I sigh, the words muscle memory more than anything I consciously believe. “You, Edwin. Always you.”
“Don’t forget it.” He pauses, eyes drilling into me. “Because without me, this business would eat you alive.”
“I know,” I say, only half-listening. We’ve had this conversation so many times, I could deliver it in my sleep. Only something about it is more urgent tonight.
“I mean, just your recent weight gain alone, Mia. You’re no easy cookie to manage.”
“Hey—” I start.
“He’s not wrong,” Lawrence butts in, my PR manager. His eyes sweep up and down my scantily clad frame for one long, devastating moment. “Some things you can’t cover with makeup.”
I bite my bottom lip until I taste it—salty and metallic, the edge of my reason.
“Just remember,” Edwin says, the creases in his forehead deepening, “every place I’ve given you autonomy, your life’s a fucking mess. Expanding freedom, expanding waistline.”
“You sure know how to give a pre-concert pep talk.”
His smile is colder than a glacier. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
An hour into the concert,my halter top clings to my ribs, sticky with sweat. Perspiration pours from my bandmates, and my backup dancers look like they’re in the middle of a wet T-shirt contest.
“Gotta hand it to y’all,” I say into the mic to a deafening roar of applause, “You sure know how to do hot down here. Big and bold, like everything about this state. Ready for an oldie but a goodie?”
Behind me, the band cuts into the opening strains ofHello, Sunflower. Screams fill the air, piercing, deafening. Diehard fans stand out, faces red and glistening with enthusiasm.
My eyes dart to the left-hand side of the stage where the man with black hair stands—still. Watchful. Unmoving in a way that feels deliberate.
I grip the microphone, launching into the opening verse, and the crowd sings along. An anthem to anyone who’s ever felt lonely, like they don’t fit in. An anthem to kids who grew up too fast and lived too hard.
My mind goes blank, like it always does. It’s the only way I get through the same performances again and again. Different cities, different time zones, always the same crowds demanding everything from me—far more than I have to give.
In the center of the crowd, working his way to the front. I catch sight of a lone man parting the crowd. His face is dark—shadowed in a way that goes beyond lighting—his eyes intent and intense. I watch him snaking through, people pulling back. The air feels electric. Gasps shiver through the crowd. Like everyone’s collectively holding and releasing their breath.
Then, a scream. One piercing sound, though my eyes never break from the man now at the front of the stage. It all happens so quickly my brain can’t catch up. A sudden movement. A flash of steel.
A hard body crashes into me, and I hit the stage hard, music still thumping, crowd yelling—not in adoration but panic.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
A concussive sound shreds the air, muted by the heavy body covering mine.
“You okay?” A deep voice growls.
I stare into dark eyes. “Y-y-yes.”
The gaze narrows, hand coming to the wire in his ear, listening. “Asset secure. Awaiting extraction.”
I can barely breathe, body buried beneath the weight of the cowboy bodyguard. Voices shrill, the music dead now, but the sound of gunfire still piercing the air.
Each burst sends another tremble through my core.
“You able to move?” the man asks.
I nod, bottom lip trembling, tongue frozen.
“Copy,” he says to whatever voice is behind the wire.
Suddenly, he jumps to his feet, pulling me with him. “Move, move, move.”
