by Elaria Ride
“Yo!” he booms, striding onstage, his arms outspread. I massage my temples. Good Lord. It’s too early for this.
Miles kisses me on the cheek, shooting me what he thinks is an endearing wink. “Sorry, Sis. We had a late night.” He yawns, stretching. “The twins and I had to work off some of that stress at O’Grady’s. You understand.”
I roll my eyes and gesture indignantly to Dad, who’s observing the whole thing from the front row. No, I do not understand! This is the classic Matthews double standard. I spent the morning wracked with guilt for leaving the police station while Miles, Michael, and Malachi were out at a bar.
Aaaand speak of the devil — or devils — here are the last two members of the Matthews clan: Michael and Malachi, Thing One and Thing Two.
They push through the stage door like they’re walking the runway, not even vaguely embarrassed for their tardiness. I wish that surprised me, but simply put, the twins are trouble. If you see a crazy headline about someone in the Matthews family impersonating the president or sneaking into the control room at SeaWorld (to “sing to the whales”), you can bet your ass that the twins are behind it.
They’re 35 going on 15, and it amazes me every single day that they successfully own and operate a business. They run the Nashville branch of Bosco Lumber, a family company from back home on Biggal Mountain.
As always, the twins are in the middle of some half-formed secret conversation. Instead of apologizing, they each shoot me finger guns, timed so completely in unison you’d think they planned it.
I roll my eyes. Of all my brothers, the twins annoy me the fastest. It’s one of those weird sibling things you have to experience to understand: At 10:30 a.m., I want to murder them, but by 11, I’d help them bury a body.
Luckily I love those goobers, even though they annoy me. And right now? They really fucking annoy me.
“You ready for Evermore, Mary?” drawls Russ over the mic, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Y-yep!” I stammer into the body mic, staring into the house. Now more than ever, I need to be a professional and focus on the job.
Fortunately, singing is the best form of escape there is. And it’s free.
I close my eyes as the first notes of the up-tempo pop song wash over me. This is a classic, one from our childhood. It reminds me of picking daisies in a field outside our trailer and Mom’s lavender shampoo and playing tag with my brothers. And Carter…
I swallow against the unexpected memory but still manage to start on time with the music. I was young when this one came out, so I have more harmonies (la la la, ba ba ba) than anything else. Still, I love being part of this.
A smile crosses my face as I stare at my brothers down the stage. I watch them zone out with the music, their feet tapping along to the rhythm. They may be punks… but dammit, they’re my punks. And apart from having a solo career, there’s nothing I’d rather do than perform right alongside them.
When Mal begins crooning the first few words, a warmth spreads through my chest that ends in a beaming grin across my face. Despite my best intentions of staying mad, I suddenly care a lot less about the delay.
By the time we leave rehearsal hours later, I’ve begrudgingly admitted (if only to myself) that there are certain benefits to working with Mr. Hottie Guard. For starters, when I started singing, Carter’s eyes hadn’t made me flustered or uncomfortable. Instead, I felt safer. More protected. More capable of singing my heart out without other fears creeping in. Dad’s rash and overprotective, but maybe this one time, he’s right: maybe now I’ll have better focus on the tour.
A black SUV is already waiting on the curb when we step outside. Carter holds open the door and clears his throat.
I crawl into the backseat and speak in my best impression of a British accent. “Witness the caveman retreating to his cave!” I announce, like I’m narrating a nature documentary. “It appears this rare species only evolves from a primate to hug my brother. And talk about models.”
Carter remains tight-lipped as he climbs in after me, but Rodriguez, who's driving, gives me a chuckle and a pleasant wave in the rear-view mirror. I smile back as we pull out of the lot. Rod’s a nice guy. I feel a little guilty for making him chase after me last night.
Still, I wouldn’t describe Rod as chatty; I pull out my phone and my earbuds, unwilling to sit in silence for the drive. Russ always emails recordings of our rehearsal for us to study overnight — but as always, I’ll be the only one in my family to listen. I relax against the seat as the opening notes of Evermore echo through my head. My whole body feels sleepy and warm, especially with Luke tucked right against me.
Damn… Malachi sounds amazing on this recording! So gentle and earnest. Even with the minor adjustments, it's a miracle he’s still able to access the vocal range he had as a kid.
By the time we reach my apartment complex, I’ve made it through the whole set-list. I have a few notes about pitch and intonation, but we sound right on track despite missing rehearsal yesterday. Even I sound right on track, despite the fuss and stress I’ve caused.
Rodriguez drops us off right by the elevator, and Carter and I wave our goodbyes as we step inside the stairwell. I’m sure it’s just security protocol, but I don’t hate the feeling of his large, warm hand naturally resting on the small of my back as the elevator surges to the top floor. Between the MFB’s excellent work today and the thought of a long, hot bubble bath — guest-starring a glass of champagne — things are seeming a whole lot brighter.
I’m feeling so good, actually, that I’m seized with the desire to make Caveman evolve again. Turnabout is fair play; he’s spent the day getting me flustered with those eyes. Even if he isn’t quite the arrogant jerk I once presumed him to be.
“So, Mr. Hottie Guard,” I start thoughtfully. “How was your first day of Minding Miss Matthews?”
Carter shakes his head but gives no other sign he’s heard me. Which just means I need to try a little harder.
Then the elevator dings to a stop, the doors sliding open — and all of a sudden, Carter gets a weird, stony look on his face as he squints down the hallway.
“Stay here,” he mutters, leaving me just outside the elevator. In three strides of his long legs, Carter reaches my door at the end of the hallway. I finally notice what he’s seen right away. My keypad is blinking an odd sequence of colors: red, yellow, yellow. Since I’ve lived here, it’s only blinked green.
Carter stares at the padlock for a second before running a hand down his face with a groan. He whips his phone from his pocket to type a furious message — and then he turns to face me, a finger on his lips. I manage a weak nod in response. I know I’m a diva, but I’m not dumb enough to ignore that primal look of fear on his face.
Without breaking eye contact, Carter nudges my door with his shoulder… and fuuuck!
I shudder as the door swings wide open. Completely unlocked.
I don’t have to be a cop to know this is bad news. We definitely locked up before leaving this morning… which can only mean…
I watch Carter’s back as he takes a single step inside my open apartment. From this distance, his enormous frame is almost level with my chandelier.
Then, right in front of my eyes, it’s like a switch flips: Carter’s shoulders go stiff, his posture goes rigid… and then, in an instant, he’s turning on his heel, racing back down the hallway. His face is so hard it’s more machine than man; his wild, frightened eyes provide the only clue how he really feels.
My hearts hammers into my throat as he guides me into the elevator. Shit. Whatever he found inside is bad, but I don’t dare ask about it now. My only comfort is the familiar warmth of his palm against the small of my back.
Carter’s phone buzzes when we reach the parking lot. An anxious silence hangs between us as he meets my gaze and brings the phone to his ear… and when he speaks to my father on the other end, he only verifies what I’ve assumed.
“Threat three confirmed,” Carter says, his voice deep.
“I’m moving in.”
6
Luke
There’s no more room for doubt: this stalker jackass is making things personal.
My mouth is in a firm line as I maneuver the black SUV up the winding path towards the Great Smokies. A glimpse at the GPS on the dashboard tells me we still have about an hour to the Matthews Mountain family estate. In the meantime, my only source of comfort comes from the police escorts that flank us on all sides.
Mariah shifts in my peripheral vision, and I relax my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Just a little. For the thousandth time, I remind myself that she’s ok. Somehow, the perp broke into her apartment while we were busy at the studio — but she wasn’t harmed. At all.
Still, I haven’t stopped kicking myself for not insisting on changing the locks before we left this morning. I should have followed my instincts and pressed Schmidt to make the immediate changes.
After pushing through her unlocked door (which showed no signs of forced entry), I’d found the third threat casually sitting on Mariah’s quartz countertop. The style of this one perfectly matches the first three — but this one is far more personal than its predecessors. The cutout letters, arranged in neat lines, announce: U HAVE A GUARD NOW PIGGY PIG. LET’S MAKE HIM DANCE.
Hours later, that still makes my skin crawl — both in disgust at this pervert and in the way he’s referring to her as Piggy. For fuck’s sake. If he wants her so badly, you think he’d try a little harder to be nice!
Even after all my years in this line of work, this threat sends a chill up my spine. It implies direct knowledge of our surveillance mission. Mariah’s stalker is firmly aware of our established Plan B protocol; he knows I have to move in.
Which is part of the reason I haven’t. Yet.
While escorting Mariah downstairs again and waiting for backup, I made an immediate decision to relocate her — us — for the weekend. The rest of PMS arrived minutes later in a flank of squad cars. From what I hear, Matthews Mountain is a veritable Fort Knox, a security-rigged chalet nestled far away in the Smokies. Right now, it’s also the best option while PMS does a thorough sweep of her apartment. In the meantime, though, I have this weird niggling fear in the back of my head that I’m playing right into the stalker’s hand. That he wants me out of the building.
I release a slow breath and try to remember some de-stressing techniques I’ve learned in therapy over the past six months. Mariah’s safety is my mission — plain and simple. If she’s safe, I’m doing my job. If I focus too much on the investigation aspect, I’ll miss the bigger picture. But then an unbidden reminder creeps into the corner of my brain… one I can’t quite shut out in time: safety was your mission last time, too. And look how that turned out.
Mariah’s timid voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Do you, um… want some music?”
I clear my throat, sitting up straighter. “Sure. Don’t think I have a cord thingie, though.”
Since finding the threat, I’ve been speaking to her — actually speaking to her, and not just through monosyllables and “caveman grunts” (as she calls them). This a breach of my personal protocol, but seeing as how we’re both shaken up, I can’t imagine not providing some conversational comfort right now. I’ll resume surveillance at Matthews Mountain, where I’ll have more help anyway.
Mariah giggles, digging through her purse. “Cord thingie. Are you sure you’re not a 90-year-old man in a middle-aged body?”
I snort as Mariah produces a cord thingie of her own and plugs her phone into the car stereo. “Who are you calling middle-aged, Princess?”
“Well,” she says, scrolling through her phone, “when you do crazy, reckless stuff for a living, you never know when middle age might strike!”
I can’t deny that she has a point. “Yeah, RSOs tend to have shorter lifespans than accountants.”
“RSOs?”
A 70s rock ballad begins playing as Mariah settles back into her seat. Right. I keep forgetting that civilians don’t know these terms.
“Regional Security Officers. Basically what I’m doing now, except international.”
“Oooh, and with a real princess?” she croons excitedly. “No wonder! I know you were in Kashfar protecting whatshername—”
I clear my throat, cutting her off. I know Mariah’s question has pure intentions. I know she’s as shaken up as I am. I know she’s just making conversation, distracting herself as much as she’s distracting me. But thinking about that mission — the one that gave me the ridiculous Hottie Guard title — is a little too much after today's events.
“You’re the only princess now,” I say firmly, closing the subject.
Mariah gives an indignant huff but doesn’t press. Good. I readjust my grip on the wheel. She’s learning to abide by my instructions, even when they're non-verbal. The rest of PMS will be pleased.
“Well,” she starts a moment later, “if I can’t talk about you, let’s chat about my favorite subject… me!” I can almost hear her batting her eyelashes and giving me a dramatic wink.
I chuckle through a nod, and before I know what’s happening, she’s off. A tight smile stays on my lips as she begins with the Biggal Mountain origin story, but I don’t dare admit I already know most of what she’s sharing.
Like I said, I like listening to her prattle. I guess celebrity crushes die hard.
Mariah continues babbling about photo shoots and modeling for the rest of the trip, but I know what she’s really doing. I’m not a total idiot. Though my time with her has been brief, there’s one thing I’ve already learned. Despite my rash judgments last night, the tabloids have gotten something wrong: Mariah actually isn’t egocentric or self-centered… she just permits this reputation. Because it gives her certain perks.
If Mariah comes across as vapid and attention-seeking, it’s easier for her to get what she wants. I suspect that even a skilled industry professional would be taken aback by her enormous hazel eyes, striking beauty, and seductive curves — all before she even opens her mouth. And when you combine these features with preconceived notions of her being a simple diva? Yeah. You’d be putty in her hands.
She’s the sort who bats her eyelashes and plays dumb until the cows come home, but before you know it, you’ve shared your grandma’s social security number. No, Mariah isn’t a diva — she’s a goal-oriented professional with a laser-like focus on her career. And trust me when I say there’s a distinction.
Seeing her with her brothers today also confirmed what I’d suspected since Earl hired me: she’s the only one in the MFB who really cares about performing. She’s lived her whole life bouncing from gig to gig and trying to recapture fame. Her brothers have always been part of the MFB package, so she’s dragged them along with her.
Which means that even now, as she waxes poetic about her pin-up lingerie ad, she’s not actually trying to talk about herself; she’s putting me at ease. She knows she brushed on something uncomfortable by mentioning Kashfar, something I’m unwilling to share.
Her soft voice washes over me in waves the rest of the way to her family estate, and before long, the third threat is a thing of the past. I make appropriate listening sounds as her soothing voice carries through the car, hoping she interprets my gentle smile as a thank you.
The Matthews estate is both everything and nothing I thought it would be.
We pull up just after midnight. The moment SUV wheels crunch on the gravel path, the calming atmosphere in the car dissolves back into reality.
I let out a low whistle as I pull in and put the car in park. This sprawling chalet has a certain rustic charm that’s missing from her apartment. It’s enormous — more than large enough for the Matthews family — and even in the darkness I can tell it’s gorgeously landscaped with scrubs and pine trees.
Mariah acts like it’s no big deal, though. She merely blinks at her giant family home and reaches over to open the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask sharply, giving her
a pointed stare. “Last I checked, Princess, you’re still under surveillance. Which means I’ll open the doors, thanks.”
She rolls her eyes. I step out of the car, surprised this place doesn’t have valets. They must be more down-to-earth than I thought. PMS, except for Russ and Earl (who have opted to wait for the final apartment sweep) roll in around us as I help Mariah down to the ground.
Aunt Grace, the family matriarch, emerges from the house a second later. Mariah lets out a peal of delight, running up the lit cobblestone path and into her arms. Grace is pushing 80 — but she’s quite a lot sprier than her file suggests.
I use Mariah’s distraction to get intel from Rodriguez. “Anything?” I mutter, hoisting both of our weekend bags over my shoulder.
Rod just shrugs and signals for the rest of the squad to do an exterior sweep. “The best theory is that a paparazzi drone caught us entering the combo on the roof. But honestly, that doesn’t sit right with me.”
I nod back. It doesn’t sit right with me, either — but I just draw a deep breath. It’s not my job to investigate; it’s my job to observe.
We stride towards the beam of light coming from the open door of the Matthews estate, the raucous laughter from inside guiding our path. I wouldn’t believe if it I weren’t trained, but the glowing, cozy appearance of the chalet is hiding a state-of-the-art security system. As I’ve confirmed with multiple intel groups (including the folks who installed it), there are more cameras in the Matthews living room alone than in the entire production studio.
Rod and I step inside, closing and locking the heavy wooden doors behind us; the rest of PMS will only do exterior sweeps and monitoring for the rest of the weekend. It’s clear Earl cares a lot about his family’s safety. I just wish he’d paid more attention to the lacking security at her apartment.
I let out a low whistle as I take in the place. It’s all pine ceiling beams and authentic cabin decor — much cozier than her sterile apartment. A fire roars in a cobblestone fireplace, and plush couches with flannel blankets beckon invitingly from in front of the hearth. Mariah is casually milling around with her family, a grin stretched across her face as she greets the various wives and girlfriends who have accompanied her brothers this weekend.