Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
It had been almost a week and the cops still hadn’t caught the asshole who was after Lofton. I’d been checking in daily, waiting and hoping for them to at the very least sniff out a lead. But so far, they had come up dry at every turn. They had a laundry list of people they’d cleared, everyone from her ex-husband who had been in Tokyo all month all the way to an old acting coach who’d once made a pass at her. So far, LAPD’s best guess was that it had to be someone she didn’t know—which, you know, really helped narrow it down to the other eight billion people on Earth.
Sweat dripped down my forehead as my attention lingered far too long on the empty black box in the lower left corner of the screen. It was the camera in Lofton’s room that we’d disabled before she’d even stepped through the front door.
She hadn’t left her room again since our encounter in the kitchen two days prior. Which, honestly, I thought had gone pretty fucking well, until she turned into the ice queen and ordered me around like I was her assistant’s high school intern.
Yeah, I managed to find a place to deliver her precious coffee and egg-white omelet. And when I’d taken her lunch some hours later, I’d thrown it away—completely untouched—too.
The self-absorbed princess bit was nothing new in my line of work, though the total isolation, ignoring basic hygiene, and refusal to eat was definitely something I’d never experienced before.
Trauma affected everyone differently, but with Leo in Tennessee helping Apollo, Johnson holding down the fort at Guardian by flying back and forth to Chicago multiple times throughout the week, I was the only one left to decipher if this was normal, or if it was time to sound the alarms.
I was a damn bodyguard, not a shrink. I wasn’t qualified to make that kind of call.
I’d spoken to her agent. She told me to give her space.
I’d spoken to her manager. She told me to keep a close eye on her.
Just that morning, I’d gone so far as to reach out to my biggest fan, Brooke Callahan, to see what she suggested. She’d let out a string of curse words and then said she’d call me back.
It had been nearly two hours since that call when my phone finally rang.
I cut the treadmill off and stepped off, using the hem of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face before putting the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”
“We have a problem!” Brooke shouted.
My whole body went on alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Um, well. I got her out of bed. I stayed on the phone while she showered, and then we chatted while she did her hair and makeup.”
I searched the cameras, not so much as a light breeze happening outside. “Get to the fucking point.”
“I asked her if she wanted to watch the stream of Marty’s funeral with me and well, she—”
I was positive she kept talking; it was just that my brain no longer needed the explanation as I caught sight of Lofton emerging from her bedroom in the hallway camera.
It wasn’t the girl next door I’d met at the hotel.
Or the frail, disheveled woman I’d interacted with in the kitchen.
This was Lofton Beck, Hollywood’s hottest leading lady, full hair, makeup, and wardrobe, phone in hand, headed the wrong fucking way.
“Fuck,” I boomed. Ending the call, I tucked my phone into my pocket and then climbed the stairs three at a time to the main level, reaching her just before she made it to the front door.
I opened my mouth to speak, a whole lot of “where the fuck do you think you’re going” poised on the tip of my tongue. Leo’s warning flashed in my mind before my attitude could escape.
“Hey,” I called. “What’s up? You need something?”
In a pair of black slacks and an off-the-shoulder black top that hung on her thin frame, she lifted her chin and stated, “I’m going to Marty’s funeral.”
No, the fuck you aren’t.
I let out a low whistle. “Unfortunately, that’s not an option given your current situation.”
She shrugged. “Unfortunately, I’m going anyway.”
Reaching for the doorknob, she tried to step around me.
I blocked her path. “It’s not safe.”
“I don’t care.” She tried to fake me out with the old juke-and-spin maneuver. I easily blocked her, only for her to try it again in the opposite direction. When that also failed, she put both hands on my shoulder and gave me a hard shove. I didn’t even rock to the side, but she bounced off me as though I had shoved her.
Honestly, the entire scene would have been comical if it wasn’t so damn infuriating.
“You need to chill,” I rumbled, quickly losing my patience.
“Move!” She rammed me with her shoulder like I was a tackling dummy she could force downfield.