy shit!” I almost passed out when I saw the number on the screen.
One. Million. Dollars.
I blinked, closed my eyes and reopened them in disbelief, praying I hadn’t accidentally seen an extra zero. But there it was, still staring back at me. I had never made that kind of money, not even at the peak of my career. I knew there were male MMA fighters pulling that down in private security for A-list celebrities, but I had yet to break that glass ceiling by the time my career came screeching to a halt.
This Johnny Q Venom guy must be big. Twelve platinum albums was a huge accomplishment. If he was a performing artist, he had to be online. I needed to see who this guy was. I clicked out of my email and Googled his name. His pictures splashed onto the screen of my phone, and my breath hitched. He was hot. It was weird—he looked familiar, like I had seen him before, but couldn’t remember where. He didn’t at all look the way I had expected from a name like Johnny Q Venom. I had pictured a rail of a man, with long stringy hair, badass tattoos, and maybe a lip piercing. But the image of the man staring back at me was different…and the reaction my body had concerned me even more.
His was tall and muscular. His hair was dark, cut short and spiked up in the front, in an easy, bedhead sort of way. His strong jaw accentuated the five o’clock scruff on his cheeks and neck in this photo, and oh my God, those pouty lips on that darker complexion. I wondered if he had Italian or Greek somewhere in his lineage. But the most striking thing about him, by far, were his green eyes staring back from the screen. One picture showed a tattoo on the side of his abs, possibly a music symbol. It peeked out from under a hoodie he was wearing. I made a mental note to search for a shirtless picture.
It took some will power to tear my eyes away from these pictures. When I finally did, I glossed over his Wiki page. I gathered that his real name was Lorne Stein and his career was well-established. He had gained a lot of ground in a short amount of time during his the early days. As someone who didn’t know much about the music industry, I was impressed that he put out sixteen full length albums and twenty-one singles in under ten years. I then saw a note that he was mentored by this adopted mother, Lady Dame. That was a big deal to me. My parents loved her music, and she could hold her own with all the rock legends back then.
Half an hour flew by as I soaked up all the information I could about my new potential client. It was all done in the name of research, but I had to admit it—the more I read, the more excited I was about the job. And it wasn’t all just about the money either. Johnny was a stunning-looking guy, with what seemed to be quite the back story.
My rock star trolling-slash-wiki-research session wrapped up with me watching a few of the music videos on his website. The first song was a soft, catchy beat, and the man could dance! I found myself tapping along with the rhythm, using my index fingers as drumsticks on the tabletop. The video featured Johnny in jeans and a leather jacket, surrounded by waif-thin models decked out with over-the-top hair, glittery makeup, and opulent jewelry. They all wore super-short, sparkly cocktail dresses, and as far as I could tell, their only task was looking sexy and grinding up on Johnny as his song played in the background. Lucky bitches.
The next video was essentially the same. There were different girls, and a black-light club setting as the backdrop. I was wrong to judge him before we met, but it was pretty obvious what type of image he wanted to project. He was handsome, sexy, successful, and probably so used to women throwing themselves at him at all occasions. Based on watching his dance moves, he knew what he was doing. In one part of the video, I followed his hands as they seductively moved down one model’s body. He pressed up against her, rocking back and forth to the addictive beat.
I rolled my eyes—mostly at myself. I was slightly annoyed at how easily my body reacted to him. This job could turn out to be tough for me. It was bad enough I saw myself as free-spirited in the bedroom. Protecting him meant watching over him, and that meant I’d be close enough to do much more than watch. Sweet Jesus, this gig could be my big break, but it could be too much of an irresistible temptation. With all that running through my mind, I decided to watch one more video before revamping my business plan. This would be one that involved investing the million dollars that was now waiting for me to reach out and take.
The third video on his website was a live studio recording. Johnny was sitting on a stool, in the booth of a recording studio from the looks of it, with a guitar in his lap. There wasn’t any background music; it was a stripped-down performance of the song featured in one of the videos I had just watched. As he played and began to sing, I leaned in and got a little lost in the rawness of it all. It had a hypnotic effect on me, and I found myself hitting replay the moment it was over. After the second time, I spent a few minutes searching for more live versions of his songs, but couldn’t find any. Eventually, I gave up and closed out of all the windows to focus on the business plan.
A new
ding
rang out from my phone then. I checked the email, and there was a new message from Mr. Willis. This message provided all my travel information, the itinerary and our meeting schedule. I would leave Miami the following Tuesday morning to take a first-class flight to Los Angeles. First class! Once I landed in Los Angeles, a car would pick me up from the airport and take me to the posh-sounding Ritz Carlton hotel in downtown LA. After that I had a two-hour break before another car would pick me up. The driver would take me to Johnny’s house in the Hollywood Hills for the actual meeting. My return flight home was booked for the following day. It was another first-class direct flight back to Miami. Sweet!
The email also listed the upcoming tour dates and locations. My excitement bubbled up and over as I read through the cities and countries we would visit. I had to find my passport, stat! This could open up so many opportunities for me. Not to mention the job experience I’d gain if I aced such a high-profile assignment. Suddenly, it was clear that the door to my dreams all hinged on getting this contract.
If
…There were a lot of ‘ifs’. For the first time since receiving this phone call, my heart started to race. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Even before my biggest fights, I hadn’t experienced this much anxiety. The stakes were so high. This had to work. It just had to.
Amanda
The week had gone by so quickly, and when my alarm went off Tuesday morning, I didn’t have to hit snooze. I was excited for the entire night, and spent it wide awake. I tossed and turned, checking the clock every half-hour. Finally, I could pop out of bed and start getting ready. During the prior few evenings, I had had been busy planning. I had figured out who to invite on the team and confirmed they were available. It felt great to choose who I wanted to work with.
After that, I created a massive list of potential questions Mr. Willis and Johnny Q Venom might ask in the interview. These were questions I needed to have solid, down-pat answers for, and with no hesitation. My last real job interview had been at a sandwich shop back in college. I had worked there part-time while training at the beginning of my fighting career. Back then, I had started with underground cage fights, and worked my way up from there. I made more and more money at each fight as I built my reputation. Eventually, out of college, I had gotten to the point where I quit working at the sandwich shop, and spent all my time training and fighting.
After I got injured, I was forced to take an entire year off to fully rehabilitate. When I was ready to work again, a friend with a security staffing agency offered me this security gig I was in. I had taken it mostly out of boredom, but still held on to the dream of starting my own business. And now, it looked like it might all work out in the end.
This chance was my ticket. Normally, I walked around not giving a shit what people thought of me. Now I needed to switch gears and be active in impressing these LA strangers. Somehow, I had to convince them to give me this million-dollar-deal. I was travelling there with no leadership experience, no references to speak of, and the more I thought about it, the more it began to seem like an impossible feat. I wasn’t even sure how I had managed to be in the running for this gig. Los Angeles was full of high-profile security firms, staffed with ex-SWAT team agents and retired Navy SEALs. Or, at least that’s how I pictured it.
Maybe none of them wanted to work with Johnny. In my research the day before, I came across a few articles that detailed his party-hard lifestyle. From what I could tell, he had trashed his fair share of hotel rooms. Maybe the
real
security firms refused to work with him because they didn’t want to babysit a spoiled rock star all day. That would certainly explain why he was willing to spend a million dollars for such a short tour.
I turned this new theory over in my mind as I packed. In the end, I decided he couldn’t possibly be more annoying than the politicians and billionaires I protected now. I would much rather break up a bar fight and hold off screaming teenage fan-girls than deal with this current headache. And I thought hey, maybe I’d get a chance to practice my chokehold on a groupie here and there. That would be a real bonus, a nice throwback to my fighting days.
I laughed at the mental picture and went back to organizing my bags. I had packed the night before, but wanted to run through everything one more time to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. It was somewhat neurotic, but gave me something to do while I waited for the driver they scheduled to take me to the airport.
All I took was my purse with my wallet and essentials, and a carry-on bag with all my clothes, shoes and accessories. My phone was fully charged, and I brought an extra charger, just in case my regular one died during the trip. I also stashed some granola bars and beef jerky in one of the side pockets, for snacking on the flight. Satisfied with my preparation, I pushed up off the floor and went to the bathroom to finish getting ready.
My flight and interview outfit was a black pantsuit with a coral tank underneath the jacket. I slicked my shoulder-length blonde hair back into a low ponytail. To top off the look, I slipped in a pair of small, silver hoop-earrings. I rarely wore jewelry. It was a habit from years spent in the ring. And I essentially lived in athletic wear, but when the opportunity came up, I liked getting a little dressy.
The next step was makeup. Again, this was not something I was used to doing much. As a fighter, you gain no real advantage with it. Sure, I’d put on a swipe of waterproof mascara and a dab of tinted lip gloss before going on camera, but that was pretty much it. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a minute before starting. My skin was clear enough not to require foundation, but this was special. I applied a small amount, and even dabbed some concealer under my eyes. I wanted to hide the fatigue lines that had cropped up sometime in the last six months. I swept some blush on my cheeks to help highlight my cheekbones, and then a layer of bronzer on top of that to give me a healthy-looking glow.
Living in Miami provided me with a pretty solid natural tan year-round, so the bronzer was more of an accent. I did my eyes last, choosing a neutral color to complement my grey-green eyes. With a couple layers of mascara at the end, I was good to go. I stood back and did a spin in the mirror, checking all the angles. I gave myself a nod of approval before leaving the bathroom, switching off the lights on my way out.
Sipping on my cup of coffee, I waited for the driver. The doubts and worries that had plagued me overnight surfaced again. As I pushed one away, another took its place. By the time the phone rang, I was distracted, and the sound startled me. I ended up splashing coffee on my hand.
“Shit!” I jumped up and ran to the kitchen to wash it off my hand, checking my sleeve to make sure it was clean.
This was nervous energy and anxiety, pure and simple. I answered the phone on the last ring and told the driver I would be right down. I quickly wiped off the table with a paper towel, tossed it, and then grabbed my bags. After locking up, I hurried downstairs to the waiting town car.
“Hello, Ms. Baker.”
“Hello.” I said.
“Let me take your bags, ma’am,” he replied.
“Thank you.”
I held up the small carry-on bag, and he stowed it away in the trunk before returning to open the back passenger-side door for me. I slid inside the car, and he gently closed the door behind me. Within minutes, we were heading toward the freeway.
“So, where are you headed?”
“Oh, I thought you knew! I need to go to the airport,” I said, suddenly panicked.
The driver laughed. “We are. I meant where are you going from there?”
“Oh,” I said, mentally kicking myself for being so high-strung. “Los Angeles.”
“Ah, the City of Angels. Very good. Business or pleasure?”
“I have a job interview,” I replied, happy for the distraction.
The driver went on to recommend restaurants and sights I should see once in town. Before I knew it, we were sitting at the departures lane at Miami International Airport. He came around to open my door, but I had already let myself out. He rushed to get my bag from the trunk.
“Have a nice trip, ma’am,” he said as he handed over the bag.
“Thanks. Have a nice day,” I replied, slipping a twenty into his hand.
I was sure that Mr. Willis had prepaid the tip, but this man had been so nice to try and calm me down. I headed inside to check my bags, got my boarding pass reasonably quickly, and after a short wait at the gate, everyone boarded the plane and it took off. So much was riding on the outcomes of this trip!
The flight was long, and although being in first class helped immensely, I was still stiff and tired when the plane touched down at LAX. I checked the time on my phone while waiting to disembark, and saw we were running behind schedule. I would have less than an hour at the hotel before another driver was scheduled to take me to the meeting.
A man in a suit held up a sign with my name when I got to the baggage claim section. He had a short, but polite conversation with me as he whisked me away in his limo. I could barely focus on what he was saying. I was in Los Angeles and had a date with destiny! The driver got me to my hotel and I checked in. I needed all the time I could get, to be ready for this face-to-face meeting. I headed up the elevator to the fourteenth floor to find my room.
I gasped when I stepped into my suite. It was expansive and brightly lit, with elegant, contemporary furniture and a sweeping view of downtown LA. One thing instantly took my breath away. There was a gorgeous flower arrangement sitting on the night table beside the king-size bed when I walked into the bedroom. The card inside it said, “
Welcome to LA, Amanda. From JQV
.” They had to be for this Johnny guy I was meeting. Only my manager knew I was here, and I knew no one else with those initials. The flowers were wrapped as if they had come from a shop, not just placed there by the hotel staff as part of any welcome package. They seemed more personal somehow, and had my favorites sprinkled throughout—white hydrangea.
I set down my bags and walked over to the flowers to breathe in the scents. I wished I had more time to appreciate them. Taking one more whiff, I went to the bathroom to touch up my makeup and refasten my ponytail. I had barely finished when the room phone rang. It was the front desk, calling to let me know my ride was waiting. Where did the time go? I hurried downstairs and met yet another driver, this one just as formal and polite as the last.
I was relieved he had the radio on. I focused on the scenery outside and the music, instead of the anxiety flooding my veins. I mentally rehearsed my pitch. We were getting closer. I looked out the window as we turned onto a winding uphill road. I caught my first glimpse of the massive houses that speckled the hillside, and reminded myself to breathe. That nervous pit in my stomach grew by the second.
When the car came to a stop, I couldn’t see a house. There was just a gate and a long driveway. The driver rolled down his window and tapped his entry code into a small black console I hadn’t seen at first. The gate opened slowly. The nervousness was spreading through my body now, and traveled down to my feet, which tapped the floorboard underneath me.
“Get it together, Baker,” I whispered to myself.
When the house at the end of the quarter-mile long driveway came into view, I was hypnotized. It was gigantic. A massive, beautiful mansion, and strangely, not the type of house I imagined a single, young, hip rock star would live in. I had pictured something more contemporary and edgy. This home had the classic feel of a sprawling Italian estate, complete with lush landscaping, a striking fountain at the front, and a brick treatment on the driveway that felt smooth under the car, but looked identical to cobblestone.
The car came to a stop at the wide front steps. The driver hopped out and opened my door. I thanked him as I stepped out, and when I looked back toward the house, a man was standing at the top of the steps. I climbed the stairs with my bags, smiling as I approached him.
“Hello, Ms. Baker,” the man said. “I’m Kevin Willis. We spoke on the phone.” He extending his arm and we shook hands.
“Hello Mr. Willis. Please, call me Amanda.”
“Will do, and you can call me Kevin. Come on inside. Johnny’s waiting to meet you.”
A jolt of anxiety hit me at his words. I put on my game-day face, and followed him. Inside the house was just as breathtaking as the outside. Kevin led me through the entryway and into the enormous living room. It was flooded by natural light that poured in through the windows. The room was filled with expensive looking art-deco furniture. All of that faded to the background when my eyes landed on Johnny Q Venom. He had been sitting on a mocha colored couch beside a massive fireplace on the main wall. He jumped to his feet when our eyes met, and his face broke into a broad, pleasant smile.
“Amanda!”
The way he said it felt like he was greeting an old friend. I rushed forward to shake his hand, and did my best to ignore the instant sparks flying between us. He had a magnetic energy that drew me in, and took my hand in what I thought would be a handshake. Instead, he grasped my fingers, and oh my God, the man raised my hand and brushed a quick kiss across the tops of my knuckles. As innocent as it might have seemed, my body reacted from head to toe. It was harmless, but felt so…intimate. And my reaction caught me by surprise. My cheeks warmed up, and knew I was blushing.
“Come on, Johnny,” Kevin snapped. He softened his tone as he turned to me. “Amanda, please sit anywhere you like.”
Johnny begrudgingly released my hand and gestured to the sofa.
I smiled at him. “Thank you. It’s great to meet you.”
I sat on the edge of the couch beside him. My nervousness had ratcheted up another degree sometime between walking through the house and feeling his lips on my skin. Kevin was polite. He offered me a beverage and would not take no for an answer. I secretly hoped he would be the same way when it came time to offering me this gig. He made small talk as we waited for his assistant to bring in three bottles of Perrier water. And every time Johnny and I made eye contact, my head would get clouded. I reminded myself I was here on business, and not just to get an eyeful of the delicious man-candy sitting across from me.
Soon, we all got down to business. It didn’t take any effort to know who was in charge. Johnny might have been the rock star, but Kevin was the boss. For that reason—and because looking at Johnny led to fiery, erotic thoughts—I placed all my attention on what Kevin had to share. I nodded and interjected where I felt comfortable, and answered all his questions.
The lustful part of my brain was completely occupied with thoughts of Johnny. He acted nothing like a celebrity rock star. And all the research I had done contradicted what I was starting to sense about him in person. He seemed warmer, softer, more low-key, and sweet Jesus, his smoking hot body oozed sex appeal. I knew he was hot, but getting this extra insight into his personality only amplified my physical attraction.