A day and a half of that spark of hope. She’d take it, even if she wasn’t sure it would be enough. “I still reserve the right to fire you.”
He shrugged, his eyes calm, deep pools of understanding as he looked right at her. “We’ll fight over that when the time comes.”
— —
As soon asshe’d agreed to give him a chance, he pulled out a small notebook and started asking her detailed, focused questions that quickly proved he had a better-than-decent understanding of large event security and managing VIP personalities. He asked her about her band—her lead guitarist, Jackie Billings, West Jackson on drums, and her bass player, Andrew Yoast—which was just the start of an easy warm-up conversation. The guy had pretty slick interviewing skills.
“Take me through a typical performance day,” he asked.
“We’re often on the road for the first half of the morning. Depends how far apart the shows are. I try to write every day, just a little bit. Lyric ideas, maybe pulling one or more of my band members in for a bit of work. But the time on the bus is really our down time, other than catching up on social media.”
“And when you get to a concert venue?”
“Almost always there are local radio station winners, and sometimes an in-person media event. But I’m more likely to do the call-ahead interview from the bus, talk to the morning show in the town where we’re headed.”
“Ever have anyone demand too much of your time? Get too close?”
“Not really. The tour manager and roadies are pretty good about that. There’s always on-site security, too.”
“I’ll want to connect with them at each stop.”
She frowned. Was that really necessary? But she didn’t question him out loud. Hope wanted her to play along.
He tapped his notebook. “Look, I know you don't really need a bodyguard.” He was a mind-reader. “But you’re stressed about something, and maybe having me run interference on some of that stuff—or even just fetching you coffee—can help with that. So I’m going to go through the motions, just in case it makes a difference.”
“Fair enough.”
“And when it comes to Track…”
She made a face.
“At some point, I’ll want to know more specifics about how he gets under your skin.” He looked at her carefully, examining her reaction as he spoke. “It doesn’t need to be today.”
“I’m not going to like talking about that at any point. Might as well rip the band-aid off now.”
“Sure. Your call. And you can stop, change the subject, whatever.”
“Part of it is about the music I play. That’s what probably freaked me out the other night. I switched up the playlist and added a song he’d tried to get taken off my last record. And we argued, which isn’t new…”
When she didn’t continue, he said softly, “I think that’s the thing about triggers. They’re often weird and unexpected.”
She scrunched up her face. “Yeah. Unexpected. It was that.”
“What song did you argue about?” He looked down at the notepad, and she was grateful for the bit of privacy as she talked.
“It’s called ‘Cravings’. It’s a darker, earthier song than my earlier stuff.”
His pen paused for a minute, then he kept chicken scratching away.
She hesitated. “What I’m about to tell you can never leave this room.”
He jerked his head up, frowning at her. “Of course.”
The instant trust she felt for this man was probably misplaced. She didn’t know him. The last man she’d trusted had turned out to be a bully of the worst sort.
“Let’s come back to that,” he said when her silence stretched on. He turned over a page in his notebook. “I was just asking so I’d have some context should it happen again.”
She shook her head. She could do this. “There’s a song called ‘Forget Me Not’ on my second album. I hate it. It’s a stupid, insipid, gross song about a woman waiting for a philandering man, and I regret that it’s on my album.” The truth burst out of her, leaving her shaking.
