“Come on, think of the possibilities.”
“Why would I ever consider doing a reality TV show? That’s not me, Clark. You know I’m a private person. I don’t even like having my picture taken. What makes you think for a second I’d want a camera in my face twenty-four hours a day?”
“It wouldn’t be like that. You’d be making the rules. You’d only be in front of the camera for the stuff with contestants.”
Staring outside at the pool again, the idea of people discovering my secrets and all the rumors that would spew from the mouths of hungry reporters makes me feel like punching a wall. I’ve fought so hard to protect my past. “No… no way. I’m not doing a fucking dating show.”
Clark rolls his eyes and sits on the corner of my desk. I scowl, and he immediately stands. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”
“I try not to,” I say with a huff, scratching my face and noticing I need a shave. Then again, maybe I’ll grow it out again.
“The show is to find you a new bodyguard, not a woman. Last time I checked you didn’t need any help in that area of your life.”
He’s right about that, although it’s been two months since I’ve been laid. Gazing at the ceiling, I try to remember the last girl and the last city. I’ve had plenty of women throw themselves at me lately, but they’re all the same and it’s getting old. Plus, I’m sick to death of condoms and tests for diseases. Somehow I’ve managed to stay clean, but it’d be nice not to have to worry for once. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me. It never bothered me before. It’s not like I’ve ever been a one-girl guy. I get bored too quickly for that.
“So will you meet with him? Please?” Clark begs.
I sigh and place my feet on the floor, turning my chair to face forward. I shove a pencil into the electric sharpener on the desk. Clark sighs loudly as he waits. Trying not to smile, I allow it to whir an extra bit to annoy him. I know it’s twisted, but I get sick pleasure from agitating him. Maybe it’s because he acts like he’s my father. I didn’t like my first father, why would I want another?
Turning away so he can’t see my paper, I continue sketching him, paying extra attention to his thick brows and the growing crease in his forehead. I smudge the lead in an effort to get the perfect glare from his balding head and grin, knowing I nailed it. Drawing helps me think. Drawing by the water would be even better.
Clark hovers, waiting for a response. After enough quiet time has passed and I sense he’s about to speak again, I ask, “Why is this meeting so important to you?”
His eyebrows furrow again and his head bows down. “We don’t always see eye to eye on things, but after ten years together, I sometimes feel I know you better than you know yourself. You’re a good person, Roman. If people could see the real you, instead of the spoiled idol you portray, they’d realize the media has done you wrong.”
“I don’t care about the media and I have no desire to be a public spectacle. I don’t want people in my business. I keep things hidden for a reason and you know that.”
“I do, and this show would never dive into that aspect of your life. I swear. I would never do that to you.” He stares at me briefly and when I don’t speak, he moves to the side window. I watch him closely. He leans his forearm on the window and presses his forehead against the glass. Something other than my attitude problem is bothering him. It’s different this time. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
“What aren’t you telling me? I thought you said they caught the guy making threats?”
He quickly turns to face me, and his hands fly up as if to calm me somehow. “They did. The police identified him from the security footage outside your dressing room. If you remember, I told you he worked backstage years ago and they think he had a second set of keys made.”
“Yeah, I heard all that. I’m not convinced, and neither is Dawson.”
“They found pics of you and burner phones in his apartment. He admitted to everything. Of course it’s him. It’s an open-and-shut case.”
Rolling my neck, I close my notebook and toss it on the desk. I’m not sure why I’m more uneasy about it now that they claim to have him.
“What’s bothering me most, Roman, is the way people perceive you. The fact is, you need some good press.”
“No, I really don’t.” I laugh, twirling the pencil in my fingers like it’s a drumstick, and I’m about to play something epic. “My real fans know who I am. I don’t care about anyone else’s opinion.” I steal a glance at Clark, and his face is etched with concern. “What? Stop beating around the bush. If you have something to say, say it.”
He sighs and rubs his chin. “I was praying for better news. I hoped the lawyers could work this out, but that photographer you punched last Christmas is suing you.”
“So what?”
“He’s got a good case. You shattered his nose and it supposedly did something to his vision. He’s claiming he can’t take pictures anymore.”
I laugh. “Good. The world needs one less paid stalker.”
“This isn’t your first offense and the lawyers think if the public is on your side, it might help the case.”
I stare at him blankly. “Are you fucking serious? I don’t give a shit what people think of me.”
Clark steps closer. “I know that, but the thing is sales are down, and money is—well, it’s not what it used to be. Your name is synonymous with asshole. The only time you’re ever mentioned is when you do something wrong. We barely got any publicity for the mini-tour and even some of our contacts at radio stations turned down promoting you.”
I sigh and purse my lips. “What does any of that have to do with a reality show?”
“The lawyers think there’s a good chance we’ll lose. The production company is willing to pay you big bucks to do the show. More importantly, if people can get to know the real you—and you practice patience—maybe we’d have a shot at proving this photographer was out of line. That it wasn’t just another temper tantrum by Roman Creed.”
Money is a subject I never joke about. I have responsibilities that require significant funds. When did things get this bad? I had my reasons for getting mad at the photographer. He’d pushed Dawson and got in his face, then mine. He wouldn’t back down. TMZ has shown the clip of me punching him multiple times, but they don’t show the part where he shoves Dawson. There’s even a GIF of it. I was pissed at first, but after a while I realized it was pretty funny in slow motion.
Scrubbing my face, my nose ring shifts and pricks. I straighten it and consider taking it out. Clark sits down in front of me and my thoughts veer back to the matter at hand. I’m too easily distracted.
Constantly being in the public eye sucks ass. I know it’s part of my job, but I hate that I can’t leave my house without being followed. I don’t even remember the last time I drove myself anywhere. I roll the pencil between my hands, thinking of happier times. I can’t afford to lose everything. How would I pay all the bills? My temper has caused me nothing but trouble since I was kid. Now it’s brought on an actual lawsuit.
Leaning back in my chair, I pinch my lips. I get angry too easily. Rage and I are dear old friends and I visit him too often.
Seeing my distraction, Clark continues. “I know it’s not ideal under the circumstances, but they approached us. All you have to do is say yes. The music label has a book, movie, and television sector. Seamore Productions has a lot at stake with you too. After all, they own your record label. They want to do right by you. They don’t want to lose money either. What do you say? Meet with one of the show producers. Listen to his ideas.”
Clark has never seemed so sincere. He may piss me off most days, but I know he cares in his own way. It really doesn’t seem like I have many options at this point.
“Fine. One meeting. But I can’t promise anything.”
Clark smiles, stands, and clasps his hands together in victory. “Good. The producer is waiting outside.”
“What the fuck?
He’s here?”
“I hoped you’d come around. They want to get moving on this ASAP.”
I wave him on. He practically runs out the door and I slouch farther into my seat, staring at the picture on my desk of the life I’d once had and never would again.
The doors open, and I fold the picture frame face down.
“Roman, I’d like to introduce you to one of the top producers for Seamore Productions.”
“Mr. Creed, it’s great to finally meet you. I’m a big fan. Let me introduce myself. My name is Esto Rivera.”
Suspended for three months without pay, pending investigation. Suspended. I slam back a shot of tequila and motion to the bartender to keep them coming. Three months is going to rip a huge hole in my savings. I guess I should be thankful I wasn’t fired on the spot.
I’m so angry with myself for losing my cool. I wish someone would punch me to make me feel better. There’s another part of me that’s sad and wants to cry, but I don’t cry anymore. Crying is for weak pussies, and I’m far from weak.
I pound the next shot and turn the glass over on the bar. The napkin has a small spot of leftover tequila on it and I pull it out from under the glass, playing with it in my hands. It reminds me of the spot of dried blood on the dirty floor that night and the memory of my poor decision comes flooding back.
It must have been a full moon, because all the crazies were out. The department was flooded with calls and that’s why they asked me to make an assist with another officer. It was a domestic. That’s all I knew when I met Officer Vicors at the front door.
“What have we got?” I ask as I approach. “I was finishing up an investigation when I got the call to back you up.” He’s wearing his uniform, and I’m in plain clothes. We’d never met so I figured I should explain.
“A kid called. He or she said they were afraid of the guy in the house. Whoever it was hung up quickly, but we were able to get the address.”
We climb the stairs and Vicors pounds on the door. “Police, open up.”
I swallow hard. In the seven years I’ve been an officer, I’ve managed to avoid domestics involving children. I’ve been to a couple where the parents were fighting, but never where a child was directly involved. I secretly pray it’s a false alarm. Maybe the dad took the Xbox away and the kid was just upset.
A large man with salt-and-pepper hair appears at the door, carrying a beer. He cracks it open and blocks our view inside. “Yeah, what do you want?”
Vicors eyes him and tries to do a quick visual behind him, scanning the house. “We got a call there was a problem at your residence.”
“Probably the TV,” he says, taking a swig of beer.
He obviously doesn’t know the kid called. He must assume it was a neighbor. I study him. Six-foot-one, Caucasian, mid-forties, red plaid, unbuttoned shirt. I notice a bruise on his knuckles.
“Sir, we’re going to need to come inside,” I tell him.
He stares me up and down like he’s deciding whether or not I’m attractive. I purposefully don’t wear makeup on the job for a reason. This isn’t a beauty pageant. I want to be known for my brain.
“There’s nothing for you to see here, little lady.” He starts closing the door and Officer Vicors sticks his club in between the door and the frame to stop him. “We received a call, and we need to check it out. Now either you let us in of your own free will, or we force our way in. Either way, we’re coming inside.”
He glances back and forth between us and releases his grip on the door. “Suit yourself. You’re wasting your time.”
As we enter, I note details: unkept house, wrappers and garbage piled up on the floor. In the kitchen, piles of dishes crowd the countertops. I see something scurry across the floor. I assume it’s a mouse. It’s a nice neighborhood. You wouldn’t expect this kind of crap from the outside.
The man plops down on the couch and takes another swig from his beer bottle. “Like I said, nothing to see.”
“Any kids the house?” I ask.
“Nope. No kids here,” he responds, focused on the TV.
“Mind if we take a look around?” Vicors asks.
“Go ahead. You won’t find anything.”
Vicors and I walk the house. There are three bedrooms but no sign of children. There aren’t any toys of any kind in any of the bedrooms. We open closets and look under beds. Nothing, not even children’s clothes. Vicors shrugs and I place my hands on my hips. I glance in the hall bathroom and check the toothbrushes. Three of them—all the same size.
I walk back into the main room. “Who lives here with you?”
“What’s it to you, babe?”
I take a step toward him. “I said, who else lives here?”
“My girlfriend and her brother. They’re not home, as you can see,” he says sarcastically.
Vicors leans into me, whispering, “What do you want to do?”
I don’t make eye contact with Vicors. I can’t take my eyes off the man on the couch, who’s currently drumming his fingers on the arm. Is he nervous? I stare at the bruise on his hand. My skin crawls, and I know I’m not finished.
Once I’m back in the kitchen, I check the cabinets under the sink and stare at the fridge. No pictures on the door. As a matter of fact, there aren’t any pictures in the whole house. I’m about to turn to leave when something catches my eye. The floors are filthy, but there’s an oddly colored spot on the floor. Bending down, I shine my flashlight on it.
A few feet later, there’s another. They lead to a door on the back wall I hadn’t noticed before. It’s missing a handle. “Stay here and watch him,” I tell Vicors, motioning toward the other room. He nods in response.
Cautiously, I quietly open the door to the basement. There isn’t a light switch, so I use my flashlight. I descend the stairs, one hand on my weapon.
The basement is much like the upstairs, dirty and disorganized. I follow the drops of what I think are dried blood down the stairs to an oversized cardboard box on its side by the back wall.
Moving around, I shine my flashlight into the box and gasp. My hand leaves my weapon as I bend down. Crouched in the back of the box is a small child with dirty, ratted hair. A streak of blood is rolling down his cheek.
“Hi, my name is Reed. I’m a police officer. Did you call us?” I ask softly.
“Youz don’t look like an officer. You’re a girl.”
“I am a girl, but I’m an officer too. Want to see my badge?”
The child nods and I reach into my back pocket and hold it out. “What’s your name?” I ask as bright eyes gaze at the badge and then up at me.
“Misty,” she says softly. “How come you’re not wearing a uniform if you’re the police?”
“I’m a detective so I don’t have to anymore. Do you think you could come out so we can talk?”
She shakes her head. “Mister said I need to be quiet and stay hidden or he’d hurt me again. He’s real mad.”
“Did you call us?”
She presses her lips together. As much as I want to look her over more closely, I also don’t want to shine the flashlight in her eyes.
“Are you bleeding?” I ask.
She nods and sniffles. She lightly touches the top of her head, then her hands trail down defensively to her belly. I move my flashlight over her when she’s not looking at me. She’s wearing a nightshirt and her skin is dirty.
“Can you tell me where it hurts, so I can make it better?”
The tears flow as she points to her head first, then below her waist. I swallow hard. “Misty, I’m going to need you to take my hand and come out of the box. Do you think you can do that?”
“He said I can’t.”
“Well, I’m in charge now, and I say you can. He’s not going to hurt you. Okay?”
Her eyes meet mine. They’re almost catlike in the dark and my stomach churns, remembering my scared little kitten. I reach out to her and she takes my hand, moving slowly to stand. “That’s perfect, Misty. Thank you. Is �
�mister’ your daddy?”
“Nuh-uh. Mommy won’t let me see my real daddy. She said he doesn’t want me anymore.”
A tear trickles from her eye and mixes with the blood on her face. It stirs a memory I thought I’d forgotten. “Misty, did Mister hit you?”
She nods. “It hurts real bad.”
“Did he do anything besides hit you?”
Her head drops, and she doesn’t answer. I’ve heard enough to know she’s not staying here. “Is it okay if I pick you up?”
She nods, and I lift her in my arms and hold her. She throws her arms around my neck and grips me fiercely. It breaks my heart. “I’m going to take you out of here and right to my car, okay? But you need to be very quiet. Can you do that?”
I feel her nod as I ascend the stairs. Vicors’ eyes bulge when he sees me. I whisper, “Call for backup now. Wait to go to him until I’ve got her in the car and return.”
He speaks in code into the radio. I leave by the back door, go to the car, and place her on a blanket inside. “You’ll be safe here, okay?”
She won’t let go of my neck.
“The doors are locked, and no one can open them but me. You need to let go. I promise I’ll be right back. You’re safe now.”
She refuses to let go and I don’t know what to do. Within moments, backup arrives. A female officer introduces herself to Misty and offers her a stuffed animal. She finally lets go of me to take it. I tell them to stay with Misty and watch the front door. Carefully stepping to the rear of the house, I re-enter and nod to Vicors. We pull our weapons and round the corner to confront who I now know as Mister. “Put your hands up!”
He bares his teeth. His legs open wide, and he laughs. There’s something about it that sets my skin on fire.
“I said, put your hands up!” I shout.
He cringes and grips the bottle more tightly in his hand. Within seconds, he throws the beer bottle at us, striking Vicors in the shoulder and lunges toward the door. I tackle him to the ground and Vicors follows. Mister struggles, but I’m stronger than I look. Vicors and I restrain him and Vicors cuffs his hands behind his back.
The Praetorian Page 2