Hendrix looked between them, his eyes getting bigger, then he glanced at Blade. “Have you got a clue what the fuck they’re talkin’ about?”
“They lost me at Backroad Boys,” Blade said dryly.
“It’s BackstreetBoys,” Trick corrected.
Our VP waved an uncaring hand. “What the fuck ever. I’m not a teenage girl like you princesses. The names of boy bands don’t concern me. What concerns me is the job at hand and the fact your prez is tryin’ to tell us about one, but he can’t”—his voice raised to a yell—“because you bunch of little pussies are so busy wetting your day-of-the-week panties over the Backroad Boysthat you won’t let him fucking talk!”
Silence fell over the room, and Blade turned to Prez. “The floor’s yours, boss.”
Hendrix’s lips twitched. “Much obliged.” He picked up the iPad on the table and tapped on it, pausing when the massive surround screens on the walls came to life with images, and the wail of guitars filled the room.
My stare locked on an image of Saint McClure, and every muscle froze as I studied the face that haunted me.
As much as the bitch seemed to be everywhere, I always refused to take notice. When her song came on the radio, I either switched it off or turned my mind to something else. When images of her and her band came on TV, I switched the channel, and if I turned the page of a magazine to see her there, I flipped it again as fast as I could.
What I didn’t do was look. Not ever, because studying Saint’s beautiful face or her pure, blue eyes would be like admitting she existed for me, something she ceased to do the instant she ghosted my ass... mostly.
But being forced to study her now, it became clear how different she looked.
Her blonde hair had been dyed black and was gleaming under the lights. I had to admit, it looked good. She’d lost weight; the curves I loved so much were still there, but pared down. Saint was still gorgeous, albeit more polished and rock star-looking, but her eyes seemed weary, as if she was tired of the world and everything it had to offer.
My heart went out to her because after seeing the life behind her eyes on the night we spent together, it hit me how dead they’d become. As much as I shouldn’t have cared, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering why I felt a pang of concern.
Seeing Saint’s face so big on the screens had transported me somewhere else, so when Hendrix spoke, I jumped, slightly startled as his voice brought me back into the room.
“Saint McClure, lead singer and frontwoman of the band Saint’s Rapture, hit the big time about a year ago with their song, “Empty.” All’s been going well until recently, when she started getting letters and gifts that stood out to the team who sorted the band’s fan mail. They kept on keeping on until a few weeks ago when the letters and gifts started getting delivered to Saint’s house”—he paused, his eyes sliding to me—“by hand.”
Bile rose through my throat.
“Their management has reached out to see if we can assist with the band's personal protection,” he continued. “They’re starting a contract with another company based in LA, but the firm can’t start the contract for a few months. That’s where we come in.”His eyes swept around the room but avoided me. “Trick, you’re up alongside Ghost. Between the two of you, you’ve got the boys.”
Hendrix’s stare finally met mine, and I braced for what was to come. Sitting up straighter, I squared my shoulders, waiting for my name to be called, but instead, Prez announced. “Gambit. You’re on twenty-four-seven watch with Saint.”
My body jerked.
“You fly out to LA tomorrow, and you’ll be there a while, so pack cases, not bags. You need to take suits with you as well as jeans. If you need your wardrobes replenished, you can do it in LA and put it on expenses. The band’s in rehearsals, putting the finishing touches into writing their new album. As soon as that’s done, they’re heading to New York to record it, and you’ll be goin’ with ‘em.”
Staring at my prez, I felt my lip curl.
What the fuck was he playing at?
“I’ll brief you all later, but for now, you can start packing. I’ll see you all in my office at 16:00 hours for a meeting. Remember, this job is professional. You may be looking after a rock band, but that doesn’t mean you can party like one. Got it?”
Murmurs of agreement went up.
Hendrix picked up the gavel and banged it into the sound block. “We’ll discuss plans later. Want you to go get your shit packed and do what you need to do before you leave. Iceman, you stay behind.”
My jaw clenched, and I jerked a nod, ignoring the curious looks the other guys threw my way as they exited Church.
It must’ve seemed weird to them. I was the officer in charge of close personal protection, and I wasn’t going with them to protect Saint’s Rapture. Not only was it odd, but it was also unheard of, seeing as I was always the first one up when it came to CPP.
The instant the door clicked shut, I looked at Hendrix pointedly.
“You’re too close,” he declared.
“You’re wrong,” I argued. “It was one night, and I wasn’t her CPP. Didn’t even know who she was then. If I’d known she was in the band, I never would’ve gone there.”
“I’m trying to save you from the hassle,” Hendrix explained.
