This is only the tip of the iceberg. Be careful who you trust.
The words still haunted Dez to this day.
Other band members scrambled behind the stage. Shock was evident on their features. In their wide eyes. Their quick motions. Their parted lips.
Bree squeezed his arm again—she hadn’t let go. “The shooter . . . did he get anyone else?”
Dez glanced around and spotted a man being carried away from the stage by two of the event staff. Blood stained the man’s shirt, and his eyes were closed as his face scrunched with pain. Staff members lowered him to the ground to examine him until the EMTs arrived.
Bree followed his gaze and let out a gasp. She darted away from Dez and toward the injured man. “Lloyd! Oh, Lloyd!”
Dez glanced around one more time, looking for any trouble.
He saw nothing, and Bree was low enough that the stage should protect her.
The wounded man—Lloyd, Bree had called him—moaned as he lay on the ground. The two staffers knelt by him as the man grasped his midsection. Blood stained his shirt.
“Oh, Lloyd . . .” Bree said again, kneeling beside him.
It didn’t look good. The man was losing a lot of blood.
A paramedic who’d been on standby rushed toward Lloyd. Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Dez, are you okay?” a new voice asked.
He looked up to see his boss, Colton Locke, dart toward him. Urgency strained each of his motions. This was a full-blown emergency.
Dez glanced at his shoulder, at the patch of blood there, and nodded. “I’ll be fine. Just a surface wound.”
“And Bree?”
Dez glanced at the woman again and nodded. “She’s scared but not hurt.”
“Keep an eye on things back here. I’m going to see if Chief Chambers needs any help. It’s a madhouse out there.”
Dez nodded. He could still hear the crowd. People were still screaming, crying, darting away in fear.
What a disaster.
Dez hoped they caught whoever was behind this. No one should get away with an act like this. No one.
Chapter Three
Bree sat in the chapel of the Lantern Beach Medical Clinic and ran a tissue beneath her eyes. Her face felt raw from wiping it so much, but she couldn’t stop.
Lloyd was in surgery right now. If treatment hadn’t been so urgent, he would’ve probably been transported to a bigger hospital. But since time was of the essence, the Lantern Beach doctor had been forced to operate on him because of internal bleeding.
Besides her bodyguard, three other people at the concert had also been shot, but their injuries appeared to be non-life threatening. They were also being treated.
She was thankful for that. It could have been so much worse.
The guys from her band were in the chapel with her. They’d caused too much of a commotion in the waiting room. Fans had been clamoring for autographs. This clinic had turned into a circus. Bree doubted the small Lantern Beach police force had enough staff to manage the scene from the concert as well as the craziness here at the clinic.
The fanfare was unnecessary at a time like this. Families still needed time to process what had happened.
Bree glanced over her shoulder and saw that her bodyguard still stood beside her. Apparently, the man couldn’t leave her side until this was all over, and Bree wasn’t going to argue. Having the imposing man close made her feel safe.
He’d already been stitched up, had a bandage peeking out from under his sleeve, and someone had brought him a fresh T-shirt—absent of the blood stains and bullet hole. Based on his stiff demeanor, no one would have guessed he’d just been shot. Instead, he was all focus and determination.
Her manager, Emerson Platt, strode into the room and sat beside her. The man was short and scrawny. His motions—and words—were always fast. It felt like a whirlwind whenever he came around.
Emerson paused, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked more like he’d just come from a meeting than a tragedy. How did he keep such a cool head?
Bree wasn’t impressed—more like bothered.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I should’ve never done this concert,” Bree mumbled. It was the only thing she could think about. Emerson had told her to say no when she’d been invited.
The crowd here at the festival was much smaller than her sold-out arenas. The pay wasn’t as good. Her band had been pared down.
But, for some reason, she’d felt compelled to say yes. This place reminded her of her roots, her beginnings. She’d wanted to give back.
Big mistake.
“You couldn’t have known.” Emerson leaned into the wooden pew, causing the whole thing to groan.
“No, but maybe we should have anticipated something like this happening. This is all my fault.” Bree’s head pounded as she said the words.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bree. No one will blame you.”
“I don’t know how they can’t.” This was her show. People had trusted that the event would be secure. Emerson didn’t seem to understand that, though. He was always so focused, so absent of emotion—at least, emotions like compassion and empathy.
Emerson let out a long breath and shifted. “How long are you going to stay?”
“Until Lloyd is out of surgery.” Bree had already made up her mind, and no one would talk her out of it.
“We don’t know how long that will be.”
“It doesn’t matter how long it will be. I’m staying.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Okay then. Have it your way. You just look like you could use some rest.”
“I’ll be fine.” Bree’s words contained a harder edge than she’d intended, but Emerson had always annoyed her. If he wasn’t so good at what he did, she would have fired him a long time ago. But he was the one who’d made her a star, a fact he reminded her of as often as possible.
“I’m going to continue to do damage control.” Emerson stood. “I have some phone calls I need to make, but I’ll check in later.”
Once Emerson started toward the door, Bree almost felt better. He wasn’t the type to calm her down. No, he was the type who stirred up her insecurities and fears.
Bree closed her eyes. Flashbacks of the gunfire hit her. She flinched with every memory.
None of this seemed real. How could this happen at her concert?
Even worse, had anyone told Jill yet? Jill was Lloyd’s longtime girlfriend. She couldn’t find out about something like this on the news.
“Emerson!” she called.
He paused at the door.
“Have you talked to Jill?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“Let me. She needs to hear it from me.”
He stared at her for a moment before nodding. “Very well.”
Bree picked up her phone. It had been left in the car she’d taken to the concert. Emerson had retrieved it for her earlier.
Nausea churned in her stomach as she stared at the screen. This was the last thing she wanted to do. But it was the right thing, so she had no other choice.
Dez listened to the conversation behind him. For this role, he was paid to be faceless but present. To be invisible yet out in front. To be close but like a ghost.
He’d worked jobs like this plenty of times before. But, right now, he was having trouble keeping his distance and remaining purely professional.
Bree Jordan’s manager seemed like a real jerk. Maybe the man was just doing his job. Maybe he was paid the big bucks to do image control and to care about things that seemed trivial. But, in a situation like this, the man just seemed insensitive.
Dez listened as Bree talked on the phone to a woman—Lloyd’s girlfriend, Jill, from what Dez understood. Compassion squeezed in his chest.
Just listening to it brought back memories of the day Dez had gone with their friend Colton to tell Daniel’s wife, Elise, that her husband had died during a covert operation. A lump formed in his throat at the memory.
Whenever Dez had seen Bree on TV, she’d always looked so happy and perky, like she didn’t have a care in the world. But right now the weight of that very world hung on her shoulders.
Red blotches marred her pretty face. She needed to have someone here for her. But the one person that Dez had expected would step up—her manager—had left to make some phone calls.
The rest of the band—three other members—were here. Each of them seemed stoic, though, and almost in shock. They were being called one by one to give their statement to the police.
Dez was anxious to hear an update on the situation from Colton. He wanted to know if this guy had been caught. But, right now, he just needed to concentrate on keeping Bree safe.
“You can sit down if you want, you know,” a soft voice said.
Dez quickly glanced behind him and saw that Bree was talking to him. Her voice had sounded much gentler than he’d expected.
Bree, with her platinum blonde hair that flowed in perfect waves down to her shoulders. With her ripped black jeans, bright red shirt, and knee-high boots. Her eye makeup was dark and heavy. Her lips matched her shirt. Only now, everything appeared smeared since she’d been crying and wiping her eyes.
She looked like . . . a star. A beautiful, tortured star.
“I’m okay standing,” he finally told her.
“It’s been hours, though. You have to be tired.”
“This is what I do. Don’t worry about me.” He remained in front of her, just in case trouble showed up. Two of his colleagues were in the waiting room area, trying to control the people there.
“What’s your name?” Bree’s voice came out sounding squeaky. She seemed to notice and rubbed her throat.
He glanced at her again. “Dez. Dez Rodriguez.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rodriquez.”
“Just Dez is fine.”
“Dez, then. And you can just call me Bree.” She paused. “You took a bullet for me.”
“It’s my job.”
“I don’t know how you do your job then. I would never be that courageous.”
“It’s not that bad. Besides, this scar will give me something else to talk about.”
“That’s one way to look at it.” Her voice softened. “I suppose scars are great storytellers. You know what? That kind of sounds like a song.”
“You should write it then.” Maybe this conversation would help distract her for a moment from her burdens.
Bree let out an airy chuckle. “They won’t ever let me use the songs I write.”
He quickly glanced at her again, her words surprising him. “Really? I assumed you wrote all the songs that you sang.”
She practically snorted. “No, they won’t let me. They weren’t looking for a singer and songwriter. They were looking for a popstar. Big difference.”
Dez wasn’t sure what that meant. He didn’t know how the music industry worked, and he’d never really cared to know, to be honest. But Bree sounded so sorrowful that he almost wanted to know more.
Before he could ask anything else, Doc Clemson stepped into the room. Dez braced himself to hear how Lloyd was doing. He prayed for good news.
Because he wasn’t sure Bree could handle any more trauma.
Bree stood and held her breath, unsure what the doctor would say. But she prayed Lloyd was okay. She’d prayed hard, harder than she had prayed in years.
“How is he?” Her voice cracked.
The rest of the band crowded around also, each anxious to hear an update.
“He’s going to be just fine,” the doctor announced.
Bree’s knees seemed to go weak. Dez caught her elbow and lowered her into the pew behind her.
“I’m so glad to hear that,” she said. “I’ve been worried.”
“Recovery will take time, but the prognosis is good. He’s still groggy from the surgery, so he can’t see anyone right now. But I knew you’d want to know how he was doing.”
“Thank you so much,” Bree rushed. “Thank you for taking good care of him in there.”
Doc Clemson nodded at her, then looked at her guard and nodded at him as well.
“Would you like to stay?” Dez asked Bree.
“I would.” Her gaze wandered to the crowd in the distance. “But I fear that I’m causing a circus around here. Do you think the staff could call me when Lloyd is able to have visitors? He’s not close to his family, and Jill won’t be here until tomorrow.”
“I’m sure they can arrange something.”
“Maybe it would be best for everyone if I got out of here sooner rather than later. I know people are trying to get into the waiting room, just so they can see me. I want this time to be focused on the victims and not on me.”
Just as the words left her mouth, a man darted into the chapel.
It was the same man who’d tried to get on the stage earlier, Bree realized. The one whose eyes looked crazy.
She felt the breath leave her lungs. Had he been the same one who’d pulled the trigger earlier today?
As the man yelled her name, Bree braced herself for the worst.
Chapter Four
Dez stepped in front of Bree, ready to stop this lunatic in his tracks.
The man’s eyes were wide and his pupils dilated. His skin was covered with sweat. His breath was shallow and uneven.
“Bree!” The man lunged toward her, desperation in his eyes.
Dez raised his hand and pushed the man back. “That’s far enough, buddy.”
“I’m your biggest fan!” He clawed at Dez’s chest, trying to get around him. The man was small but scrappy.
“I said back off,” Dez growled.
“I’ve loved you ever since I heard your first song.” The man craned his neck around Dez’s chest, almost like he couldn’t hear him.
Dez radioed one of his colleagues, Griff McIntyre, who was here at the clinic. He could use some backup right now.
“God told me that we’re supposed to get married, Bree,” the man said. “I know you’ll see it too. You just need a little more time.”
Bree let out a cry behind him.
Just then, Griff strode into the room and grabbed the man, jerking his arms behind him. “I thought you were locked up.”
“They didn’t have anything to hold me.” The man strained to get away from Griff. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just want to see Bree.”
“She doesn’t want to see you,” Dez said. “Now get out of here.”
Griff led the man away. As he did, Dez turned back to Bree. The woman was a trembling mess—as anyone would be in her circumstance.
“I’d like to go.” Her hand clutched at her neck.
“I think the police chief needs to take a statement from you. Last I heard, she’s here at the clinic talking to various witnesses.”
“That’s fine. But I want to get out of here as soon as I can.”
Dez didn’t blame her for wanting to leave.
Keeping a hand on her arm, Dez glanced around again. It looked like this easy assignment was going to be anything but.
Bree felt dazed as Dez led her toward an office at the clinic. She didn’t know this man, yet she was entirely grateful for him. Her head was spinning, and any logic had flown out the window.
Dez’s gaze seemed to take in everything around them for any signs of trouble.
With a slight nod, he ushered her across the hall. No one seemed to spot her.
She took a few deep breaths. Tragedy on top of scrutiny and grief weren’t a good combination.
Dez knocked at a door before sticking his head inside and muttering a few things to someone there. A moment later, he turned back to Bree. “The chief just needs a few more minutes. Will you be okay waiting here?”
“Hopefully,” she murmured.
She studied her bodyguard a moment and ran her gaze along the sculpted muscles of his arm as he leaned against the wall. The tattoos told stories. If
she knew the man better, she might ask what they meant. It might be a good distraction.
Either way, this man had her curious.
“How long have you been doing this, Dez?” she asked.
“I was a Navy SEAL for twelve years. I’ve been doing this type of work for a few months.”
“A Navy SEAL?” She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “You guys are all the rage right now.”
“Don’t believe everything you see in Hollywood.”
“Only if you don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids about me.”
“It’s a deal.” He glanced at her, his eyes sparkling.
She smiled. She already liked this guy—more than she did her usual bodyguards, at least. This one had some personality.
Since her normal entourage wasn’t with her today, she could use some strong people around her. Normally, her assistant was a great sounding board, but Bree had given her some time off. Bree had even told her hair and makeup artists that they could stay home.
Bree frowned as she realized what that meant. She was all alone here. Staying in a house by herself.
It wasn’t ideal. Not by any means.
Bree hoped that word didn’t leak about where she was staying tonight. People did the craziest things when they knew. Tried to break in to get her autograph. Camped outside in the yard. Took selfies they posted online with her house in the background. Privacy was a thing of the past.
Fame was nothing like Bree had imagined it to be. It was like standing on a platform while people simultaneously threw flowers and rotten eggs at you. It was both beautiful and tragic. A thrill and a disappointment. Could one ever truly be prepared for the dichotomy?
A few minutes later, Dez and Bree were ushered in to see the chief.
“Chief Cassidy Chambers.” The woman in uniform behind the desk extended her hand.
“Bree Jordan.”
“I’ll leave you two to talk.” Dez pointed to the door behind him.
“No. Stay. Please.” Bree needed someone else to listen to her story. To fill in the gaps. To know what was going on.
Safe Harbor Page 2