Bulletproof Princess
By
Alexis D. Craig
This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Bulletproof Princess
Copyright © 2015 by Alexis D. Craig
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are
either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist: Nicola Ormerod
Edited by Elizabeth A. Lance
Published by Hot Ink Press
For Crowie
Chapter 1
Cassie Witt watched the takedown of the stage from the far side of the room with a conciliatory glass of champagne in her hand. These kinds of events always seemed so strange and a little too personal, but the money was good and it was something to do in the rare time between tours and recording.
Her jeans, fitted pink t-shirt, and matching snakeskin boots felt distinctly out of place in the unrestrained opulence of the Bellagio ballroom and among the attendees of the party, but her manager Clint said to treat it just like a tour date. So, here she was, chilling at the 14th birthday party of Selena Salazar. The youngest daughter of the Guillermo Salazar, whose thin veneer of legitimacy as an international shipping magnate was greatly overshadowed by numerous and growing accusations to the contrary. Still, any misgivings she may have had about the choice of audience was overshadowed by the beaming faces and cheering of Selena and forty-five of her closest friends as Cassie stepped out to the mic for her acoustic set.
After a short set of ten songs and a couple encores, Cassie stepped offstage and mingled with the guests, signing autographs and posing for pictures. This was the part she absolutely adored, seeing the fruits of her labors and the smiling faces of her audience. The only difference was that this was a lot closer and huggier. The exuberance of a fourteen year old girl could not be overestimated. And when multiplied by at least forty, Cassie felt overwhelmed pretty quickly.
Still, she powered through it and rewarded herself with a small glass of booze and the promise of a nice dinner later with her manager, her personal assistant and right hand, Trista. She really enjoyed the downtime with them since they were friends outside of being her employees, and since her downtime was so rare between recording her newest release, performing, magazine interviews, television, and any number of other promotional ideas Clint signed off on, she treated it like the precious gem it was.
Trista hopped down off the stage and headed her way. She was a curvy little redhead, with enough personality for three people. She also was quite possibly the most organized person on the planet, pathologically so. She could have successfully run the D-Day Invasion from her smart phone and not even smudged her lipstick. Right now, she was talking on said phone with a twinkle in her eye and an extra swish in her high-heeled step. That girl could rock some sandals.
“That new restaurant that Clint was talking about? The tapas place? Yeah, we’re in there in forty-five minutes, and paparazzi free,” she said with a triumphant grin as she slipped her phone into her glittery, skinny capris.
Her friend’s efficiency was a beauty to behold. “Excellent. So we’re outta here in ten?” The excitement level of the room hadn’t abated since her performance, with the introduction of cake and unbelievably luxurious presents. Cassie was definitely ready for a change of scene.
Trista shook her head, not a hair falling out of place from her bun on top of her head. “Sooner, actually. Clint said to head out to the car and he’ll be along in just a minute.”
“Everything okay?” Clint usually left when they did, and while having last minute details to attend to wasn’t entirely unexpected, given the venue and the audience, her sense of concern was a little heightened.
Her assistant waved off her concern with a flick of her well-manicured fingers and started heading for the exit at the far end of the room at a leisurely pace. “Oh, yeah, he said he had something to take care of and he’d meet us at the car.”
“Okay, just gotta say my goodbyes and I’ll be right along.”
Her assistant nodded, and Cassie wandered off to find the host of the party, Guillermo, and the lovely Selena to thank them for their hospitality. She was nothing if not polite, even if she was paid for the gig. It was the least she could do.
Trista led her through the warren of hallways and tunnels in the bowels of the hotel, out to the running, glossy black Maybach with the blackened windows, courtesy of Guillermo.
“Part of my gratitude for making my daughter so very happy,” he’d said.
Her driver, Tim, a generically cute guy way too old to consider but semi-hot nonetheless, held the door for Trista who thanked him with a flirty grin and wave.
The car was extravagant, even for a woman with the world currently at her feet. With its elevated footrests and fridge in the bench seat between her and Trista, their thoughtful host had stocked it full of her favorite snacks and bottled water. It was orders of magnitude away from her tiny silver Prius. That little car was really the final unblemished bastion of her normal life, the rest of which lay tattered in smoldering ruins on the altar of fame. Not that she minded her celebrity status, but picking up a pint of ice cream at the store unsupervised or non-adjudicated in the court of tabloid opinion was no longer an option and hadn’t been for quite some time.
Tim of the ice blue eyes and surprisingly sexy smile was handing her into the car when she finally heard her name being called. Her roadie ‘Cap’n’ Jack Dillman came tearing out the back door, tie-dye t-shirt flapping behind him like his former glam-rock hair used to, eyes wide and frantic. “Cassie! Cassandra!”
Her full name was what brought her to a halt. At home, in private, she was Cassandra Whittfield, late of Santa Fe. On the road, she was Cassie Witt, and only in the mirror did they meet. Tim stepped between her and her roadie like he was her personal bodyguard, but her hand on his arm stopped him from intervening further. “What’s up, Jack?”
“Betsy! I can’t find her anywhere!” His agitation was writ large in his flapping hands and frenetic pacing. Betsy was her guitar, her favorite guitar, a gift from George Strait when she played Nashville at the Grand Ole Opry for the first time. A Gibson Hummingbird custom, with beautiful mother-of-pearl inlays on the fretboard and pickguard, Betsy kept perfect tune, and even if Cassie didn’t play her in a show—a rarity—she was the perfect good luck talisman. Misplacing her was like the Pope misplacing his pointy hat: disastrous.
She turned to Trista, who was already comfortably ensconced in the back seat and drinking champagne from one of the sterling silver flutes she was told came standard with the car. “I’m gonna run—” but her friend waved her off with a lift of her glass and a wink for Tim. She didn’t want to think about what kind of mischief could transpire between her friend and the driver in her absence.
After following Jack for a minute back through the tunnels and hallways, Jack was approached by another roadie with an issue with some of the crates. He turned to her, but she shook her head and kept walking.
“I got it. It’s easier for me to just go get it than it is for me to tell you where it is. I’ll pick it up and take it with me to the restaurant. It’s not like there’s no room in the car.”
Jack frowned as he thought it over. “You sure? I can get it and you can head on to dinner, it’s not a p
roblem.”
She was already down the hall and preparing to turn a corner to head back to the ballroom. “I got it!” she called over her shoulder. It took another five minutes to reach her destination, and she entered the darkened ballroom though a side door. The stage lights were still on, dimly, and she could almost make out her guitar case partially obscured by the curtains. Given the earlier events, it was strange to see the room so clean and put back together, but she figured the hotel had it down to a science. Grabbing her case, black and covered in stickers from her various travels and tours, she chuckled to herself that someone came very close to getting a one-of-a-kind souvenir from her performance tonight.
She closed the ballroom door with her back to it to keep it quiet and looked both ways down the hall to make sure she was alone. Solitude was a stranger to her now, so she enjoyed its company more than most. Starting back down the hall to the back door where her friends waited, she turned the corner to see a man facing away from her. He was a guy she could pick out of a crowd of hundreds for both his height and his shiny black mane that was longer than her own hair, about halfway between herself and the door. She figured he’d have been out at the car waiting for her already. “Clint!”
He turned to face her, his eyes wide in an expression she’d never seen before as he reached for her and crumbled to the floor of the hallway after a weird and kind of muffled popping sound. There was no time to scream, no sound in her throat as she watched the man who’d been obscured by her manager’s large frame lower his arm. He had something in his hand, and it occurred to her that she didn’t want to stick around to find out what it was as he took a step toward her. Then another. His face was etched in her mind. She felt like she’d met him sometime during the evening, but her main focus was getting out of the warren of hallways and out to someplace more populated and hopefully safe.
It felt like she’d been running forever, her arms hot and aching from toting her guitar with her the whole time, switching between the two to keep from dropping it. Finally, after trying so many damn doors, she practically fell through one that dumped her out into the lobby. Sweaty, hot, her hair worked from her ponytail and dangling tendrils in her face, she made her way to the front desk. “Call 911! There’s a man who’s collapsed in the back hallway! I…” Her voice faded out as the anxiety of the moment caught up with her all at once. Her knees sagged beneath her as she set down her guitar case and slumped down against it.
The concierge, a scarecrow of a man who looked like he hadn’t really smiled since the second grade, scampered to her side, looking around nervously at the other guests in the lobby. “Miss Witt!” Taking her firmly by the arm and relieving her of her case, he led her behind the counter and away from the curious eyes of the guests and staff to an opulent office with a door that closed. “Here, have a seat. Are you okay? May I do anything for you?”
The whole time he peppered her with questions, he was moving, pulling a water bottle from the small fridge concealed behind a desk and handing it to her. Opening the door a crack to ensure it was business as usual outside, fetching a hand towel from the en-suite bathroom to blot her face. It was hard to think with the image of Clint sprawled out on the floor fresh in her mind. He needed her and she’d run. She’d abandoned the man who’d done so much for her when he needed her. The more she thought about it, the harder she breathed, and the white dots began collecting around the edge of her field of vision.
In a desperate bid to reclaim her sanity, and not pass out from the stress, she mentally retreated to her lifelong safe haven, music. Under normal circumstances, mental peace and clarity could be recovered in the time it took to run through Styx’s Come Sail Away, lyrics and guitar chords. Today, however, was not that day. Her mental library of go-to songs all felt wildly inappropriate, and though she searched, finding one that she could concentrate on long enough to focus and settle down proved a futile task.
The concierge’s hand on her shoulder made her jump, and he had the look of someone dealing with a recently-discovered cornered animal. His name was Gilles, according to his tag, and he looked at her like he feared she’d shatter to pieces any moment. “Miss Witt, there are people here to see you. Would you like me to send them in, or would you like a moment to compose yourself?”
Her answer was covered as Trista shoved her way into the room past him, her makeup tear-streaked and lips trembling. That was all Cassie needed to see to know this wasn’t a dream, and was, in fact, as bad—if not worse—than she’d feared.
* * *
Mack Jefferson wound his way through the neon jungle in a rented Challenger with a six-pack of Blue Moon and a nice bottle of merlot riding shotgun. He couldn’t help the slight detour from his destination, because the siren call of The Strip was just too strong.
He loved Las Vegas, everything about it. The neon daylight of The Strip, the eternal midnight of the casino floors, and the women. Sweet Lord, the women. Beautiful, adventurous, and the best part: uncomplicated. They were, by and large, the most enjoyable part of his semi-regular trips, both business and pleasure. Mostly pleasure. Mack had such a good time visiting Vegas that he had a hard time imagining anyone actually living there.
Yet, here he was, cruising past the Bellagio just in time to see the fountains go off, on his way to the house of some friends from work. He’d been in town on a job, a witness transport/hand off from Tupelo, Mississippi to the capable hands of the Vegas Marshals, his former coworkers. Since the Phoenix office had been remodeled, he’d moved out of his apartment that overlooked the shimmering jewel of The Strip and back to his relatively sedate life in his hometown of Phoenix. The upside of the transport, in addition to much-missed stomping grounds, was the lovely dinner invitation issued by, of all people, Inspector Bex Mulcahy.
Bex had been possibly the angriest woman he knew that he’d never dated. At least, she used to be, and the whole not-dating thing was solely due to lack of a good opening that wouldn’t leave a facial scar. They’d even done a witness transport together to Boston, but after watching her break a guy’s nose and chain him to a chair, Mack decided to rethink his approach. Now she was happily married to fellow Inspector Eli Miller, and they seemed…surprisingly normal, actually.
Eli, he mused with a rueful smile, there was a different guy. Most of Mack’s friends were frat brothers or high school pals, normal guys with day jobs and very butch hobbies. Football games, woodworking, yard work. And while he wouldn’t call Eli effete, the guy was definitely more refined than his rowdy-ass wife in an art galleries and cheese tours kind of way. A case of opposites attracting in a serious way, and he’d been there for most of it.
He didn’t attend their wedding, though he’d been invited, because he wasn’t the wedding kind of guy, and the last thing he wanted was to bang a bridesmaid and have Bex ritually castrate him. He just didn’t see that going well. Still, he was happy for them and more than happy to bring libations to their North Las Vegas abode in exchange for dinner.
The house was ten minutes from The Strip, a well-groomed, if a bit eccentric, two level terracotta stucco with a turret entryway in a quiet neighborhood. As he pulled up the concrete driveway in front of the three-car garage, he felt a pang in his chest. Something akin to jealousy. A question his ex-wife had asked him, more than once, an answer he would never give willingly. ‘What do you get the man who has everything?’ Seeing their house with their red gravel front yard with groomed yucca plants, and the palm tree peeking over the roof in the back, he wondered if maybe they knew the answer he couldn’t bring himself to speak.
Shaking off the swift bout of melancholia, he hopped out of the car and grabbed his bounty before heading to the door. He looked up as he stood on the porch, noticing the massive wrought iron lamp that had been converted to hold a bulb on an equally large chain, dangling from the ceiling of the porch somewhere between the first and second floors. Everything about it screamed Spanish colonial style, as did the specially curved benches that fit against the porch walls jus
t out of view of the street.
The huge oaken door with the wrought iron hinges and the matching grate over the peep window and knob opened with only the barest squeak to reveal Eli in a faded FLETC t-shirt. Mack was glad he’d opted for the casual button up shirt and jeans, instead of his normal suit and tie. He handed off the bottle and sixer as he walked through the door. “Hey old man, married life seems to suit you fine. Your house is beautiful.”
Eli chuckled as he shut the door behind him. “Thanks. Good to see you, too, Mack.” He looked the wine over with a smile and cast a look over his shoulder at the sound of pans banging and a woman swearing so vilely Mack was concerned about the food. His host took the wine and beer and disappeared briefly into the kitchen only to return with a restrained expression. “Sounds like dinner’s gonna be a minute. You want the fifty cent tour?”
Mack looked around the foyer with its wood bench and terracotta tile floor that matched the roof and shrugged. “Sounds good.”
Eli led him around the ground floor, a lovely sitting room with a rich coffee brown leather couch and matching chairs, dark wood furniture and liberal but tasteful sprinklings of Talavera ceramics. It was cozy and warm, yet a bit like a museum. Mack could relate instantly. The upstairs was beautiful with light walls, arched doorways, and expansive rooms, the master bedroom being a piece of art with a massive bed and a balcony overlooking the back yard.
Further perusal was thwarted by Bex’s voice echoing from the bottom of the stairs. “Martha Stewart, you done with the tour yet?”
“Love you, too, warden,” Eli hollered back as he laughed. He shrugged to Mack. “She’s an acquired taste, one that you have to have, once you know what it is.”
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