Muscle for Hire

by Lexxie Couper

  Her belly knotted. Her sex grew thick with wet need.

  “I know I could take you here and now, Rowan,” he murmured, tracing her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb in a slow stroke. “I can feel your need in your body, see it in your face, but I won’t. I’ll wait. Fuck knows how I’ll find the control, but I’ll wait. Until you tell me to take you.”

  She gazed up at him, unable to draw breath.

  “And when you do—” the desire in his stare turned molten, “—I’ll unleash my control and nothing will stop me. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. A single dip of her head.

  Aslin smiled. “Good. Now let’s go find your brother.”

  He stepped aside, holding out his arm toward the open door.

  The pit of Rowan’s belly churned. For a split second, she wanted to say “to hell with my brother”, but the moment the thought formed in her mind—like the softest of whispers—prickling guilt and self-disgust rushed through her. She turned and hurried for the door, practically leaping down the steps to ground.

  Only to bump into a woman with dyed-red hair wearing a skin-tight Chris Huntley T-shirt.

  Rowan stumbled back, her cheeks flushing with heat as she smiled an apology at the older woman. “I’m sorry. I should look where I’m—”

  “How did you get past security?”

  Rowan jumped at Aslin’s growl. As did the woman. The blood drained from her makeup-caked face. Her stare snapped up to the Brit where he stood in the trailer’s open doorway. “Damn it,” she muttered, a second before she spun on her heel and bolted.

  Rowan blinked. “What the fuck?”

  She turned to look at Aslin, just in time to see him launch himself from the top step. He sprinted past her, a chilling expression on his face, his jaw set.

  The woman ran fast. Aslin ran faster. If the situation hadn’t been so bizarre, Rowan would have been impressed by his phenomenal speed and grace. He caught up with the fleeing woman in no time at all, snaring her arm with one hand and yanking her to a halt.

  “Let go of me you fucking Pom!” the woman screeched, lashing out at Aslin with her free arm.

  Rowan blinked again. Pom? That was the second time she’d heard Aslin called a drink. What the hell did it mean?

  Don’t you think the more important question is why did she run when she saw him? Or even, who the hell she is?

  “Ah, you know I can’t do that, love,” Aslin’s chuckled voice came to Rowan, his humoured tone surprising her. “Now stop being silly before I have to hurt you.”

  The woman screeched some more, louder this time, her legs joining in her free arm’s wild attempts to do Aslin damage. It wasn’t working. The Brit was too tall, too large for her to even come close with any of her frenzied blows.

  Film crew was coming from everywhere to watch the show. Most gave Rowan curious looks before turning back to Aslin and the incensed, flailing woman. Some, Rowan could hear, started placing bets on how long it would take before Aslin knocked her out.

  “Fucking Pom,” she continued to wail, her face twisted into a murderous glare. “Lemme go, you fucking Pom.”

  “Insulting my nationality is only going to make it worse, love.” Aslin’s voice turned to a purr. To Rowan’s ears it sounded like his British accent grew thicker. More pronounced. “Now tell me how you got in—”

  “Rhodes!”

  Rowan jumped at the sound of her brother’s shout. She turned away from Aslin and the struggling woman, watching Chris run toward them both, his personal assistant stumbling to keep up behind him.

  Her stomach dropped. He looked furious.

  “It’s okay, Chris,” Aslin said, dragging the woman behind him, even as she squealed so loud it hurt Rowan’s ears. “I’ve got it under—”

  “When I asked you to look after my sister,” Chris’s shout cut over Aslin’s calm statement and drowned out the rabid fan’s cries, his speed increasing the closer he got to Aslin, “I didn’t mean fuck her on the back of your bike for the whole world to see!”

  A collective gasp went through the gathering crowd. All stares snapped to Rowan. All of them. Including Aslin’s.

  Which meant it was only Rowan who saw Chris smash his balled fist hard into Aslin’s jaw.

  Only Rowan who watched Aslin’s entire body tense as he recoiled from the blow a heartbeat before he fixed his focus back to her brother.

  Only Rowan who saw his face turn to a mask of cold, deadly fury.

  And then all hell broke loose as Chris tried to punch him again.

  Chapter Seven

  This is what happens when you get mixed up with the Hollywood crowd, boyo.

  The surreal thought tickled through Aslin’s rage…a second before he clamped his fingers around Chris Huntley’s fist, capturing it mid-swing on its second attempt to smash into his jaw.

  “Fucker!” the actor shouted. “You fucked my sister on a bike, you fucker!”

  Sharp pain detonated in Aslin’s shoulder, and it was only a quick look to his right that told him the woman from the café yesterday had sunk her teeth into his flesh. He shrugged her off just as she slammed a foot at his shin.

  Fresh pain stabbed into his leg.

  “I fucking trusted you, man!” Chris was shouting in his face, desperately trying to yank his hand free of Aslin’s hold. “I trusted you.”

  Aslin turned back to the incensed actor, his blood roaring in his ears. Christ, what a soddin’ balls up.

  “Chris,” Rowan’s cry rose above the ruckus. She wormed her way between them with determined strength, her hand pressing flat to Aslin’s chest, her thigh wedging against his groin. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”

  Chris didn’t stop. He glared up at Aslin, hate in his eyes. “I trusted you, man.”

  Another bite in his shoulder made Aslin release the woman in his right grip. Someone else would have to deal with her. Chris was more important.

  He heard a scuffle of feet, a loud oof, someone mutter, “freaking bitch” and more feet pounding the concrete, but he didn’t tear his focus from the angry young actor still trying to get at him.

  “Chris, I didn’t make love to Rowan.”

  “He didn’t, squirt.” Rowan shook her head, pushing hard on Chris’s chest. “Honest.”

  Chris dropped his glare to her, his brow furrowing. “Then explain the photos plastered all over the net. It sure as hell looks like he was about to get to third fucking base.”

  Hot anger punched into Aslin’s gut. He ground his teeth.

  Holston.

  Rowan flicked him a quick look, realization flaring in her eyes.

  Aslin lifted his stare to her brother’s face. “Chris, I know what it looks like, but you need to let me—”

  His phone rang, the sound of the “Funeral March” telling him his boss was calling.

  Sod it. Just what I need. An angry Nick on my arse.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  It was Nigel McQueen’s shout that made them all flinch. Chris stumbled back a step, Aslin releasing his fist as he did so. To Aslin, the actor looked shell-shocked. Guttered. “Rhodes…” Chris began, shaking his head even as he continued to glare at Aslin. “The fucking prick—”

  “Enough, Chris,” Rowan snapped. She shoved at his chest, straightening between them, her back to Aslin. “That’s enough. I can have sex with whomever I want, whenever I want. Got it?”

  The film’s director frowned at her. “Who are you having sex with, Rowan?”

  In Aslin’s pocket, his phone fell silent, Nick no doubt giving up.

  Thank effing God for that.

  “Aslin,” Rowan shot back. “I mean, I’m not having sex with Aslin. But I…we almost…Jesus. This is no one’s business but mine and Aslin’s.”

  Movement from the corner of Aslin’s eye made him turn. He watched Chris’s assistant hurry over to Nigel, iPad in hand. Tilly tugged at Nigel’s sleeve, holding the tablet out to him to show what was on it.

  Nigel’s eyebrows shot up,
his attention fixed on the screen. “Nice bike.”

  Aslin drew in a slow breath, returning his focus to Chris. “Thanks.”

  The actor snarled, his stare dropping to Rowan. “You know what’s funny about this, sis?”

  “What, Chris?”

  Aslin’s gut clenched at the anguish he heard in Rowan’s voice.

  Chris’s glare turned black. “You spend all your time lecturing me about behaving like a real person, about not doing stupid things just because I’m a celebrity, and you go and let a celebrity bodyguard feel you up and dry hump you in a hospital car park while I’m in said hospital on a freaking drip.” He flicked Aslin a scowl. “How fucking hilarious is that? Might ask the writers to incorporate it into an episode of Twice Too Many next season.”

  With a final look at Aslin, hurt betrayal etching his face, he stormed into his trailer and slammed the door shut.

  A prickling sensation told Aslin everyone in the crowd was now looking at him. He refused to look at any of them. Instead, he waited for Rowan. What happened next was her call. He knew what he wanted to do—tell everyone to mind their own sodding business, but this wasn’t his world. This was the movie industry, and the movie industry was a world unto itself. He knew the rock industry. He knew the world of war. What happened next had to be Rowan’s play, for her brother’s sake. And hers.

  She stood motionless for a long moment. Nigel stood before her, the iPad handed to him by Tilly showing everyone who cared to look the images Holston had captured of Aslin and Rowan in the hospital parking lot.

  “Rowan?” the director’s voice was low. Curious.

  She let out a ragged breath. “Fuck.” With a shake of her head, she turned, glanced up at Aslin and then walked over to Chris’s trailer, stopping briefly to say something to Tilly at the base of the steps before climbing to the door.

  No one said anything as she knocked once, called Chris’s name and then slipped inside.

  That prickling sensation razed over Aslin again. He didn’t move. Kept his stare on Nigel McQueen. He’d cut his teeth on the slums of London, fought for his life in Iraq and Afghanistan and spent a decade and a half guarding Nick Blackthorne from crazy fans. The speculative attention of curious film folk didn’t perturb him in the slightest.

  What Rowan thinks of you, though…what Chris does…

  He ground his teeth.

  Nigel frowned. “Why was the paparazzo following you?”

  Aslin bit back a sigh. “Holston and I have history. He’s been tailing Nick for as long as Nick’s been in the public eye. It didn’t take Holston long to realize ninety percent of the time, wherever I was, Nick was too. I suspect he was lurking in the emergency department’s waiting room along with the other paparazzi and saw me arrive with Rowan. Nick Blackthorne’s bodyguard and Chris Huntley’s sister would be too much to resist for scum like him.” He paused. “Unfortunately, he saw more than he should have.”

  Nigel’s frown deepened. “Look, Mr. Rhodes.” He stepped toward Aslin, passing the iPad to his assistant as he did so. “I know you can probably snap me in two with your bare hands, but I just want to say I really like Rowan. I’ve known her for a while, ever since she was my twin daughters’ Taekwondo instructor. She loves her brother more than life and will do everything in her power to keep him safe. Bringing you in was meant to be good for him. I had it on Nick Blackthorne’s word you were going to be good for him, and I think you are, but after this…” He let out a slow breath. “I’m prepared to let you stay on if she is. I like her, my girls like her, hell, even my wife likes her, but she’s not as tough as she pretends to be. And I may only be a film director, but I would do everything in my power to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.”

  He paused, but Aslin didn’t fill the silence with anything apart from an unwavering gaze.

  “Do you understand?”

  Aslin inclined his head.

  Nigel let out another breath. “Excellent. Now, I want to talk to you about the next scene we’re shooting today. Chris’s character is going to be ambushed amongst all those hammocks in the convict dormitory. Ricco had choreographed the scene to have the hammock fall down and tangle around Vin’s legs, allowing Chris to apprehend him, but I want to go for something more brutal. Bloody. Can you help me work on that?”

  Aslin studied the director for a long moment. Bloody. Brutal. Words he understood very well. He nodded. “I can do that.”

  Nigel flashed whiter-than-white teeth at him in a wide smile. “Good, good. Tilly?” He shouted over Aslin’s shoulder, “Can you tell Chris and Rowan we’ll be on set when they get out?” And without waiting for the young woman to respond, he started walking away from Chris’s trailer. “By the way, who was the woman you were holding when I first got here? The one that seemed to enjoy biting you?”

  Aslin’s nerve endings crackled at the mention of the zealous fan. He cast a steady look around the area, wondering if she’d gotten away. “A fan,” he said, turning back to Nigel. “A determined one. She was trying to gain access to Chris. Apparently she was thrown off the site yesterday after she was caught pretending to be with catering. Whoever is in charge of security needs to have their arse kicked.”

  Nigel clicked his fingers at his assistant walking a few paces behind them. In a hurried step, the young man caught up with them. “I want to talk to Miller,” Nigel snapped. “Find him.”

  Aslin continued to walk beside Nigel, forcing his feet to move one in front of the other. He wanted to go back to the trailer. He wanted to apologise to Chris, to Rowan. For all his mightier-than-thou arrogant caveman-thumping behavior to Rowan, he didn’t like to see either her or her brother upset, especially given he was responsible for that pain.

  Hadn’t he learnt anything from all his time trying to protect Nick?

  You’ve never been so attracted to a woman before, boyo. Never felt such raw, overwhelming desire. What you feel for Rowan has thrown you for a loop. You need to control it before you fuck it up.

  Thirty minutes later, during which Aslin instructed Nigel how the fight scene should play out—with the film’s antagonist watching the whole time—Chris walked back onto set. Followed by his assistant. And Rowan.

  Aslin’s heart slammed into his throat.

  He swallowed, nerves exploding in his gut like a nuke full of butterflies.

  Nerves? Christ, you really are falling fast, aren’t you?

  When Chris walked over to him, he remained motionless. It was damn near impossible, but he did.

  The actor stopped a foot away, his blue stare challenging. Direct. He may have started his career as a sitcom star, but he’d obviously spent a considerable amount of time working out in preparation for this role. He was ripped and sculpted. Anger no doubt flooded his muscles with adrenaline. His fingers curled into a ball at his sides. His legs seemed to tremble with charged energy.

  He studied Aslin, unmoving. Silent.

  Around them, the set fell to a hush. Even the ubiquitous soundtrack of hammer on nail Aslin had noticed on his first day seemed to stop, as if what was playing out under the cinematographer’s lighting was more important than the building of artificial surrounds.

  To the left of Chris, Rowan walked into Aslin’s line of sight. She gave him an unreadable look, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

  Aslin’s throat tightened. Damn, he wanted to kiss that lip. Bite it. Suck it. Worship it.

  Returning his gaze to Chris, he gave the man a brief nod. “You’ve got an impressive right hook on you, Chris.”

  The actor narrowed his eyes.

  Aslin raised an eyebrow. “Want me to show you how to make it better?”

  “Depends.” Chris’s voice was flat. “Are you the punching bag?”

  “I can be. Do you want to hit me again?”

  “Are you going to touch my sister again like you did on the bike?”

  To Chris’s left, Rowan let out a soft groan.

  Aslin’s heart thumped hard. He kept his stare on her brother’s face
, all too aware that everyone hung on the next words to come out of his mouth. “I plan to,” he said. “But only if she lets me. And I won’t do it in public.”

  Chris’s nostrils flared. His jaw bunched. His Adam’s apple jumped up and down his throat.

  Aslin saw the punch coming before Chris even lashed out. The actor’s body telegraphed the intent a second before his fist cut through the space between them. Aslin didn’t dodge it. He didn’t block it.

  He took the punch, rolling his head to the side as Chris’s knuckles smashed into his jaw.

  “Fuck.” Chris staggered to the side, shaking his hand as he opened and closed his fingers. “That hurts.”

  “Chris.” Rowan’s murmur echoed through the silent dormitory like a shout. “You are overreacting. It was more than sex on a…a bike.” Her cheeks turned pink.

  “You’re blushing?” Chris said, his obvious shock piquing Aslin’s interest. “Jesus, sis, you never blush. Ever.” The actor turned to Aslin, his stare intense, contemplative, before he pinned Rowan with a narrow-eyed look. “Is it serious?”

  “I…” Rowan began, her cheeks—Aslin was delighted to see—growing pinker.

  “As far as I’m concerned it is,” he said, letting his intent fill each word.

  “It doesn’t matter if it is or not, Chris.” Rowan flicked Aslin an ambiguous frown. “You can’t just go around punching people because—”

  “They kiss my sister?” Chris interrupted. “I can if they’re just trying to get in your pants. But if they’re serious…” He let the rest of the sentence go unfinished, grinning at Aslin.

  “Oh, Chris.” Rowan shook her head. “Really? This is you being a protective brother, is it?”

  Chris’s lips twitched. “Yeah, it is. Aren’t you lucky? Now shut up and stop bothering me. I got a scene to film. You can kiss your boyfriend better when we’re done.”

  “He’s not my—”

  But whatever Rowan was going to say, the surrounding onlookers seemed to believe the show was all over. Like that, noise returned to the set. As if someone flicked a switch, all the activity Aslin had noted since first stepping foot on Dead Even’s set yesterday—people shouting commands, sound equipment being moved, hammers whacking nails, trolleys and cameras being pushed from one spot to the next—instantly erupted into a cacophony of organized chaos again.