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)
As I walk away, I hear Harley say, “He’s kind of bossy.”
“Pfft, no kind of about it,” Iris retorts.
They really have no idea. This is just the beginning.
Harley clears his throat and stares at me across the dinner table. He arches a perfectly manicured eyebrow, and then he points to his dinner with his fork.
He’s got to be fucking kidding me.
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s in the rules.” His shiny deep blue eyes glimmer at me.
“You cooked this meal. Are you scared you’re gonna poison yourself?” I ask.
This whole list thing is insane, and while he and Iris got the demands down to one page, they kept all the crazy ones.
“Actually, I only cooked the vegetables. The chicken and cream sauce were made by my chef. She freezes meals for me, and who knows, maybe she’s decided to off me.”
I mutter, “For fuck’s sake,” under my breath and reach across the table, stabbing a piece of chicken and shoving it in my mouth. “Happy?”
“Yep. Are you dying yet?”
“How long is this rider bullshit going to last?”
“I’ll take that as a no.” Harley shovels food into his mouth. “What?” It comes out muffled.
“Did Iris put you up to some sort of hazing or …”
He swallows. “I’m trying to make sure I get the most out of this bodyguard thing.”
I don’t buy it, but I also don’t get a chance to question it because the front door opens. I’m out of my seat with my gun drawn in a millisecond.
“Harley?” a sweet voice calls out.
Harley appears at my back. “Calm down, Rambo. It’s Evah.”
The fiancée.
Miss Evah no last name. Like Cher. Or Madonna.
A glamorous woman steps into the room just as I put my gun away.
Long blonde hair curls over her shoulders. She’s in a white shirt, long beige coat, tiny denim shorts, and black stilettos.
As soon as she spots Harley, she ditches her sunglasses, showing warm brown eyes, and then the next second, she flings herself into Harley’s arms.
Of course the pretty pop star has an even prettier woman by his side.
“Fucking storms. I got home as soon as I could.” She sounds so relieved to be held by Harley.
“I’m thankful you got grounded in Kansas.”
She shoves him. “Missed you too, asshole.”
Harley kisses the top of her head. “I mean it in the best possible way. You weren’t here when it all went down. I couldn’t forgive myself if he hurt you because of me.”
“Please, I can handle myself.” Her gaze flits to mine. “Although, if that’s what your new bodyguard looks like, I might regret turning down your offer to hire one for me too.”
I try to hide my smile.
Harley glares at me. “This is Brix. As in dumb as bricks.”
Thanks, Iris, you fucker.
I take her hand. “As in Brixton.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” She blushes sweetly.
“Do you want something to eat?” Harley asks her.
Evah eyes the food on the table and steals a piece of Harley’s broccoli. “Thanks.”
“You have to eat more.”
“My agent says—”
“Your agent is a dickweed, and you don’t need to lose weight.”
She really doesn’t.
Welcome to Hollywood.
“My fragrance launch is in a week. I need to look good for the cameras. Which also means I need my beauty sleep.” She kisses his cheek and turns to me. “Protect him with your life. He’s important to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Evah screws up her face. “Okay, eww, no. Ma’am doesn’t work for me.”
“Sorry. Miss … no last name.”
She smiles. “Evah is fine.”
“Evah,” I repeat.
“Better. Goodnight.”
Now she’s gone again.
Harley goes back to his food, as if he doesn’t care his fiancée is home after they’ve been apart for a week. I’d think he’d be eager to follow her to bed, but nope, he’s sitting at the table, eating, while also shooting daggers my way.
“So, that’s Evah,” I say.
“I wanted extra protection for her too, but she’s even more pigheaded than I am, and that’s saying a lot.”
“From what I read, she’s faced death threats before.”
“Oh, yeah. Big-time. All of them harmless. All women who hated that she was marrying me. Like they had a chance.”
“Egotistical much?”
Harley tilts his head. “How is that egotistical?”
“Saying there’s no way you’d fall for a fan. It’s elitist.”
“Refusing to be with people who want you because of your fame is not elitist. And sure, I suppose there are fans out there who want me for the person they think I am—the one they see in tabloids and at music awards and onstage—but all of us in Eleven worked out fast that people are far more disappointed by the reality.”
“What reality is that?”
“All five of us were manufactured. Our personalities, our images, and our lives. And none of us live up to the perfection our label projects to the public. It’s the price I’ve paid for being a teenage pop star and letting them mold me into someone else for seven years.”