Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 103008 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103008 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Griffin,” I snap.
He knows I’m serious when I use his last name. “I wasn’t flirting. I was getting to know the guy. If I have to spend my next twenty-six Sundays with him, I figure I should get to know what type of guy he is and find out if there’s a chance he’ll sneak out one night and do something stupid that’ll get him killed and us fired. Does he want bodyguards to begin with? Clear answer on that is no. He feels like he needs them. The poor guy never goes out and never has fun. He only has his work. So yeah, while you might be jealous of us having a laugh together—”
“I’m not jealous. I’m being professional.”
“Right. Like you can’t say he’s not the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.”
“Not my type.” At all.
“Uh-huh. Pretty sure anything with a pulse would be your type at this point. The last time you took someone home was …” He tries to recount the last time I hooked up with someone when the team went out. He’ll be at it a while.
“What would you know? I might hook up all the time.” Yeah, I don’t, but fuck him for trying to turn this around on me. “All I’m saying is, you should keep your distance.”
“And all I’m saying is, you shouldn’t. We’re not used to this kind of job, but I’m treating it like I would any other, and the only way to do a job correctly is to get as much intel on your target as possible.”
“Harley Valentine isn’t our target. His stalkers are.”
“S-stalkers?” Harley’s voice is quiet as he stands in the entryway to the kitchen.
I spin. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough. What’s this about stalkers? Plural?”
“Wrong choice of words. I mean your fans in general. From your file, it’s not the first time one has crossed a line. That’s why we’re here.”
Harley’s chin juts out. “Well, in that case. Here are some things you’re expected to do that weren’t in my file.”
“What is that?”
He hands me three sheets of paper with a list of ridiculous requests on it. “Think of it as a rider. Us musicians have them for everywhere we go.”
I glance at Iris, who stares like it’s no big deal, but he’s not the one who’s going to have to do these ridiculous things on a daily basis.
“Bodyguards must taste Mr. Valentine’s food and any beverages before him in case of poisoning or spiking or drugging.” I turn to Harley. “Have you ever been drugged before?”
“Nope, but until a few days ago, no one had ever broken into my house before either. I’m Boy Scouting it from now on. Be prepared for everything.”
“Bodyguards must walk into a room and shout ‘All clear’ like they do in TV and movies when it’s empty. Guns don’t have to be drawn but are appreciated.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing that.”
“It’s the request of your client.” Iris is trying not to laugh.
“Bodyguards are responsible for Mr. Valentine’s fun-o-meter, and as such, they cannot let it fall below the level of enjoyment that a video of someone getting kicked in the nuts can bring.” My gaze shoots between Harley and Iris. “Did you guys get high while I was gone?”
“Ooh, no, but we should add that to the list,” Harley says. “I’ve never been high. We should do that. But, like, weed high. Not high high. And, you know, where one of you can look after me in case I think a demon is chasing me. Wait, does weed cause hallucinations?”
I blink at him. “You … You’ve never … You’re a famous pop star. How have you never been high before?”
“Why is that so surprising? I was in a boy band for seven years where we had handlers who basically made sure we never did drugs or anything stupid that would ruin our good-boy reputations, and since we broke up, I’ve been working nonstop. When would I have had the opportunity to get high?”
“I could think of a million times. Backstage with friends before or after a show—”
“The only people allowed backstage with me are my manager and assistant. Next.”
“At home?”
“By myself? That’s sad.”
No, what’s sad is that a twenty-six-year-old man has never smoked a joint before.
“Might be sad, but you won’t be doing it on my time either.”
“Why not? You just said—”
“It’s our job to protect you. Not … supply you with drugs.”
“Weed is legal in California, you know.”
“Still not doing it. Beg this one on my day off.” I point to Iris.
“I’ll gladly corrupt a sheltered pop star.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I ask. “I’m gonna go get my stuff out of the car.” I throw the papers on the counter. “Cut these stupid rules down to one page, and I’ll consider doing them.”