Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I laughed. “That seems like more than ‘a bit.’”
“She needs you, Xander. Paparazzi follow her and bang on her car windows. Weirdos go through her trash. She just got back from a sold-out tour where she was mobbed wherever she went.”
I frowned. “Didn’t she have security?”
“She did, but they were a bunch of clowns hired by the label. At least one of them was selling information to photographers—what hotel she was staying at, when she’d be coming and going, where and when she had restaurant reservations, where she was shopping.”
“Assholes,” I muttered.
“They were all fired, but one of them is threatening to sue her. She’s also got a dickhead ex-boyfriend who still thinks he owns her.”
My hackles went up. “Who is he?”
“Duke Pruitt.”
“That guy?” I could feel my face prune up like I’d smelled something bad. “His music sucks.”
“I’m not a fan.”
“Is he harassing her?”
“She says it’s nothing she can’t handle, but the guy’s a dick. I don’t trust him. He treated her like shit for years, and now that she finally left him for good, he wants her back.”
“Maybe now isn’t the best time for a vacation,” I suggested.
“We’ve told her that, but she insists she’s fine, even though she’s five-foot-nothing and has zero self-defense skills, besides a loud voice. And the way she posts on social media all the time, I feel like people are going to figure out where she is.”
I exhaled. “She should stay off social media.”
“She claims that’s impossible and unnecessary.”
Of course she did. Because she was a celebrity who knew everything. “Does she at least have security cameras at this vacation house?”
“Apparently not.”
I exhaled again. Louder this time.
“Look, I know this is a lot to ask. If I was in the states, I’d go with her. But I’m deployed—about to go off the grid—and my gut is telling me it’s a bad idea for her to be up there alone. I trust my gut. You would too, if it was your sister.”
“You’re right. I would.”
“You’re the only one I’d trust with her safety. Will you do it?”
Of course I would. Even if this gig was a total pain in the ass, I owed Sully my life. And his trust meant a lot to me. “I’ll do it.”
“Great.” He sounded relieved. “I’m sure the place she rented is nice. We were raised poor, but she’s got champagne tastes now. And you will be well compensated.”
“Fuck off. You know I won’t take your money.”
He laughed. “You might want to meet her before you refuse compensation. She’s sweet, but she’s got some sass to her.”
“Sounds like my little sister, Mabel.”
“It’s nothing you can’t handle. No matter what she says, just don’t let her fire you.”
“When do you need me there?”
“She arrives Thursday.”
“As in tomorrow?”
“Yeah—sorry about the late notice.”
Fuck. This gave me less than twenty-four hours to prepare. “Text me the location.”
“I will.” He paused. “Keep her safe, brother.”
With one last deep breath, I resigned myself to two weeks of babysitting a stubborn celebrity who didn’t want me around. “I will,” I promised. “You have my word.”
Later that night, I drove over to my brother Austin’s house. I found him in the garage, which functioned as his workshop. By day, he worked side by side with our dad running Two Buckleys Home Improvement, but recently he’d announced he wanted to leave that behind and start his own company making furniture out of reclaimed wood.
It had taken him forever to work up the nerve to tell our dad that’s what he wanted, and even though I’d given him endless shit about that (what are siblings for?), I understood why he’d felt such loyalty to our father. Our mom had died when we were kids, and our dad had raised the five of us entirely on his own. Well, not entirely—Austin, who’d only been twelve when we lost our mother, had stepped up in ways no seventh grader should have to. I’d only been one year behind him, but he’d always seemed ten years more mature. While I spent my high school years chasing down girls and athletic records in cross country and swimming and track and field, he spent his working for our dad and helping out with the younger kids. He also kicked my ass regularly, probably because he had no other outlet.
I didn’t mind. I liked a good scrap.
But that motherfucker was so talented. He could take a beat-up barn door and turn it into something so beautiful, you wanted to eat off it. I’d conned him into crafting a bar for Buckley’s Pub by betting him he wouldn’t be able to keep his pants zipped around the nanny he hired for the summer—he hadn’t even lasted two weeks.
That bar was fucking art.
“Hey.” I helped myself to a beer from his fridge and perched on the edge of his tool bench.