by Wood, Vivian
“Jesus,” he mutters. “I don’t fucking care what you’re wearing. This is business, Elly.”
I take a couple steps back, shaking my head. His mention of business has a host of presumptions bubbling up in my mind, most of them to do with my mom. Did she manipulate Connor into coming to… you know what? It doesn’t really matter.
Either way, I need to be a little more presentable.
“Hold on just a second. I mean, come in and close the door, but let me throw a robe on.”
I step into the bedroom area of my suite and close the door. Initially I’m just going to throw something on over my tank top and shorts, but after a moment’s thought I change into jeans and a long-sleeved blue plaid shirt, soft and comforting. I pull a brush through my dark hair and throw it up in a bun, then slip on a pair of flats.
With a single quick glance at my reflection, I assure myself that I’m ready to tackle whatever bullshit my mom’s new boyfriend’s son is about to throw at me. Just thinking that phrase to myself makes me roll my eyes, it’s so ridiculous.
When I stalk back out into the living room, ready to take Connor Gray on, I find him standing with my manager, Artisan. Artisan is dressed in black from head to toe, looking for all the world like an aging punk rocker with his artfully ripped jeans, leather jacket, and graying faux-hawk.
“Hey, chickadee,” Artisan says, his soft British voice a welcome bit of familiarity in what is shaping up to be an odd morning.
“You didn’t say you were coming in! I thought you had to deal with some Adele crisis or something,” I say, flinging my arms around Artisan when he opens his and beckons for a hug. He’s a giant, well over six and a half feet, and he dwarfs me the second I’m within five feet of him.
“Surprise!” he chuckles.
Artisan gives great hugs, hard and tight and long, like he really means it. I let myself sink into the embrace for a few seconds, my head resting on his chest, eyes closing for a second. Artisan has been with me since the beginning, and although he’s delegated most of his daily duties to my entourage, he’s still here when I need him.
“God, it’s been such a week,” I mutter.
“I’m so sorry, darling. I swear I’ve been frantically trying to take care of things on my end,” Artisan promises, pulling back a bit and then releasing me. “The first new addition being Connor, obviously.”
“I— what??” I say, stepping back again and goggling at the two of them.
“Well… yeah. Why else would you have let a stranger into your hotel room?” Artisan asked, arching a brow and crossing his arms.
“We know each other previously,” Connor said, wading in at last.
“I would not say that,” I snap, heat rising in my cheeks.
“Oh god, you two didn’t bang, did you?” Artisan moaned, pressing a hand to his eyes. “You have no idea how difficult it was to find someone with the right experience and qualifications, who’d agree to this madness.”
I pause for a long beat, then purse my lips and stare Artisan down.
“What madness do you mean?” I ask.
“Wait, just to be clear… no fucking, right?” Artisan asked, pointing to Connor.
“Jesus, Artisan! No!” I say, growing more aggravated by the moment.
“Whew! Okay. Well… just hear me out, darling. I’ve been quite worried about you ever since your attack,” Artisan said, his expression cautious.
“Really, now? Funny, because you weren’t here,” I point out.
“We can agree that Adele giving birth was a big enough event that I needed to be there, can’t we?” Artisan said, rolling his eyes.
“I don’t know, who’s grossing more this week?” I ask.
“That is… hurtful,” Artisan growls. “Stop being snappish and let me talk.”
I raise my hands and shrug, trying to calm myself down a little bit. Connor being here, the way he’s watching me with those intense green eyes of his, it’s making me so damn nervous. Shaky, even.
“I’ve hired you a personal, round-the-clock bodyguard,” Artisan said.
My mouth opens and closes, and I emit an unladylike squawk of displeasure.
“You didn’t,” I manage after a second.
“Well… I picked him. The company backing your tour is responsible for asking for a constant bodyguard,” Artisan said. “Actually, I negotiated them down from an eight-person team to three, and only one of them has to be in line of sight at all times. Trust me when I say they want to keep the millions they’ve invested in you safe and sound.”
I narrowed my eyes at my manager, feeling something bad coming.
“Why do I feel like you’re trying to butter me up?” I ask.
The way Artisan pauses for the barest moment makes me nervous.
“Well, they want Connor to be native security. To play a close member of your entourage, so that you aren’t seen to be stepping up your security. We don’t want to warn any would-be attackers that a former Navy SEAL is going to do the Vulcan Nerve Pinch on them or whatever.”
“A close member of my entourage,” I repeat.
“Well… we’re going to spin it as a new relationship,” Artisan says with a shrug. “We won’t specify what kind, but the papers are going to be bursting at the seams. I mean… look at him.”
Artisan jerks his thumb at Connor, who rolls his eyes but otherwise remains motionless. I notice now that Connor’s standing with his feet spread a little apart, hands clasped behind his back.
Put him in a suit, and he’s the classic, clean-cut Secret Service guy straight out of the movies.
“Are you trying to tell me you just signed me up for a fake boyfriend?” I say, turning back to Artisan. “Because… no. I veto the hell out of this.”
“You’d rather have eight guards at all times, including someone sleeping in your room with you?” Artisan asked.
“No, of course not!” I say, flinching at the idea of it. “I barely get any privacy on tour as it is, I won’t give any of it up.”
“Well, here’s your alternative.” Artisan thrusts a finger at Connor, whose attention seems to be elsewhere. He’s not distracted, exactly. Merely… not engaging.
“Hey,” I say to Connor, snapping my fingers to pull him back in. “Did you not tell him who you are, dude?”
Those green eyes focus on me like a laser, his mouth pulling into a scowl.
“Do not snap your fingers in my face,” he says. The tone of his words is threatening enough that I let my hand fall, turning back to Artisan.
“I am not dealing with… this,” I say, waving my hand to indicate Connor. “For a single day, much less a leg of my tour.”
Artisan’s eyes narrow a little, and I can feel him winding up for a lecture. Greaaaat, just what I need right now. He starts ticking facts off on his fingers, which is a habit of his that I absolutely loathe.
“One, you’re getting him for the whole tour. Two, you don’t have a choice in the matter, unless you want the production company to pull the plug. They decided that promoting a pop star being possibly stalked by a deranged fan was a gamble, and this was the only way it was going to happen,” he hardly stops to take a breath as he raises his third finger.
“Three, I’ve worked very hard to help make this tour happen for you, so don’t yell at me for shit that’s beyond my control.” Okay, I feel a little guilty about that. A little.
Artisan takes a deep breath, “And four, you got attacked in the street a couple of days ago by a pyscho.”
He sucks in a shuddering breath and gives me a hard look.
“He could have really hurt you, and I can’t let that happen. You’re not just a client, you’re my friend. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, okay?”
I soften immediately in the face of his anger, giving him a slow nod.
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
“In order for you to be protected, I need you to let Connor be all up in your business, all the time. I need you to take his direction in all matte
rs of your safety, and not be a jackass about it.”
I open my mouth to respond to his ‘jackass’ comment, but he barrels forward.
“Like I said before, he’s the best and most experienced bodyguard around. If he says jump, you’d better ask how high,” Artisan commands me.
I know I’m pouting, blatantly so, but this is just so stupid.
Worse, Connor gives me this look, sort of a wink and a smirk. He’s playing with me, teasing me, and Artisan has no idea.
“I want to hear it,” Artisan demands when I don’t speak. “Connor, tell her to jump.”
Connor sucks in a big breath, giving me an amused look.
“Jump,” he says.
I glare at Artisan, who elbows me.
“Say it,” he orders.
“Fiiiiiine. How high?” I mumble the last bit.
“Good. Great,” Artisan says with a bit of forced enthusiasm. His phone chimes in his pocket, and he pulls it out with a reluctant wince.
“Look, I’ve got to take this. It’s an A&R rep. I have to jet, but I’ll be back on your second or third stop. We’ll have time to sit down and hash out whatever needs fixing, okay?”
I give him an uncertain frown as response. He returns a stern glance and a brief half-hug. On his way out the door, he tosses back, “I’m sending over some last minute security-related contract riders from the production company. The courier will drop them off tonight or tomorrow. I need you to sign them ASAP so we can get you on the road!”
I glare at his retreating back until he’s out the door, then turn to Connor. I should probably be nice, give him the benefit of the doubt, but I am 100% sure he’s up to no good.
“Whatever it is that you’ve cooked up with my mom, whatever hare-brained moneymaking scheme she’s onto now, I don’t want that shit on my tour. This is my tour, my experience. My security, actually.”
I pause and bite my lip for a second before I ask the question that’s burning in my brain.
“Are you really an ex-Navy SEAL? If you’re all that’s standing between me and the guy who stole my hair…”
The fury in Connor’s eyes stops me mid-sentence. He takes a step toward me, then another.
And another.
Backing me toward the wall, raising goosebumps on every inch of my skin.
Those eyes, I’ve never seen anything so green… just the color of a jungle cat’s, I bet.
“You have a foul mouth,” he says, surprising me. His eyes drop to my lips briefly, and I let out a nervous giggle.
“Yeah? And?” I ask, knowing my tone is just going to piss him off more. Let’s just see where your boundaries are, macho man.
“And you’re disrespectful,” he says.
I step back and stumble when the backs of my knees hit one of the suite’s low couches.
Connor moves forward another step and I drop down to sit, looking up at him. He comes to stand almost directly in front of me, staring down at me with those blazing eyes, and our positions feel strangely weighted.
I’m definitely the submissive in this moment, pops into my head unbidden, and I feel my face flushing with blood.
“I need this job. You need protection,” Connor says, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I got this job on my own, and I don’t appreciate your assumptions. If you question my military service record aloud again, I will make you regret it. Look it up for yourself if you’re so dubious.”
“You are trying to tell me that when you walked into dinner last night, you had no idea that you were coming to work on my tour?” I ask, throwing the ball right back to him.
“Of course I fucking knew. You’re a famous pop star, and your mom is more than a little proud of you. Of course she told me who you are. As for the job, I tried to bring it up, but you were too busy throwing hissy fit to listen,” he grits out. “You stormed out before I could say anything.”
“Right.” I laugh. “This is all just a big, happy family accident. Coincidence!”
“Correct.”
“I hope you tell my mother that she’s not getting another fucking cent from me,” I hiss. “And I hope you know this isn’t the first grand scheme she’s tried to pull, attempting to get back in and control me. It’s certainly the most elaborate, though.”
He just stares me down, way too long, without saying anything. Eventually I shiver and look away, rubbing my arms.
“Can you go now? I’d like to spend the rest of my day off alone,” I say.
“Nursing your hangover and moping, more like,” he says quietly.
“I’m sorry,” I spit out. “Are you my daddy? My manager? My boyfriend?”
His eyes burn into my face, gaze sparking, but he doesn’t react.
“No,” I answer for him. “You’re an employee. You work for me. You said you need this job; prove it by getting the fuck out of my face before I haul off and fire you on day one.”
His lips twist upward.
“Fine,” he says, surprising me by giving up and backing off.
Honestly, Connor doesn’t seem like the kind who ever does either of those things without a fight.
“Good,” I retort, feeling dumb.
“I will be right here at the door,” he says, pointing. As if I’m an idiot who doesn’t know where the door is.
“Outside the door,” I affirm.
“Inside the door.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, standing and gearing up for another argument. Usually I fall all over myself to seem sweet and malleable to strangers, but Connor rubs me the wrong way. I want to annoy him and get under his skin, just the way he’s doing it to me.
“Jump,” he snaps.
My jaw drops. Did he seriously just play that card already?
He did. I want to say, You are really not making your own future life any easier, buddy. But instead I just make a loud arghhhh sound, whirling and storming off toward the bedroom.
There’s just way too much happening right now. So maybe I am hungover. Maybe I will waste a lot of my day drinking Gatorade and pouting while watching Real Housewives of Atlanta.
So what? I’m Elly fucking Parsons, and I do what I want. My tour starts tomorrow. By then I will be rested and hydrated, ready to remind the world that there’s a reason why I’m on top of the game.
I’m going to slay this tour. No one can stop me from being amazing, from rocking my fans’ brains. Not Craig, not my mom. Not even Connor Gray, annoying as he is.
No. No one can hold me back but me, and I’m gonna make damn sure to stay out of my own way and let myself shine.
I flop down on the bed with a grin.
Pep talk accomplished.
Chapter Five
Elly
I sign the last page of the thick sheaf of security contracts with a flourish, then push them away with a sigh. I hand them over to the lawyer who Artisan sent along to notarize and finalize everything, a pretty young brunette. We’ve splayed everything out on the table in front of us.
“I’m pretty sure I signed in all the right places,” I say with a little sigh.
“It all looks good. I just need to stamp it one final time,” she says, pulling out her heavy metal stamp and finishing the job. “All right. I think you’re ready to roll. Thanks for your time, Miss Parsons. Here’s a copy for your records.”
“Thanks,” I say, tossing my copy aside and reaching for the cup of jasmine tea I’ve been sipping.
She smiles and gets up to leave, making eyes at Connor as she goes. He doesn’t exactly flirt with her as he opens the hotel room door to let her out, but I watch a strange look pass between them.
Ugh.
“Nice,” I say once the door is closed behind her. “Very professional.”
“Sorry?” he asks, walking over to the table where I sit. Even the way he walks is ridiculous, like he’s certain that everyone in the world thinks he’s hot shit.
“Nothing,” I say, setting aside my tea. “It’s just, are you going to make eyes at every pretty woman who
crosses your path while we’re on tour?”
The instant smirk on his face makes me wish I hadn’t said anything at all.
“Make eyes, huh?” he says, picking up my copy of the sheaf of papers that I’ve just finished signing. “You sound jealous.”
Yeah, right!
“Hey, hands off,” I say, reaching out and plucking the papers from his hand. “And that’s stupid. I just want my bodyguard to be professional. My tour is going to be packed with gorgeous backup dancers and makeup artists and… I don’t know, lighting engineers. If you’ve been hired to pretend you’re close to me, supposedly to keep me from getting bad press, I want to make sure you’re not going to make me look like an idiot. I’d rather look like someone who needs a bodyguard than a woman who can’t even get her… friends… to respect her.”
Connor snorts a laugh, which makes me flush.
“Nice little speech. You been working on that in your head?”
“No!” Yes, definitely.
“Mmmhm. So… jealous. You don’t want people thinking you can keep the attention of your new boyfriend.”
I cross my arms and make an exasperated sound.
“That is not true.”
“Yeah it is.”
He leans back and crosses his arms, and I get a good up-close look at his tattoos. One arm has an old-fashioned style black and white drawing of a segmented snake that starts at his wrist and climbs up into the sleeve of his t-shirt. The other arm has what appears to be a handful of constellations, loosely gathered around the words ALL IN - ALL THE TIME in thick black ink. The constellations have a certain artful grace, making a lovely contrast with the bold words.
I wonder what that phrase means. A military saying, maybe?
“Appearances are important in my job,” I say, dragging my eyes back up to his face.
He knows I was looking, which makes this all the more difficult.
“Obviously. There were four guys in the final interview for this position. All of them were qualified, all of them smart and experienced and badass. Only one of us got chosen, though, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t because of my personal charm,” he says.