Page 11 of Unguarded

His jaw clenches, like he wants to say more but is holdingback. His dark emerald eyes stay locked on mine for a few seconds before we both look away. The contrast of his eyes against his tanned skin and black hair is stunning.

Harold pulls up to the Chateau hotel, where paparazzi are gathered.

“Fuck. Is there another entrance?” Cash grumbles.

I laugh, pulling a thick pair of black sunglasses out of my purse. “It’s always like this. I’m surprised it took them this long to find me.”

He groans, reaching for the handle of the SUV. I don the glasses and crawl out behind him. He stays close to me as I walk through the crowd with my head tilted down, cameras flashing.

“Monroe, are you ready for the tour? When do you leave?”

“Monroe! How do you feel about your boyfriend being photographed out with his costar last night?”

I drown out the voices and camera clicks. Once we reach the automatic doors, the crowd stays back. Hotel staff rushes to meet me with wide eyes.

“Hello, Miss Blue. Welcome back. Do you need anything before going to your room?” The clerk blinks at me, his blue eyes wide and sparked with excitement.

He steps too close to me for comfort, and I feel Cash’s warmth behind me grow closer until his chest is nearly brushing my upper back.

The manager—a tall, thin woman with a black bob—approaches on his heels with a grim expression. “Thank you, Jones.” She ushers him away. “Miss Blue, if you need anything, please let us know. We have increased security foryour stay, and police are on their way to scatter the loitering photographers out front.”

I nod my thanks, too exhausted for anything else, before heading straight for the elevator, where the other two bodyguards finally catch up to us. Cash pushes the button for the top floor.

I contemplate why I feel so much safer around him than I do with my security detail. They’re supposed to be the best. Sun Records insists on using them, reassuring me repeatedly that they’re stepping up and filling in the holes, but due to my rapidly growing level of fame, they can never be one hundred percent free of incidents.

With the rising use of social media and the very real parasocial relationship that many fans have, being stalked and obsessed over are becoming more and more common for celebrities.

The elevator rises into the sky with all four of us in tense silence. I haven’t seen any of the other bodyguards speak or interact with Cash. When we reach my floor, he steps out first, nodding to me that the coast is clear. He moves like someone with military training, like he’s always coiled for an attack.

When I make it to the suite, Ember is inside, talking on the phone and typing on her computer. I have a team that handles my career, but Fidel manages all of them. He’s sitting at the desk, twirling a pen around on the wooden top, staring out the window.

He was the one who discovered my talent for singing and piano playing when I was fourteen, performing at a small-town festival. He was visiting his ailing mother, who lived in my hometown.

My mother jumped at the chance for me to go to Hollywood. I got my face from her and my musical talent from my father. According to Mother dearest, if she hadn’t gotten knocked up at fifteen and if my father hadn’t been an addict, they would have both been famous.

She didn’t hesitate to send me off with Fidel because she wanted some of her independence back. She was only twenty-nine years old and hadn’t ever gotten to experience life as an adult without a child in tow. I inherited my fierce independent streak from her. She was surprised when I called her to tell her about my first single being released. She never actually believed I would succeed in Hollywood.

Fidel slowly became a father figure to me in the following years.

“Yes, she’s ready to go. Everything is set up for the first night in Seoul. She’ll have three days to acclimate, do sound checks, and get ready before the first night kicks off.” Ember turns to face me, holding a hand up in an absentminded wave.

Fidel stands, offering a half smile at me. “How was your workout, mija?”

I did a quick set with Marty at my home gym—the last one we’d have for a while. Being in physical shape for my tour is imperative—not just because of the cameras on every angle of my body, but because performing onstage in front of hundreds of thousands of people for three hours is hard work.

I nod. “It was good. We need to talk.”

I glance at Cash. His eyes are carefully sweeping the area on the streets below. I turn back to the other two bodyguards. I don’t even know their names. Brooks has been on vacation.

“Can you give us a minute?” I look at Cash. “Please stay.”

The others nod, exiting the room. The door clicks shut behind them. I exhale a deep breath before facing Fidel. It’s high time I did this, and I don’t know what’s held me back for so long.

“I want to hire a new security company. Someone on my own, not affiliated with the label.” It’s on the tip of my tongue that I want to task Cash with finding them, vetting them, and ensuring that they’re actually capable of the work, but I hold back.

My relationship with Fidel has been strained lately, due to the stress of tour preparations, combined with me flat-out refusing to go if I didn’t get Cash on board. Now that he’s here, I feel marginally better, but he’s most likely dipping out after my first two weeks on the road.

Fidel nods, squinting at me. “It’s short notice. I’m not sure who would be able to accommodate your tour needs at this point.”

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