Protection: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

by Wood, Vivian

  Every inch of me is perfectly coiffed and plucked and ready to blow people’s minds. From the way that the fans are cheering outside, I am pretty damned sure it’s working.

  “I always think you look amazing,” Roxie says in a confidential tone.

  “Oh… that’s so nice of you to say, Roxie,” I answer cautiously, flipping my hair before I remember how short it is. It’s important to my Public Relations team that I not come off as conceited, so they’ve prepared all my answers in advance. “I’m just focused on this big tour coming up, honestly. It’s a huge deal!”

  “What is it called?” she asks, beaming at me.

  “American Dreams,” I say with a big smile, turning to the camera. “I really hope you’ll all come out to see me fulfill my dreams, America. I am going to put on the most amazing show for you!”

  “That’s so great. A triple platinum record, a huge world tour, and of course your reality show… Are you going to be doing another season of The Elly Parsons Empire?” the host asks, canting her head.

  “Gosh, I’m really not sure!” I say, trying to muster as much excitement as my interviewer. “I’d love to, of course, but I don’t really decide that stuff. I just make the music for you guys!”

  “And lip gloss, and perfume, and those awesome workout outfits you designed… With all your product lines, the new movie you did that’s coming out next spring, and this big tour, I don’t know how you have the time or the energy!” Roxie says.

  “Ohhh… well, I just take really good care of myself and try not to stress, if I can,” I say. Lies, all of that. I have people who see to every tiny detail of my life, and I am nothing but a ball of stress almost every minute of the day. The key is not letting it show on the outside, a skill I’ve mastered utterly.

  The other key is letting yourself be really, truly, genuinely excited. If it’s real, the fans can feel it. That’s something I learned from my mother, back when she was still my mom-ager.

  Roxie gives me her famous, adoring smile. I wonder if she has any idea what I just said. I wonder if she even listens to any of her guests’ answers, or if she’s already onto the next topic in her mind. She seems like she’s more effervescent blonde cheer than present, mindful thought. Not that it matters to me, as long as my fans are swayed by her bullshit.

  “Awesome!! Well, I think everyone knows this one already, but we have a clip of you rehearsing your hit song You’ll Never Break My Heart Again, getting the routine ready for your tour. Let’s check it out!” Roxie chirps.

  “Thanks so much! See you guys out there for the American Dreams tour, everyone!” I cry and wave at the camera. It’s a little fake at this point, since I’m having trouble connecting with the show’s hostess, but it’s important to smile smile smile. That’s what pop stars do.

  “Great. Let’s watch the clip, shall we?” Roxie says. A statement, not a question.

  I know the drill. Roxie and I both turn to watch the green screen behind us and hold still for half a minute. When the director calls out CUT we both relax and sigh. I can’t believe I made it through without any questions about the attack, but Roxie is probably too hammered to think of anything off-script.

  “Whew!” Roxie says, shaking her head. “Great energy. That clip is going to go viral, I can feel it.”

  “Oh, good!” I say, pushing myself to stand, balancing in my five inch designer heels. “Thanks for having me on…”

  Roxie isn’t paying a bit of attention. Her hair and makeup team descend to take advantage of the small break in airtime.

  “Let’s get you moving, make room for the next guest,” a young blonde production assistant says, gently tapping my shoulder in an attempt to shoo me from the interview area.

  “Oh! Right. Okay,” I say. Before I can start to feel truly awkward, though, my PR team surrounds me. Brad, Sarah, and the two Jennifers. My team of publicists from Raven Media.

  I call them the Ravens, which is a little funny because each one of them is bright as sunshine. All of them various shades of blond, high energy, two of them always by my side in rotating shifts. Someone is with me damn near twenty four hours a day. I tend to get a little too truthful when left unattended, so the Ravens make sure that doesn’t happen.

  You know, so I don’t get too chatty, as the Ravens call it. Say something I’m not supposed to say. Anything that’s off script, anything that’s outside the carefully crafted narrative that Raven Media has formulated for me. I’m supposed to be a Southern girl from a good family, cheery and bubbly and just the right amount of outrageous.

  That’s the Elly Parsons who sells tickets and CDs, so that’s the Elly Parsons I want to be. The Elly Parsons I choose to be. For the most part, I let the Ravens mold me, hand hold me, encourage me. If I let myself get wrapped up in the game, it’s actually pretty damned fun.

  Besides, I like the Ravens. They’re a lot better than the rest of my entourage…

  “Giiiiiirllllll, good job!” Brad says, giving me a little high five. “Let’s get you out through the main entrance while you’re still looking so fierce. We don’t want you to smudge.”

  “Okay.” That’s my answer for almost everything. I am famous in the business for being the anti-diva, for being delightful to work with. So if I’m a little bit of a pushover, who cares? I’m making bank, and so is everyone else around me.

  I get to entertain the adoring masses with my silly songs, wear awesome clothes, and dance around on stage. That’s my literal, actual job. I’m one of the luckiest people on the planet, as I remind myself constantly.

  Brad links arms with me and leads me out of the studio, past all the production offices and through a bunch of pristine white hallways. The Jennifers open a set of double doors and Sarah opens an umbrella to keep the sun out of my face, and then I am stepping out on the street in New York. After being in the controlled environment of the TV studio, being on the rain-slicked streets is a welcome change. I suck in a deep breath of humid summer air and smile.

  I’m not alone on the street, far from it. Between the building and the street, there must be a hundred fans waiting with posters and CDs and t-shirts.

  The second I turn toward them a few of them are already shrieking with excitement. Inside, I want to wince and shrink back, memories of my attack too fresh. The Jennifers propel me forward and Brad is whispering smile and I don’t really have a lot of choice in the matter.

  This isn’t the part I like. I like performing. I like recording. I like acting, playing the part. I like getting made up and traveling the world. I like being Elly Parsons, from a distance.

  This part… having to be perfect close up, this is the hard part. But it’s also what creates slavishly devoted fans. It’s not an optional part of the job. And I’m not allowed to act like anything is remotely out of the ordinary.

  So I turn on my mega-watt grin, the one that wins Grammys and gets me minor movie roles and makes my agents and publicists love me. I push forward into the sea of sharpie-waving hands, saying hello and signing autographs and taking selfies. I ignore the way that people snatch at my hair and clothes, so insensitive to the trauma I’ve just endured only days ago. I ignore the fans that smell weird or get so excited that they can barely get a handful of words out when I ask them a question.

  Click, click, click. So many selfies. I’m the queen of fucking selfies, people actually say that about me online.

  Brad taught me that if I take the photo myself, I can control the camera angle, get my best side. Less crappy photos of me online, plus it gives the fans a good experience. They think I want to be in their photos and I make sure I look my best. Win-win!

  Click, click, click.

  “Alright, everyone!” Brad finally shouts after about ten minutes. “Elly has another event to attend! Thanks so much!”

  Is that true? I wonder. I really, really hope I don’t have another press event right now. I’ve been up since four this morning, doing early radio shows. Yesterday, before everything, I did a record six press j
unkets.

  Six separate events where reporters streamed by me one after another, all asking the same questions, taking the same photos. Six events where I talk about my new album and tour, and they press me for info on my non-existent dating life. We all get what we want.

  Elly, are you loving life right now? Do you just feel crazy lucky for all this success?

  Elly, anyone special in the picture? Surely you can’t still be single, can you?

  Elly, what’s next after this? What about after the tour?

  Elly, Elly, Elly.

  Until I think my smile is so forced that it might shatter my cheeks. Until I am just totally drained and exhausted and ready to take a couple of aspirin and crawl into my hotel bed and sleep forever. I swear, I don’t mind the press. I just wish someone would ask me something different.

  How come no one ever asks what book I’m reading? I think, making myself smile. Or my position on the nuclear crisis in the Middle East?

  It’s a silly thought, but it perks me right up. It’s fun to have a secret self that few people know about. Keeps me going on the longest of days, being able to distinguish between Elly Parsons from small-town Mississippi, and Elly Parsons the international pop star.

  I actually read a ton, always have. I don’t really put it out there for other people to see, but I usually have some interesting biography or a challenging fiction novel tucked away in my oversized purse, to fill the gaps when I’m riding in cars or waiting for a press event to start.

  Today, it’s Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale; I sure wish I was curled up in my hotel room, reading about women in that post-apocalyptic world, instead of here lost in the mob.

  “Hey. This way, Elly,” Brad says, grabbing me by the elbow. A black SUV pulls up, tires screeching, and Brad hustles me inside.

  I let out a huge breath I didn’t know I held.

  “Elly,” Brad says. “We’re not going to let that happen again. You know that, right?”

  I glance at him and give him a smile.

  “Sure.”

  He’s already on his phone, lost in some other train of thought.

  “The security team that worked the other day, when I got attacked,” I ask, curiosity overwhelming me. “Is that who we normally use?”

  “No, they’re new,” Brad says.

  “There was a guy that grabbed me, protected me,” I say, glancing out the window. “I’d like to thank him. Do you know who he is?”

  Brad gives me a tired look.

  “No idea. Frankly, everyone who was working that day should probably be fired for even letting someone get that close to you.”

  I want to say, but you were there. You were working.

  But I don’t.

  Instead I just say, “I liked them.” Then I turn and stare out the window, because Brad isn’t listening anyway.

  “That’s the last press event of the day. Of the week, actually,” Brad said.

  I let out a pent-up breath, relieved beyond words. “Awesome.”

  It will be really nice not to have to dodge any more questions about getting attacked in the damn street.

  “Of course we’ll keep doing radio and TV interviews once the tour is in full swing, but you officially have a full twenty four hours of freedom,” he says, reaching out and snagging my hand. “Quit fussing with your hair, please.”

  “Fine, fine,” I grumble, shoving my hands into my lap. I lock my fingers together in my lap in an attempt to keep from touching my hair, which has been artfully cut into a long, chic bob. As if a new haircut will keep people from remembering that I was outright assaulted three days ago, that my new style is really to cover the fact that some crazy fan sliced off a hunk of my hair.

  “It really looks nice, Elly. You’re way too stressed about something that isn’t that big of a deal.” His brows rise a little, lips quirking. “Pretty soon no one will even be talking about it, okay?”

  I lean back in my seat at the hotel bar and laugh.

  “Oh yeah?” I say, pointing across the bar at a flat screen tv. TMZ TV is on the screen, replaying the scene of my attack over and over.

  “Pssh, don’t worry about that. Listen, I managed to convince Jared that you can take the day off everything,” he says.

  “You did?” I ask, surprised. Jared is my personal trainer, and he’s a notorious hardass. He’s the reason I’m sipping water with a slice of lemon right now instead of the tumbler of whiskey and ice that I’m really craving.

  “I did. He asked that you stick to your diet tonight when you’re at dinner with your mom.”

  My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. My mom. I totally forgot that I agreed to have dinner with her tonight. She’s in New York for the weekend, on vacation.

  “Why did I agree to that, again?” I ask absentmindedly. Brad reaches out and catches my hand again, already back up in my hair.

  “Because you haven’t seen her in six months, and she came up to New York just to see you before you go on tour. She made reservations somewhere nice…” Brad trails off, swiping at his phone and reading off his notes. “Le Forêt, at seven. She wants you to look presentable.”

  My lips twist in what I know is probably an unattractive sneer.

  “Of course she does. Did she pick out my outfit for me already?” I say, before I can restrain myself.

  Brad gives a little laugh.

  “Honestly, she did send specifications in her email,” he admits. “I decided to filter that part out.”

  I heave a sigh and reach out to squeeze his hand. “You’re very good at your job.”

  He sits up a little straighter, pleased.

  “Thanks. Speaking of that, you should probably go get dressed. Le Forêt requires cocktail attire. I had the Jennifers lay out a few dresses for you to choose from, and I will have your car ready out front in…” He glances at his watch. “Forty minutes. Do you need me to go with you as far as the restaurant?”

  “Um, I think I can manage,” I tease. “I’m going to assume that you’ve arranged paparazzi outside the restaurant, then?”

  Brad has the decency to blush.

  “Just for your entrance. They won’t intrude on your family time, I promise.”

  “You mean that you’re not sure what my mother will do in front of the cameras,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, she’s hard to predict.”

  “Nothing can be as bad as when she was angling for her own reality show. Wearing those short dresses, stumbling out of clubs in LA at all hours…” Brad shudders. “It was a PR nightmare.”

  “Well,” I say, rising and smoothing my hands over my floral-patterned Tory Birch day dress. “As always, I’m very curious to see what her new thing will be. I’ll text you if it’s devastating.”

  “God help us.”

  I can only agree.

  Chapter Three

  Elly

  Brad’s look of concerned horror about my mom’s behavior has me laughing all the way to my hotel suite. I leave my makeup from the press junket as is, though I tuck my hair up into a messy updo. If it’s down, I’m going to fidget, and fidgeting makes my mom crazy.

  I raised you to be a lady, she always tells me. Those words were the anthem of my childhood and early stardom. If I don’t hear that at least once tonight, I will be shocked half to death.

  I rifle through the dresses laid out for me, selecting a cute Aiden Mattox two piece. It’s a high-waisted black sheath skirt paired with a textured white crop top, sexy and fun. I’ve never seen this dress before but my team has clearly had it tailored to fit me perfectly. I pair it with diamond ear bobs, black velvet Louboutin ankle boots, and a sparkling diamond right hand ring.

  At the last moment, I dig through the cases and cases of jewelry stacked in the living room of my suite, searching for…

  There. I find a delicate silver cross, a piece of jewelry I’ve owned since I was a preteen. The last thing my dad ever gave me, before he died. A twelfth birthday present.

  I shiver. I
can almost feel the warmth of his hands when he helped me lift my long, dark hair to put the necklace on. Here, princess. It looks beautiful.

  For a second, the memory sucks me in and won’t let go, and I feel tears stinging my eyes.

  Get a grip! I scold myself, repeating the words my mom said to me a thousand times in the year following my dad’s car accident. Quit being a baby. Bad stuff happens to everyone. Now stand up straight and smile.

  I blow out a breath and walk over to the mirror, smiling at myself and checking my teeth for lipstick. I fasten the necklace, my lips curving up when I see how nicely it lays against the white fabric of my top.

  After a quick touchup of my dark lip stain, I’m refocused and ready to conquer whatever my mom is going to throw at me. You can do this, Elly.

  I pep talk myself the whole way to the restaurant, out loud.

  “You are awesome. You’re doing really well. No one is going to pick on you,” I tell myself.

  My driver Alejandro doesn’t comment or even roll up the divider; he’s used to weird conversations and last minute beauty treatments in the back seat. He travels with me city to city, one steady point in my crazy life. He never talks and never asks me for autographs, and I like that about him.

  “We’re here, Miss Parsons.”

  I look up and sure enough, the car has stopped and the valet at Le Forêt is opening the car door for me. I take a deep, calming breath and close my eyes for a second. Black sand beach, coconut drink, no one around for miles.

  I open my eyes and take the hand the valet offers, careful not to flash any of the paparazzi that are already pushing in around the limo. Lights flash, and I drop my gaze to my shoes so I don’t get dazed by them. If you get blinded by the cameras and, heaven forbid, trip…

  I can see the headlines now. Elly Parsons, DRUNK BEFORE DINNER??? or maybe, IS ELLY HEADED FOR REHAB?? See her latest TRASHED photos!

  But I don’t let that happen. The cameramen swarm like sharks, firing off shot after shot.

  Elly, Elly! Are you here to meet someone? Elly, is it a new boyfriend? Elly, give us a smile! they shout.