Page 21 of Unguarded

He walks toward me with his bright, winning smile and outstretched arms. His guitar is swung over his muscled back.

“There’s that beautiful girl. Damn, you always were a knockout in red.” He leans in, pecking my cheek.

I’m wearing loose, low-rise boyfriend jeans and a fitted red baby tee, revealing a sliver of my stomach. I lean back, and Cash’s stoic frame catches the corner of my vision. Hisexpression is unreadable as he stands a few feet away, never leaving more than six feet of space between us. He’s been nothing but professional, even since I flashed him on my patio and he got a full-frontal view of me butt-ass naked. His Southern gentleman roots must go deep because he barely even looked. My cheeks heat every time I think about it.

Clint is six foot one with long blonde hair and a thick beard. He’s grown it out even more since the last time I saw him. I prefer a closer trim, but the ladiesloveunkempt Clint. Many of my fans want to see us back together. They’ve created dozens of fan accounts dedicated to our love story, sharing every single photo and video clip ever taken of us with the hashtag #BlueandClyde.

I wasmadlyin love with Clint—until he became so obsessed with himself and his rising fame that he started neglecting me and eventually cheated on me with one of his many adoring fans, probably more than one. When I found out, I didn’t scream at him or make a scene. I simply blocked his number and never looked back. I never gave him a chance to explain or apologize. The lyrics for the breakup album came to me as easy as water flowing down a mountain.

We hadn’t spoken in over two years until tour rehearsals started, but even in the studio, I refused to engage in any small talk with him. This is strictly business. I don’t do second chances with cheaters or liars, even for PR purposes, much to my publicist’s dismay. Katherine’s always trying to strike a balance between keeping me relevant and appeasing my fans.

Shit, I still need to tell her I broke it off with Zade.

“Good to be back on this stage with you, sweetheart.”Clint winks at me, pulling his guitar off his back as we prepare for sound check.

I form a half smile. “Just doing it for the fans, Clint.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. I wait for the pang of heartbreak, for a shrivel of those old, powerful feelings to overtake me, but nothing happens. My gut doesn’t clench at his smile, and my heart doesn’t pound at his proximity.

He broke my heart and truly shattered me. I didn’t start dating again until a year later. Seeing him and working with him again has made me realize that I am truly over it, although I lost a part of myself when I stopped loving him. His betrayal inspired an entire breakup album that ended up shooting me up to mega-celebrity status and ultimately kick-started this world tour.

In a way, I have Clint to thank for where I am today, which is why I agreed when Sun Records insisted on him performing the second song. It will follow the one I wrote while crying on my bathroom floor after finding out he’d fucked someone else.

It’s melodramatic, it’s raw, and it’s going to make the fans go wild, which is the main reason I agreed. Publicly, I’m dating Zade, even though he was photographed with his costar while shit-faced at a club a few nights ago and no one knows I called things off with him. He’s still keeping it quiet, for now.

Katherine claims my somewhat-toxic love life is part of my appeal. It’s relatable,andit makes me look more desirable. She’s advised I stay with Zade because of the way it keeps my name on the front page, but I’ve always secretly despised the charade. Because of the potential fallout at thestart of my tour, I wasn’t planning on ending things with him until a few months in.

Oops…

I make a mental note to call her later.

“Check one, two, three,” I speak into my microphone.

My voice echoes over the sound system, filling the stadium, where seventy-five thousand fans will gather tomorrow night.

We work through the song three times.

Clint has always known how to put on a performance. During the bridge, he curls his hand around my waist, singing into the curve of my neck. It would bother most people to have to do this with their ex, but when I’m onstage, I let my subconscious take over. I float outside my body, watching myself perform with no emotional attachments. After performing a show, I never go anywhere. I need time to curl up into a ball and sink back into myself. The real Monroe isn’t the same person as the one I am when I’m in front of a crowd.

“When you hit that high note, I think you should look up into my eyes to really send it home,” Clint says.

Fidel nods from the first row. “I agree. You’re singing it like it’s a single, but it’s a duet. It’s a love story. You need to engage with him the way he is with you.”

I nod, reaching for my bottle of water. “Okay. Let’s revisit it tomorrow.”

I have to rehearse the rest of the set today, familiarizing myself with the stage. When it’s finally over, I’m exhausted. The first show is always the most stressful. I’ve done everything I can to prepare, but it’s still nerve-racking when thosestage lights come on for the first time. The energy of an empty stadium doesn’t hold a candle to what it feels like to be in a jam-packed one.

Once we make the short five-minute drive to the hotel, Cash closely shields my body from the waiting crowd of fans loitering outside the entrance. His heat at my back gives me a sense of calm as we get on the elevator with Fidel, Ember, and Franky—my tour manager. They’re chatting about ordering dinner and running through tomorrow’s routine once more. They get off on their floor while Cash and I continue up.

I need to rest and try to turn my brain off. The elevator opens to my suite. I roll my neck, trying to stretch out the tension that built there. As we walk, I pull the ponytail holder out of my short blonde hair and scratch my head, feeling the headache in the crown of my head ease almost instantly. Cash begins sweeping the area, which he insists on doing even though I’m sure the hotel is safe. The other bodyguards don’t bother.

As I approach the bed, my eyes catch something on the comforter. My body stills when I see a scrap of black lace—one of my thongs. My fingers inch out to grab it, but pause before I make contact. Four polaroid pictures are spread out over the bed with one word written on the bottom of each one.

My throat constricts as the photos register in my brain. I’ve never seen them before. They’re not pap photos. There’s one of me on the back porch of my house in my pink robe, one through my home gym windows, one at my favoritepastry shop in LA, and one from just a few hours ago, of me rehearsing for the show.

A strangled sob tears through my throat as I stumble back. My hackles rise as I gasp for breath, and nausea builds in the back of my throat.

I hear movement behind me. I don’t have time to turn before warm, callus fingers grasp my elbow.

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