Traitor

by Chris Bradford

  Ash pulled out his phone, thumbed an app and showed her his social media feed on the screen. “This is what I have to put up with every day, every minute of my life.”

  He pointed to a post that read Drop dead, you talentless waster!

  Another below it declared Your music is an insult to anyone with ears.

  There were several other messages of abuse and threats to harm the rock star. But, as Charley had noted before, the majority of the posts were from loyal and loving fans:

  I adore u @therealAshWild

  So Xcited, #AshWild Dallas gig tm night!

  Hoping for an *electrifying* performance! #AshWild

  @therealAshWild has the voice of an angel.

  Charley drew Ash’s attention to these. “This is what you should be reading. Not those other insults. Ignore the haters. If you don’t, they win.”

  Ash sighed. “I know, but that’s easier said than done, especially when one of them could be the maniac who’s trying to kill me.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their first course. Ash was presented with a plate of roasted maple-glazed buffalo wings, while Charley had chosen king prawns in a coconut mayonnaise. With a flourish, the waiter laid the napkins on their laps, then departed.

  “Anyway, enough about my problems,” said Ash, tucking into his starter. “You still haven’t told me why you became a bodyguard.”

  Since Ash had opened up to her, Charley felt she could do the same. As they ate, she told him about Kerry, about the bald-headed abductor and how she’d failed to react and save her friend, then how her parents had died in a plane hijacking and her life had lost all meaning.

  “They say time heals all wounds,” mused Charley. “But, if that’s true, the memories still leave a scar.”

  Suddenly she realized Ash was texting on his phone under the table. “Sorry, am I boring you?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  “No, absolutely not. You’re inspiring me!” he replied, rapidly typing away. After a minute or so, he put his phone down and sighed with deep relief. He gazed at her in awe. “Charley, I know you’ll think I’m just flirting, but you’re my missing muse. I’ve been stuck, fishing for lyrics, for weeks. Now I can hear the songs again—thanks to you.”

  Leaning closer, he sang softly to her, a heartachingly beautiful melody: “Time will heal, yet memories scar, when the hurt’s so deep, a bridge too far . . .”

  Charley felt her eyes moisten and her throat constrict.

  “In times of trouble, I need a helping hand. I look for you, breathe for you, have a need for you . . .”

  The words and tune combined to squeeze at her heart, the song seeming to be a distillation of her enduring grief. A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. Still singing, Ash reached out with his own hand, gently caressed her face and wiped away the tear.

  A sudden flash lit up the scene. Ash jerked his hand back. Charley blinked in half-blinded surprise.

  Outside the window, grinning like a kid in a candy store, was Gonzo.

  13

  “It’s not what it looks like,” protested Charley over the phone the next morning.

  But Gonzo’s photo was compromising in every way—the candlelit restaurant, a red rose on the table, and Ash with his hand cupping her face.

  From the angle the photo had been taken, it appeared the famous rock star was about to kiss her. And the camera never lies.

  Charley stared in dismay at the image now making the front page of every tabloid and celebrity newsfeed in the world. “Wild Boy Tames Wildcat” and other puns accompanied the picture that had been published within hours of their dinner.

  “Yeah, you’re just doing your job,” said Blake flatly. “It’s good to see you’re so committed.”

  “For heaven’s sake, nothing happened. Please don’t get jealous.”

  “How can you expect me not to be jealous?”

  “I expect you to trust me,” pleaded Charley.

  “Well, that’s a little hard, considering the evidence,” he replied frostily. “And you rarely return my calls. You’re obviously too busy with Ash. I think we should end it, don’t you?”

  Charley couldn’t speak; Blake had been her friend since she’d joined Guardian. He’d been the one to stand by her when all the others had doubted her abilities. She didn’t want to lose him, not like this.

  But before Charley could manage a reply, he dropped another bombshell.

  “Anyway, I was only going out with you because I felt sorry for you as the only girl in Guardian. But now there are others.”

  “What?” exclaimed Charley, but he’d already ended the call. For a moment she sat staring at the phone still in her hand. Then she picked up the newspaper with the offending photo and flung it across her hotel room. It hit the opposite wall, its pages scattering like autumn leaves.

  “I warned you the paparazzi could make your life difficult,” said Big T, leaning his great bulk against the door frame to her room.

  Her vision swimming with tears, Charley sobbed, “Blake dumped me because of it!”

  Stepping into the room, Big T wrapped a heavy, tattooed arm around her shoulders to comfort her. “Then the boy’s an idiot. He has no idea what he’s lost.”

  “H-he says he only went out with me . . . b-because he felt sorry for me!” said Charley, her voice hitching.

  Big T scowled. “Then he’s a double idiot! Soon enough he’ll realize his mistake and start feeling sorry for himself.”

  “Why would he even say that?” asked Charley.

  “He’s a boy. His pride’s been hurt. It sounds to me like a cheap shot to have the last word.”

  Charley looked up, red-eyed and pleading at Big T. “But I didn’t do anything with Ash.”

  “I know,” said Big T with a sympathetic smile. “But bodyguarding and boyfriends don’t mix, I’m afraid. There’s little room for relationships in this line of work. I should know. I have two ex-wives!” He gave a hollow laugh.

  “None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for that photo!” Charley ground her teeth, her sorrow now replaced by anger. “How did Gonzo find us?”

  Big T shrugged. “Most likely an informant in the restaurant itself. Pap agencies spend literally hundreds of thousands of dollars a year on their snitch network. It’s hard to keep any celebrity’s movements secret these days.”

  “But wasn’t he fooled by Pete?”

  “Yes, hook, line and sinker,” said Big T. “Gonzo followed us all the way back to the hotel. He staked out the entrance with everyone else. The only way he could have known you were at that restaurant was a tip-off. And whatever he paid the snitch, it’s nothing compared with the small fortune he’s raked in selling that single photo of you two.”

  Charley clenched her fists in frustrated fury; while she suffered the consequences of the lie, that leech had profited. “Well, he’d better leave us alone now.”

  “Fat chance. They’re vampires, remember?”

  Charley’s phone rang. It was Colonel Black. She braced herself for another reprimand.

  “Charley, this isn’t what I meant by keeping a low profile,” he began, his tone surprisingly even and restrained. “But I suppose it was inevitable. You can’t protect one of the most famous pop stars in the world without attracting attention yourself. I just need to know, has a line been crossed here?”

  “No, of course not,” she replied.

  “Good. If that’s the case, then stay on the assignment, for now at least.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” she said, relieved simply to have escaped a shameful dismissal. Besides, after her messy breakup with Blake, she didn’t want to go back to headquarters anytime soon. “I assure you it won’t happen again.”

  “No, I’m sure it will,” Colonel Black corrected her, much to her astonishment. “Kay and I are both in agreement.
Considering the circumstances, being Ash’s girlfriend is the perfect cover.”

  14

  “There are literally millions of girls who’d kill to be in your position . . . me included,” said Jessie, giving Charley a brief congratulatory hug when they met at the side of the stage for Ash’s Dallas concert. “Ash always had eyes for you, so I’m not really surprised. You two are a match made in heaven.”

  “Well, it was certainly a surprise to me,” Charley replied with an awkward smile. She was still reeling from her breakup with Blake. How could he be so heartless? She’d tried calling him, but he refused to answer his phone—his determined silence as hurtful as his sudden dumping of her. However, becoming Ash’s official girlfriend overnight was an even greater shock to the system. Suddenly everyone wanted to know her—fans and paparazzi alike.

  There’d been a huge explosion of online chatter and gossip about the blossoming romance. More of Gonzo’s pictures had been released: early shots of the two of them leaving the after-show party in New York; the time they’d sneaked out of the hotel in Pittsburgh to go running; the now-infamous moment she’d leaped to Ash’s defense; the anxious seconds after the car crash in New Orleans and other random shots from the rest of the tour. Ignoring any timelines or contexts, the press had created a whole fiction around the photos—a celebrity story of young love seen through the tabloid lens of the paparazzi.

  GUARDIAN ANGEL TURNS LOVE ANGEL . . .

  ASH RUNS WILD WITH NEW GIRL . . .

  PR INTERN CAPTURES ROCK STAR’S HEART . . .

  Investigative reporters had tried to dig up dirt on Charley, some even resorting to fabricating lies about her past, but Charley knew the press wouldn’t find anything on her. Besides her last name being changed for the assignment, the personal records of all Guardian recruits were meticulously doctored to conceal their double lives as young bodyguards. This was for the security of the Principals as well as the recruits.

  But the past wasn’t as interesting as the present for the celebrity-hungry masses. Besides the big question of whether it was true love or not, Charley’s looks were a huge subject of debate among girl fans—her blond hair, her sky-blue eyes, her slim neck, her athletic figure, her teeth, her nails, her taste in clothes. There was no part of her body or image not dissected and commented upon.

  The Internet was teeming with these posts and, against her better judgment, Charley had read some. She couldn’t stop herself. Skimming the comments, she was relieved to discover many opinions were flattering and supportive. But there were also a lot of spiteful remarks and cruel barbs. Some had been deeply personal and truly hurtful. Even though Charley realized they were written by trolls—bullies who only wanted to offend and humiliate—she couldn’t help feeling upset at the unjust and unwarranted abuse. Many fans wrote that they hated her and she didn’t deserve to be Ash’s girlfriend. Some wished her dead. A few even threatened to kill her if she hurt Ash or broke his heart.

  After a miserable hour of Internet surfing, Charley forced herself to stop. Like poison, the hate infected all the fan forums and dominated her thoughts, sending any nice remarks into oblivion. Charley’s sense of self-worth was becoming seriously undermined. She was having a taste of Ash’s celebrity life, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  Pete, on the other hand, was relishing his role as Ash’s decoy.

  He’d once again fooled the fans and diverted the paparazzi before the real Ash left his hotel for the gig at the Dallas arena. A few photographers had lingered behind, hoping for an exclusive shot of the rock star’s new girlfriend. But Charley, along with Ash in a hoodie and dark glasses, had managed to evade detection, departing from a side entrance thirty minutes later. The two Ash Wilds had eventually been reunited in the venue’s dressing room.

  Now disguised in a baseball cap and horn-rimmed glasses, Pete stood beside Charley and Jessie, his backstage pass worn like a medal of honor on his chest. He had the biggest grin on his face as his idol entertained the Dallas crowd.

  “How are you enjoying the show from backstage?” Charley asked him.

  “It’s amazing,” he replied, his gaze not wavering from his rock-star hero. “I feel this affinity with Ash. It’s like we’re one.”

  Charley just nodded. The background check had revealed that Pete lived in Norwich, England, with his grandmother. He was actually seventeen years old, but looked and behaved much younger. He worked for a delivery company and had a high school diploma to his name, and held no criminal convictions. The boy was totally unexceptional. He simply seemed to live his life through Ash, as confirmed by the photo he’d posted on a Wildling fan site of his bedroom plastered with Ash Wild posters and memorabilia. For that reason alone, Charley thought the boy a little weird and intended to keep a close eye on him.

  When the band kicked off with the track “Been There, Done That,” Pete started busting moves, playing air guitar and belting out the words to the song. Charley and Jessie exchanged glances, trying not to laugh. Pete may have looked like Ash and been able to replicate his dance routine, but he certainly couldn’t sing like him.

  “Hey, Pete! Do you want your own mic?” suggested Jessie, grabbing a microphone from a nearby stand.

  Pete glared at her, his eyes flashing like a wild animal’s and his lips curling into a snarl. Any resemblance to Ash vanished, and for a moment, Charley thought he might pounce on Jessie.

  Then the bearded roadie Joel intervened and snatched the mic back from her. “I told you before—don’t touch the gear!” he hissed.

  The joke having fallen flat, Jessie meekly apologized and backed away. Pete returned to staring at his idol, the mocking apparently forgotten.

  Onstage Ash proved why he was such a superstar, dazzling the audience with a guitar solo that would have made Jimi Hendrix proud. In response the Dallas crowd almost lifted the roof with their screams. Charley spotted the chef from the previous evening in the front row with his two daughters. He looked to be having the time of his life.

  When the song came to an end, the stage lights faded and the roadie hurried past Charley to set up the stage for Ash’s final acoustic set. This was the part of the show Charley enjoyed best. Stripped of all the high-end production, video effects, dancers and backing band, this was Ash at his most pure and honest.

  A boy, his guitar and a voice.

  It was hard for anyone not to fall in love with him when he performed like this.

  The arena darkened until a single spot illuminated Ash in a halo of golden light at the tip of the guitar-shaped stage. He adjusted his stool, checked the tuning on his acoustic guitar, then put his lips to the mic. At once, his whole body went rigid and he keeled sideways, crashing to the floor.

  15

  Charley raced out onto the stage. She had no idea what had happened. Had a fan thrown something at Ash? Was it a heart attack? Had he been shot? Had the maniac promising “no more encores” struck? Whatever the cause, her overriding instinct was to protect him from further harm—if he was still alive.

  The whole arena had fallen into stunned and horrified silence as Ash lay motionless in a heap at the far end of the stage. For Charley, the guitar-shaped runway seemed to extend forever as she sprinted toward his inert body.

  A technician reached Ash first. He took hold of Ash’s shoulder, then shuddered, jerked his hand away and fell backward. In that instant Charley knew what was wrong. Ash had been shocked by the electric charge.

  Picking up the fallen wooden stool, Charley shoved the lethal microphone away from Ash’s body. She checked for any other dangers, then knelt down beside Ash, praying he wasn’t dead. An electric shock with a strong enough current could stop the heart.

  “ASH!” she called, but there was no response.

  Confirming his airway was clear, she checked his breathing and circulation. His pulse was a little weak, though the fact he had a pulse was reassuring. The problem was . . . he wasn’t bre
athing.

  This time Charley knew Ash wasn’t faking it.

  Pinching his nose, she leaned over him, covered his mouth with her lips and began CPR. She was vaguely aware of anxious tour crew and security gathering around her. The offending microphone was isolated and disconnected. A stretcher was brought down by two medics. The audience were softly whispering and weeping as they watched the scene play out. Still Charley kept up her rescue breaths, focusing on the task at hand and not letting panic control her emotions.

  “Charley, it’s Big T,” said a voice in her ear. “The medics can take over.”

  Charley shook her head and persisted with CPR. Ash was her responsibility. She would not let him die in her arms.

  “You need to let them do their job,” insisted Big T.

  Feeling a gentle hand on her shoulder, Charley nodded and finished her set of rescue breaths. She was on her last one when all of a sudden Ash regained consciousness. His eyes flickered open, and he took several breaths on his own.

  “Hey, Charley . . .” he said, smiling. “Hope you’re not going to break my arm for this.”

  “No,” she replied with a relieved smile, recalling her previous threat about if he ever tried kissing her again. “As you said, it’s worth the risk.”

  One of the medics helped Ash sit up. Seeing their idol rise from the dead, the whole audience applauded and whooped.

  “Okay, let’s get you to the hospital,” said the medic.

  “Later,” said Ash, waving off his help. “I have a gig to finish.”

  “But we need to do a thorough medical examination,” insisted the medic.

  “I feel fine,” declared Ash, standing up on his own. “If Dave Grohl can finish a Foo Fighters tour with a broken leg, I can certainly perform after a little shock to the system.”

  “Little?” queried the medic. “You were knocked unconscious and stopped breathing.”