by Sybil Bartel
I was the puppet.
At first, I’d told myself it was all worth it.
My fans loved me. I became who I was because they loved me. Their money paid for everything and everyone around me, and so many people had jobs because of that. I couldn’t quit. Not when I understood the true pang of hunger. Not when I knew the anxiety of not knowing where your next meal would come from, let alone how you would pay for it. I couldn’t take jobs away from all of those people.
So I kept singing.
I kept doing what they told me.
But I didn’t have anything that felt solid enough to grasp on to. I didn’t have a home to call my own. I didn’t have friends. I didn’t even have family I trusted. I’d never felt more alone in my life.
So I’d finally made the decision to not renew my contract, step away from the constant performances, and realign. I’d told myself that everyone who worked with me would find the next big act to work with, and I could step away secure in the knowledge that I’d contributed to their careers. I told myself I would start fresh and put down roots. Then maybe, finally, I would have the quiet time and solace I needed to be able to breathe through the pain of my past mistakes and learn how to forgive myself so I could move on.
That’s when the first note came, throwing me solidly against my past.
“You’re all clear.”
Lost in my own spiral, I started at the sound of the male voice behind me before turning to face the man Ronan called Harm. “Thank you.”
With his deep-set eyes more haunted than Ronan’s, Harm nodded before his gaze cut to my neck and arms. “Please wait with security in the hallway next time we clear your suite.”
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks. I’d heard him say something when I’d barreled past him in the hall, but in my rush to get to the other suite before I cried in front of anyone, I hadn’t paid attention. I’d let myself in, then Harm was entering right behind me, telling me to wait.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I needed to remember the very reason we were all here. A single well-placed bomb, and I wouldn’t have the luxury of getting lost in my own thoughts ever again.
Harm studied me a moment. His hair was neatly trimmed, and his clothes were perfectly pressed, but he looked like a barely contained wild animal. I didn’t know if it was the feral look in his eyes or how his arms were bulging out of his short-sleeved T-shirt, or how he smelled slightly of the woods in winter, but it was difficult to make eye contact with him without instantly wanting to look away.
As if reading my wariness around him, Harm blinked, and his expression turned pacifying. “He’ll keep you safe.”
Disarmed, I gave him a short laugh void of humor. “He?” I waved my hand toward the door of the suite where another equally muscled man who worked with Ronan stood guard. “I’m surrounded by the best security money can buy. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Hopefully.
“I meant Ronan,” he clarified.
My throat suddenly tight, I didn’t acknowledge what he’d just said. “I would like to be alone now.”
With a simple nod, he retreated, and a moment later, I heard the soft click of the suite door as it shut.
I tried to take a calming breath, but my heart was racing, my fingers were tingling, and I wondered for the millionth time if every step I’d ever taken since signing that first contract was a mistake. Inhaling, telling myself all of this—the bomber, the inhuman schedules, the living on the road, the people surrounding me that didn’t care about me, just the brand created by a record label—it would all be over soon, and I would be able to breathe without anxiety.
Willing myself to believe it, inhaling again, but slower so I didn’t hyperventilate from the panic that’d been slowly eating away at my defenses, I turned toward the churning ocean view that mimicked my mood.
Caught up in wishing I could go downstairs and feel the sand between my toes and the wind on my face and taste the salt air that smelled like him, I was startled by my cell quietly ringing.
Pulling the nuisance out of my pocket, I frowned when I saw the unidentified number on the screen. Always trying to preserve my voice, I never spoke on the phone. Everyone who had my private number knew to text or email.
Hesitant, I answered. “Hello?”
“We need to talk.”
Deep, commanding, Ronan’s voice gripped the girl I’d once been and flooded her with memories as my heart rate shot toward the atmosphere.
The connection feeling intimate after ten years of not having a single call from him, I wanted nothing more than to talk. I wanted to lie in his arms and stare at the stars and chat for hours as I confessed every sin, dream and desire I’d ever had to the one man who was once my best friend. But that wasn’t what he meant. “This isn’t the number I texted you on the other night.”
“I know. Be in your suite in thirty minutes,” he demanded.
“I have a video conference.” I didn’t.
“Cancel it.”
“Ronan, I—”
“Thirty minutes,” he repeated before he hung up.
I glanced at my phone and noted the time.
Then I placed a call.
Sounding out of breath, but no less flirtatious, Vance answered right away. “What’s up, love?”
I bit my lip, hating what I was about to do. “I need you.”
His tone turned serious. “Give me six minutes.”
Twenty-four minutes. Not nearly enough time, but I agreed anyway. “Okay.”
“On my way, pet.”
I hung up.
I met Luna downstairs. Getting into his Escalade, I scanned the underground garage as I closed the passenger door. “Any luck?”
“Some.” Luna opened a folder. “Nothing more on the courier in the lobby. I ran a background check on him, and he was exactly who said he was—some low-level exec from Ohio here on business, blowing off work to day drink. Zero connection to Sanaa or anyone in her past. And I didn’t get a hit on any of the security feeds either inside or outside the property on the mysterious woman who supposedly handed him the envelope and cash. I’m not bothering to try to run prints on the hundred she gave him, because it’d take too long and I doubt we’d get anything.”
I nodded. “And the other lead?”
“This is where it gets interesting. Kyle Abernathy. All-around asshole.” Luna handed me a file. “He worked as a talent scout for Leo Amherst up until ten years ago, just like you said. Rumor has it that not only did he have a penchant for underage girls that Trinity had been covering up, but he was the one who originally signed Sanaa. Then an incident at a house party occurred. His assistant wound up dead, and Abernathy was beaten unconscious. The police reports say Abernathy doesn’t remember the incident or his attacker, that he and the assistant had been drinking, and there were shockingly no other witnesses. The assistant’s cause of death was a single blow to the face that twisted his neck hard enough to tear an artery. It was either a lucky fucking punch or accidental homicide, but either way he died instantly. Abernathy then spent two weeks in the hospital before Trinity fired him, then he disappeared. My guess is Amherst paid him off to avoid headlines, or Abernathy decided to go off the radar because he was the one who killed his assistant.”
Fighting to keep my expression neutral, I didn’t say a word.
Luna continued. “Adding more convoluted shit to this whole story, I found out that the house the party was at was owned by a shell corporation associated with the Irish mob, and supposedly used as a corporate rental. The night in question, some dude with a fake ID said he’d been renting the place, but the police never followed through on that lead. If you ask me, I think whoever was renting the house paid the cops off. At any rate, a few months later Abernathy was caught in a DEA raid with a shitload of drugs and three underage girls being held against their will. He was charged with intent to sell both the girls and the drugs, and the judge brought the hammer down. For the next nine years, he lived rent-free in maximum security where he
had a problem playing nice with the other inmates.”
My jaw tight, I paged through the information and the outdated photos. Abernathy looked exactly like the asshole I remembered. “Where’s he been the past year?”
“He was supposed to be on parole for twelve months, no travel outside the county, but his PO hasn’t heard from him for the last five months, and shit fell through the cracks. A warrant’s been issued, but Abernathy hasn’t surfaced. My best guess is he got a hold of a fake passport and made his way to Europe.”
“He didn’t have a passport in his name?”
“He did before he went to jail, but it expired, and it wouldn’t have done him any good. His name is on a TSA watch list.” Luna pointed at one of the pages I was about to flip through. “But here’s the best part. Look who his cellmate was.”
I skimmed the document. Fucking Christ. “An explosives technician?”
“Not just any explosives technician. One serving life for blowing up his neighbor after the man allegedly screwed his wife. I’m still working on getting the details of what kind of bombs this pendejo built so we can compare them to the ones your brother found and see if the components or signatures match. Then we’ll at least have confirmation we’re heading in the right direction.”
I closed the file and handed it back to Luna. I didn’t need conformation. I knew Abernathy was behind this. “AES should’ve found all of this information.”
Luna’s gaze hardened as he took the file. “We don’t know that they didn’t. The bigger question is where the hell is the bomber hiding and why can’t we find him?”
I watched a car pull in and park in a handicap spot before an older couple got out and headed toward the elevators. “We’re missing something.” Maybe Abernathy wasn’t hiding.
“No shit,” Luna quipped in frustration. “Mainly why the hell Abernathy didn’t target Amherst instead of Sanaa if he’s the bomber. That would’ve made more sense. Amherst fired him, and he has less security. It’s a no-brainer.”
Abernathy wasn’t being rational. He wanted to destroy the catalyst of his destruction. Which is why I should’ve fucking figured this out days ago. Vance didn’t bring Sanaa here randomly. He brought her here because I was here.
Because technically, I was the catalyst.
The memory of that night ten years ago came back like it was yesterday.
“Ronan, wait!” Naked, grabbing her dress, Sanaa reached for me.
My piece-of-shit brother standing shirtless with a fucking shocked expression, his hand still on her bare hip, stared at me.
I wanted to kill him. My fist in his face, my hands on his throat, I wanted to beat him until his fucking chest caved in and he couldn’t breathe like I couldn’t fucking breathe.
This was what I’d warned her about.
The one goddamn thing I’d told her to never fucking do to me.
My brother.
My own goddamn brother.
I didn’t realize I was backing up until her fingers gripped my arm.
I didn’t even think. I threw her hand off in a block, and before I knew what I was doing, I was gripping her throat, and fucking squeezing.
Her eyes popped, and noise gurgled from her lips, but it wasn’t an apology.
There was no apology for this. She fucking betrayed me.
Vance’s expression morphed from shock to anger and he threw a warning out. “Stop.”
I didn’t listen. I squeezed harder.
My Songbird.
Naked with my goddamn twin brother.
“RONAN.” Vance lunged.
My rage was quicker. Throwing my brother off before his arm got around my neck, shoving Sanaa onto the bed, I didn’t fucking think. Her head smacked against the wall and a fucking war cry echoed through the bedroom I’d been staying in at Vance’s house as he jumped me. I slammed him back into the wall. Then I was lifting him and about to throw his fucking backstabbing drunk ass onto the hard floor when she cried out.
“Don’t hurt him!”
I only hesitated long enough to look into her eyes.
Then I threw my brother down as hard as I could.
“Oh my God, Ronan!” She dropped to the floor next to him.
I walked the fuck out.
Pushing through the crowd of assholes in the living room I never wanted to see, I’d made it out the front door, down the porch steps and around the house when some dick stumbled into me.
“Whoa, dude.” Smiling, he held his hands up. “Where’s the fire?”
An asshole standing next to him laughed.
My hands fisting, I pushed past him.
“Hey, wait,” the first dick called. “You know where Sanaa is? Is she inside?”
My nostrils flared, and I spun. “Who are you?”
He grinned. “Her new manager.” Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a card. “Kyle Abernathy, Trinity Media Group.” He held the card up.
Fucking manager?
“Okay, then.” Shoving the untouched card back in his pocket, the prick clapped the shoulder of the asshole standing next to him. “This is my assistant, James.”
My rage compounded. “Manager.”
“Yeah, man.” The dick spread his hands wide to mimic a marquee. “Sanaa’s gonna be fucking huge. That voice, that rack.” Whistling, he shook his head. “I’m going to take her to the top.” Reeking of alcohol, his pupils dilated, he leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Right after I break her in, if you know what I mean.” He winked.
The asshole assistant laughed. Then he stupidly poured lighter fluid on my rage. “The execs at Trinity will nut themselves when we pass her around.” He fist-bumped the manager. “They’ll endorse anything for that hot little piece of ass once they have a taste of her.”
She signed the contract.
She signed the goddamn contract with these pieces of shit.
For a split second, I fucking stared. Then I was moving.
Grabbing the manager’s shirt in both hands, I threw him against the side of the house and held him there. “What did you say?”
“Whoa, whoa, dude.” He held his hands up. “What’s your problem?”
“What did you say?” I yelled, incensed.
“Relax, bro.” The assistant grabbed my arm. “Like he said, he’s her manager.”
I threw the assistant’s hand off as Sanaa came running around the side of the house.
“Ronan, stop!” Her hair a mess, her eyes wild, she looked between me and the piece-of-shit manager.
Glaring at the manager, I threw an accusation at her. “You signed a fucking contract with this asshole who just said he’s going to rape you?” After I told her not to. After I told her they would use her. After I told her to wait until I got back from my first fucking deployment before signing anything.
She recoiled as the asshole protested. “Whoa, dude, I never said that. Sanaa, come on, babe, don’t believe this guy.”
Glaring at her, I yelled. “Answer me.”
Tears falling down her face, she flinched. “You weren’t supposed to find out this way, Ronan.”
“Babe, stop, let me handle this guy.” The manager held a hand up to her, then looked at me. “Listen, buddy, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but—”
“I’m her goddamn boyfriend.” I was her boyfriend. Was.
The asshole assistant smirked. “Sanaa didn’t say she had a boy—”
I slammed my left elbow back, hitting the assistant dead center in the face, then I drove my right fist into the manager’s jaw.
The assistant dropped, the manager’s head snapped back, and Sanaa screamed.
Rage-fueled adrenaline flooding my veins, breathing fucking fury, my first two strikes started a chain reaction.
“If you…” I drove my fist into the manager’s face again. “Fucking…” Slam. “Touch.” Slam. “Her.” Slam. “I will…” Slam. “KILL YOU.”
Blow after blow, I didn’t stop.
Blood, screams, breaking cartilage, feet ki
cking, fists pummeling, I didn’t fucking stop. I didn’t hear Sanaa crying that someone was dead. I didn’t hear Vance come up behind me. I didn’t stop hitting the bloodied, motionless would-be rapist even after he hit the ground.
I just kept fucking swinging.
Until heavy arms locked around my chest from behind and jerked me back. “Stop.” The arms tightened. “Fucking stop or you’ll kill both of them.”
Dropping my weight, turning in to him, I drove my elbow back into his ribs before slamming my shoulder into his solar plexus.
Grunting, Vance dropped his hold.
“Oh dear God, no,” Sanaa sobbed.
My gaze cut to her.
Kneeling on the ground, her hand on the assistant’s neck, she looked up at me and her face twisted with horror. “He’s dead.”
“Jesus Christ.” Vance shook his head, then looked at me with disgust. “Leave.”
I glanced at the bloodied fucking manager lying prone.
“I said leave.” Vance shoved me in the chest.
My gaze cut to the assistant, and I knew my career in the Marines was over before it’d started.
“Goddamn it, Ronan, you deploy tomorrow. Get the fuck out of here before the cops or, worse, the MPs show up. I’ll handle this.” Reaching in his pocket, he withdrew a wad of cash and thrust it at a crying Sanaa. “Get a hotel room and fucking disappear until I call you.”
Sanaa stared at the cash. I stared at the dead man.
“Now,” Vance yelled.
Flinching, Sanaa grabbed the money and scrambled to her feet.
Then she ran.
Staring after her, I had to force my feet to stay put. “I’m not leaving.”
Pulling his phone out, Vance eyed me. “You’ve got a choice. Stand there, be pissed at me and throw your life away.” His gaze dropping to his phone, he started to dial. “Or fucking leave.”