Guarded

by L. A. Witt

  * * *

  Daniel’s face lit up when I walked out onto the patio. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so—” He sprang up to come over, his expression crumpling as Jase walked in behind me, carrying two huge suitcases. “What the fuck’s this?”

  “Your shit,” I said. “Clothes, mostly, and a bunch of your tapes and CDs. I’ll have your instruments packed up and shipped wherever you end up moving to.”

  “You’re kicking me out of the house?”

  I’d never seen anyone go from ecstatic to crushed so fucking fast. Looked like I finally had his attention. “It’s time, Daniel. We should lead our own lives.” I pulled an envelope out of my jacket, glancing around to make sure no one else was watching. There were two or three other patients out here, but they were down at the other end of the patio, napping on their chaises. “Here’s a check for what the band owes you for the last tour.”

  He stared at it, but he didn’t take it. “What d’you mean, what the band owes me? I’m still in the band, right?”

  After what you said to me last time, you really need to ask? I would’ve given anything not to have to do this, but after the way he’d manipulated and lied to me, what choice did I have? “We’re heading back into the studio in a few weeks, and... well, let’s face it. You’re nowhere near ready.”

  “I am fucking ready! What do you think I was trying to tell you—”

  “Your doctor told me you’ve been picking fights, skipping therapy sessions. Giving the nurses shit about taking your meds.”

  “What the fuck do I need meds for? I’m here so I can stop taking drugs!”

  “And I can’t help you with that.” Here we go. I pulled in a long, shuddery breath. “In fact, being around me seems to be making things worse for you, so maybe it’s time we went our separate ways.”

  “You... you’re…” He stumbled back to his chaise, sat down heavily. Buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Jordan.”

  Thank God he didn’t call me Jordy, or I would’ve lost it. The pricking behind my eyes was bad enough. I threw a blurry glance at Jase, who was standing there looking at Daniel with something akin to... pity? Empathy? Then he looked at me, and I knew exactly what I had to do. No matter how much it fucking hurt.

  Five lousy steps that felt like trudging through the desert, mouth dry, the afternoon sun beating hot on my back. I slid a hand onto Daniel’s shoulder, ruffled his hair. “I’m sorry I can’t love you the way you want me to, but I do love you, Daniel. I always will.”

  “Then don’t do this. Please, Jordan. Don’t put me out on the fucking street.”

  I dropped to my knees, the heat seeping through my shirt turning my welts tight and itchy. “Living together’s made us both miserable. You deserve better than that.” And so do I. “You’ll be fine. There’s more than enough in that check to put a down payment on your own place—”

  “God, you really want this, don’t you? You can’t wait to get rid of me so you can move your boyfriend in.”

  He aimed a sneer at Jase, but I grabbed him by the chin and forced him to meet my gaze. “He’s already moved in. And I’m moving on.” A deep breath, then... maybe I shouldn’t say it. Would it be cruel to give him a glimmer of hope, or was it just the kick in the ass he needed? “We’ve got the studio booked for next month. Four weeks from now. I’m gonna be writing songs like crazy, working with the rest of the guys. Rehearsing for our next tour.” I stood. “We’d—I’d love to have you back, but only if you’re well and ready to work. No more bouncing between rehab and the road. I can’t do it anymore, Daniel. It’s fucking killing me.” My voice cracked. Fuck.

  Jase looked like he was ready to come over, but I shook my head and waited, my head pinging—goddamn sun triggering another headache—for Daniel to say something.

  Anything.

  “If I get well, I can come back?” he murmured, rubbing his stubbly chin. Not looking at me.

  “We’ll give it a try. That’s all I can promise.” Or rather, all I was willing to. “I’ll sign you out of here, if that’s what you want. But I want—I hope—you’ll stay.”

  He weighed that—and everything else—for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he nodded. “Okay, I’ll do my best, but…” He nodded at the suitcases. “Could you take all that back to the house? They won’t let me keep it in my room, and, um, I’ve heard stories about the staff stealing patients’ stuff.”

  Not fucking likely, but I knew what he really meant. Don’t cut me out of your life, Jordan. Please. “All right, we’ll take it back.” I cupped his face, kissed him on the forehead. “Get well, Daniel. If you love me, you’ll get well.” And stay well this time.

  Jase trailed me to the car and tossed the empty suitcases in back. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

  “Me neither.” Sighing, I crumpled up the empty envelope and tossed it in the trunk before wrapping my arms around him. None of which canceled out my flood of guilt over lying, even if Daniel had lied about far worse. In the end, it was for the best. Someday we’d have a good laugh about it, and he’d thank me.

  I hoped, I hoped.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jase

  I loved the way Jordan looked when he was focused on something. The intensity in his face and his posture, in the way his hands moved, was mesmerizing. Lips thin, brow furrowed—I just couldn’t get enough of watching him in that state of single-minded concentration.

  When he wrote music, for example. Or when he was so deep in playing or singing a song that he seemed unaware that the world around him still existed. Hell, even when he was perusing paperwork from the record label.

  Or, as it turned out, when he was polishing my boots.

  I sat on one of the chairs on his patio, and he knelt in front of me with my foot—and laced up military style boot—in his hand. He’d already given it one coat of shoe polish, and now he was carefully working in the second coat, nimble fingers moving quickly and precisely with the soft brush.

  His hair was pulled back to keep it out of his eyes, but a few strands fell over his face. He didn’t seem to notice, though. His eyebrows were knitted together, and he tilted his head to one side, then the other as he inspected his own handiwork. Then he was at it again, rubbing the polish into the leather.

  Bootblacking was my Kryptonite anyway. My Achilles heel, as it were. The quiet power, a willing submissive kneeling at my feet, the smell of leather and polish—it was amazing. Even better, these boots were thin enough, I could feel everything he was doing, like a crude foot massage that hit all the nerve endings and all my buttons just right.

  “You’re very good at this.” I carefully enunciated each word, which was challenging when I was so close to heaven. “They look better already.”

  Jordan’s eyes flicked up and met mine through a few strands of unruly hair, and he smiled. “Thank you.”

  I brushed his hair out of his face and tucked it behind his ear. “If they’re satisfactory when you’re done, then we’ll make your composing time two hours instead of one.”

  His eyebrows jumped, and the smile broadened. Without a word, he continued working, leaning closer to my boot and rubbing the leather like his life depended on it. I grinned—who knew bartering with his writing time would be so effective? But stress drove him to work far too many hours, and when he burned himself out, he’d get even more stressed. Over the last week or so, I’d limited the time he’d spent with pen and paper. He’d balked at the suggestion, but agreed to give it a try. After the first time, when he’d been so relaxed that his polish-blackened hands hadn’t been able to keep up with all the ideas flowing out of him, he’d begged me to do it again. Turned out that headspace—half submission, half intense concentration—was perfect for putting him in the mindset to write music.

  At this rate, I was going to have to buy more boots.

  Jordan put the brush aside and picked up a soft piece of cloth. I subtly dug my fingers into the patio chair’s wro
ught iron armrests—he’d become damned good at buffing, and the sensation of his hands rubbing over my feet was incredible. God, I was going to reward him so hard in the bedroom tonight. I’d have taken him upstairs immediately, or stroked him off right there on the patio, but his reward was in the form of a notebook and a pack of pens in the living room. He’d held up his end of the bargain, and I’d hold up mine, but Jesus Christ, if he ran his hand over my arch like that one more time…

  He set the rag next to the brush and the can of polish, and gently let my foot rest on the patio. Then he sat back on his heels with his hands in his lap. “I’m finished.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t miss any spots?”

  “No. I checked twice.”

  “Good.” I leaned forward and inspected my boots. Of course, they were flawless. No streaks, no globs of polish clotted on the seams. Perfect.

  I gestured for him to lean in, and when he did, I tipped his chin up with two fingers and kissed him. “Excellent work, Jordan.”

  His lips curved against mine. “Thank you.”

  “Feel like composing?”

  “Oh my God, yes.” The words came out as nearly a groan. “I don’t know what it is about this, but…”

  “It works. That’s all that matters.” I kissed him once more, and then sat up. “Two hours.” I nodded toward the living room. “Go compose.”

  He quickly gathered up the polishing supplies, tucked them neatly into their bag, and headed inside. By the time I’d had a cigarette and calmed myself down a little—that man was getting fucked within an inch of his life tonight—he’d already written almost half a page of lyrics.

  I took a seat on the couch, ostensibly to screw around on my iPhone like I often did while he wrote, but watched him instead. It was good to see him relaxed and productive, just like he’d been most of the time since he’d confronted Daniel at the rehab center. Once they’d had it out and he’d laid down the law, he’d been able to focus on getting his own head straight, and we’d found a rhythm that had him full of creative energy.

  The week after their confrontation had been one of the most relaxing weeks we’d had since I’d become his bodyguard, never mind his lover or Dom. He composed like mad, letting cigarettes smolder in the ashtray while he frantically wrote down lyrics that seemed to just pour out of him. I didn’t even mind the late nights, or the number of times he fell asleep on the couch with his guitar across his lap, because he was bright-eyed and happy for the first time in a long time.

  And if they recorded the songs he was writing these days? No Rules had a multi-platinum album on their hands. This shit was amazing.

  I watched him over the top of my phone while he drummed a steady rhythm on his guitar and mouthed some lyrics. He kept stopping and starting over, probably getting stuck on a line that hadn’t quite revealed itself yet. His eyes were focused on the piece of paper in front of him, his brow furrowed—the intensity in his expression was palpable, as if he was this close to pulling the line he needed from the ether, and—

  The doorbell rang.

  Jordan swore under his breath, head snapping toward the hallway. He started to get up, but I stood first.

  “Stay here.” I gestured for him to sit back down. “I got it.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not my butler, Jase.”

  “No, but you’re on a roll. Keep working.”

  He shrugged and as I headed out of the room, he continued writing.

  Whoever this was, it had better be important. Probably just the UPS driver, though. Jordan had ordered some new equipment that he wanted to play around with when they started recording again, and it was due in this week.

  I pulled open the door, and my good mood went up in smoke.

  “Martin,” I said through my teeth. “This is unexpected.”

  “I know.” He rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet. “I’d like to speak to Jordan.”

  I didn’t move. “He has a phone.”

  “Which is turned off.”

  “Which, in some cultures, is considered a hint.”

  He shifted his weight. “Listen, it’s nothing bad. In fact, I have some good news for him for a change.” His smile reminded me of a desperate used car salesman. “Thought I’d deliver it in person.”

  I still didn’t move. “He’s working.”

  “Jordan’s always working.”

  I barely resisted mentioning that Jordan did do other things from time to time. “I’ll pass it on to—”

  “Who’s at the door?” Well, so much for not pulling him away from composing.

  I looked over my shoulder as Jordan came down the hall. “It’s Martin.”

  Jordan rolled his eyes, mouthing what was probably “that bastard.” Then he joined me at the door, sliding an arm around my waist. Instinctively, I wrapped mine around his shoulders.

  Martin’s gaze flicked back and forth between us, but he wisely didn’t comment. “Listen, uh, the recording studio was pretty well booked for the next six weeks or so, but I managed to get you and the band three sessions per week starting soon.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Jordan tilted his head. “And you drove all the way out here to tell me that?”

  “No. I actually e-mailed that part to you.” An oddly genuine smile crossed Martin’s face. “Since your phone is turned off and I’m assuming you’re not checking your e-mail or anything, I figured you didn’t know yet. And I wanted to tell you in person that you and the band have been nominated for three Rock Mag Awards.”

  Jordan’s entire body tensed. “We... are you serious?”

  The smile turned to a huge grin. “Absolutely. The nominations came out this morning.”

  “That’s amazing!” I kissed Jordan’s temple. “Congratulations.”

  “I’m... they…” Jordan shook his head. “Rock Mag? Really?”

  Martin nodded. “Rock Single of the Year, Guitarist of the Year, and Lead Vocalist of the Year.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Martin extended his hand. “Congrats, Jordan. You guys deserve it.”

  Still dazed, Jordan shook his hand and murmured, “Thanks.”

  As they separated, Martin said, “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in person.” He paused, lips quirking slightly. “Do you think, uh, Daniel will be able to—”

  “I’ll worry about Daniel.” Jordan’s voice held a terse edge.

  “Right. Okay. Well, I should run. I’ll e-mail you the studio schedule.”

  Jordan nodded. “All right. See you soon. At the, uh, studio.”

  “Yeah. See you soon.” Martin started to go, but stopped. “Oh, and one more thing. They’ve asked for you to present the award for New Rock Act. Should I tell them…?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. All right. I’ll see you gentlemen later.”

  Martin continued down the walk, and Jordan and I went back into the house.

  Jordan leaned against the closed door and covered his mouth and nose with both hands, barely muffling an “Oh my God.”

  “You all right?” I asked with a grin.

  He nodded slowly. “Just a little…”

  “Shocked?”

  “Uh-huh. I mean, I’ve never thought for a second we’d get a Grammy or anything, but, shit, a Rock Mag Award? That’s…”

  “That’s huge.” I put a hand on his waist, kissing his forehead. “And well-deserved.”

  He met my eyes and smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I mean it. I’ve always been floored you guys didn’t win more awards anyway.”

  Jordan rolled his eyes as he wrapped his arms around me. “Flatterer.”

  “I’m serious.” I held him close and kissed him lightly. “I was a fan before I was your bodyguard, you know.”

  “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

  I just laughed and kissed him again.

  As I released him, the playfulness in Jordan’s expressi
on melted away.

  “Something wrong?”

  He gnawed his lip. “I’m just thinking, with this awards show, there’s a ton of booze flowing at these things, not to mention the after parties.” He met my gaze. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on Daniel.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “We?”

  Jordan smiled. “Of course. Did you think I wasn’t going to bring you?”

  “I, well... right. Bodyguard.”

  “No, not just as my bodyguard.” He put his hands on my waist and pulled himself closer to me. “I want us to go as, well, as us. With you as my plus one.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course.” His eyes lost focus, and he laughed quietly, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  He smiled at me. “I was just thinking, I can barely remember you only being my bodyguard.”

  Running my fingers through his hair, I said, “Well, that part didn’t last very long.”

  “No, I suppose it didn’t. But still.” He touched my face, running a lightly callused fingertip over my cheek. “I just can’t imagine us ever being... not this.”

  “Neither can I.” I put my hand over his. “But seriously, you’re not worried about people knowing we’re dating?”

  “Not at all.” He grinned. “If anyone’s surprised at this point, they really haven’t been paying attention.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough. One thing, though.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Hmm?”

  “Before we go to that awards ceremony”—I ran my fingertips down the side of his throat—“you’d better make sure my dress shoes are spotless.”

  Jordan gulped.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jordan

  Daniel was sitting on the edge of his bed studying his fingernails, the small suitcase I’d packed for him eight weeks ago right beside him. He glanced up sharply as I knocked on the half-open door. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” I smiled. “Ready to go?”

  “Yeah.” Not nearly as much enthusiasm as I’d expected—in fact, I could’ve sworn I heard him sigh—but he grabbed his bag and followed me to the front desk so I could sign his discharge papers.