Page 2 of Unguarded

“We need to get you to a safe place,” a man with a clear-wired headset pinned to his shirt says to her, eyeing me suspiciously.

She blinks at me, clutching my shirt closer around her shoulders as a chill runs over my exposed arms and chest. “Of course. I just … I just wanted to say thank you.”

I tip my hat at her again. “No thanks needed, ma’am.”

Her depthless eyes don’t leave mine until her team shuffles her away, toward the back of the stage.

The next thing I know, the sheriff cuffs me, reading out my Miranda rights. I roll my eyes, remaining silent.

Fucking Dixons.

Ever since my father stole his girl thirty years ago, Mayor Dixon has hated our family. The local law enforcement are pawns in his pocket, meaning, even when we’re the good guys, like tonight, we go through the wringer to prove it. My older brother killing the mayor’s brother didn’t help the feud much.

After several hours of questioning, being shipped off to jail, and refusing to speak until my lawyer arrived, they finally let me go with a parting gift—a beating in the back of the cell block to remember the trip by. It’s our local sheriff’s favorite way of delivering a merciful “warning.”

When I get home, I take a much-needed shower, watching the dried blood swirl around the drain. My fists are sore from the blows to the creep’s face. The black eye and split lip the deputy gave me will heal in a few days.

They told me that I broke the attacker’s nose in three places, along with his jaw. He’ll need surgery to look even remotely close to who he used to be.

Good riddance, fucker.

I probably did the human population a favor.

The expression of awe on Monroe Blue’s face when I saved her is going to haunt me. Her parted pink lips and heaving breasts were like something from aPlayboymagazine.

Lust.

When I picture her face, I can sense the lust of a thousand men wishing she’d spare them a passing glance.

I collapse on my bed, trying to shove her face out of my mind so I can dream about something else, anything else.

2

MONROE

ONE YEAR LATER

“Itold you what I want. If you can’t get him, it’snot happening.End of discussion. It’s my fucking life on the line! Don’t you get it?”

I plant my hands on the conference table before leaning forward. The record label executives click their tongues, crisp suits crinkling as they shift to face each other.

The one on Zoom, joining us from Dubai, leans forward. “Monroe, sweetie, we are trying our best to get him. There doesn’t seem to be a number to motivate him. If we could’ve gotten him by now, we would have. I think it’s time you really think about your future in the entertainment industry. There are plenty of other highly trained bodyguards capable of protecting you onstage. What happened in Texas willneverbe repeated if?—”

I cut him off, exhaling slowly. “I don’t fucking care about your excuses or reasoning anymore. The detail you had onme then failed—epicallyfailed. I nearly paid for the blunder with mylife. It won’t happen again, hence my insistence on hiring my own security. I want Cash Redford, or I’m not doing a world tour.End of story.”

If there’s one thing I got from my trailer-park mama, it’s a stubborn streak a mile wide.

The executives don’t often meet with the talent directly, but upon the formal notice that I wouldn’t be going on the world tour, which was fully booked and scheduled, they deigned to meet with me. Losing a billion-dollar tour seems to be a hefty motivator for them to show up. They still treat me like a stubborn teenager whenever they do, despite the fact that I’m their biggest talent and I’m twenty-three years old.

Pricks.

My life means nothing to them, save for the chunk of change they’d forfeit if I backed out. I’m doing them a favor by even agreeing to this meeting. It’s a courtesy to their pocketbooks that the money-hungry fuckers don’t deserve.

“Darling, we will try for him again. I will personally go down to meet with him if I have to. Don’t stress about it anymore, dear. You will have the best security any star has ever had! We’ve already tripled the usual manpower outside the venues, your hotels, the unmarked cars?—”

I tune out Dalton Willis, the CEO of Sun Records, rolling my eyes as he drills on. When he finally shuts up, I stand.

“Make it happen, or I bail. I can’t make my position on the matter any clearer.”

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