“Your room, princess.” He steps back when I reach the doorway and presses my bag into my arms. “Uh uh. Tour is tomorrow. Tonight you sleep here.” A crooked grin decorates his rough jawed face. Sharp eyes stare down at me, unflinching.
“And my request?” I can be just as demanding, but tonight, I play the sweet guest.
For now.
Drake’s arched lips press together, though I'm unsure if he’s holding back laughter or an insult. “A kiss from me is earned, Cha Cha. Enjoy the rest of your night alone.”
He waits until I go back into the room, never breaking eye contact until the door closes softly between us.
Maybe Drake Bodyguard will be more fun than the others to play with. Maybe he’ll last longer than usual. And I really do need to learn his last name.
But later. Tonight, he’s right. I need to sleep before the sun starts to rise.
Tomorrow, I have a bodyguard to seduce.
CHAPTER FOUR
DRAKE
Cha Cha Min has no idea of how much danger she’s in because her fucking management team never told her.
I scrunch the letters that Shayne shoved into my hand as we departed the stadium and wish I could turn them into stalker confetti. If we’re less than lucky, Cha Cha’s problem will develop from a stalker into something else. The letters have all the markers of a darker mind. Not just in the delivery, but the way her hate mail is structured. And fromwho. One person, specifically.
Cha Cha has many admirers, her fans who roam across the globe. Even the letters in my hand bear five different names I can research, though if I do, I'll only find three.
One is a copycat. One is obsessed.
And one is both.
Two are harmless, to my eyes. But the one that sticks out, the copycat that’s not a copycat at all, presents the greatest danger to my new client.
I cast aside the letters that detail both sexual fantasies that curdle my stomach despite not having eaten for hours.
I want to fuck you until your insides are on the outsides.
I’ll saw your tits off and keep them as trophies for my collection.
Your next show will be your last. I’m coming for you, bitch.
Those are standard. Two different voices written in two different hands. Neither of them worry me, especially not that last, even the more creative threats. But when it comes to Cha Cha, the concept of anyone touching her, even with their minds or twisted fantasies that will never be realized laid out on a piece of paper, leaves me close to shaking.
Perhaps getting so close was a mistake.
Tossing the rest of the letters aside, I focus on the one that bothers me most. Like the first few, it holds threats, personal details that could be generic—garnered from any press release or virtual tour of her dressing rooms or tour. But it’s the tone and verbiage that slices through me.
You sang pretty tonight, Miss Cha Cha. Such a sweet voice. Soft clothes for softer skin.
Skin that will part for my knife so easily. You sing for them but I heard you. Screaming in the silence between moments of their applause.
Only I understand your voice, your greatest fan. A sasaeng of your own. I will bring you silence. Soon your screaming will stop. You’ll be pretty again.
Sing for me, so I can make it stop.
Scream for me, Cha Cha.
The barb about silence and screaming settles in my chest like wire twisting about my heart. Whoever wrote this both adores and hates her at once. The letter was handwritten, then copied, as though the sender couldn’t bear to part with the original.
Crazy fucker.
