Page 1 of Unguarded

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CASH

I’m just as pathetically mesmerized by her as everyone else in the swarming crowd. Monroe Blue is onstage, her curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes blown up on the screen. Her silky white corset top and skintight, torn black jeans accentuate every delicious curve of her body. Her red lips arch into a seductive smile as the song ends, the lights fading out. Everyone around me erupts into roaring applause, pleading with her to keep going.

Pathetic.

Although, as close as I am to the stage, she is truly intoxicating. Her presence is almost otherworldly, like she’s a step above the rest of humanity.

And the rest of humanity is way too fucking close to me right now.

Obsessed. The entire crowd isobsessedwith her, along with most of the world.

A man next to me has been sweating and photographing her since the moment she stepped onstage. I’ve been keepingan eye on his movements to make sure he stays away from my sister and her friend.

My sister, Dolly, and her friend Rosie insisted we get this close to the stage. I would’ve preferred lingering near the back, where the exits were clearly in view and I could keep at least three feet of distance between me and other people.

I glance around for the girls, wondering how long it could possibly take for them to go to the restroom and then get a refill. An uneasiness comes over me, but I can’t pin down the source of it. My skin feels like it’s about to spark a fire. My instincts are never wrong.

The man next to me pushes closer to the front as the band does some kind of instrument tune-up and Monroe Blue takes a sip of water. She’s been performing for over an hour without a break. I look down at my phone, seeing a text from my brother about tomorrow’s work schedule, and type out a response.

Someone next to me gasps, jerking my attention toward them. My gaze follows hers, up toward the stage. The man who was standing beside me has just hopped the fence and jumped up onto the stage. Time slows as he lunges for Monroe Blue and tackles her to the ground. Her piercing scream tears the night in half.

My instincts kick in, causing me to dart forward. The crowd pushes in closer to see the spectacle. I shove a man out of the way, indifferent to his protest. Monroe Blue is trying to kick her assailant off to get away. I keep expecting someone from her security detail to assist her, to get there before I do. In the agonizingly long seconds it takes me to part the crowd and leap onto the stage, no one else comes.

The attacker tears her top, and I see the glint of a knife in his hand before I descend on him, my fist crushing his jawline. His grip on her loosens, and I take the opportunity to jerk him off of her.

I rear back and deliver another blow to his face.

In the corner of my eye, I see her crawling away. The man collapses on the stage. I straddle him, my fists landing on different parts of his face over and over again, and blood begins to decorate his features and my knuckles. All I see is red. Boiling-hot rage courses through me at the vile idea of a man laying hands on an unsuspecting woman.

Finally, someone pulls me off of him. I go willingly, thinking he might be about to pass out. He barely moves, shuddering as he coughs up blood.

Little fucker didn’t even get in one shot.

The arms holding me back loosen slightly. I wipe the blood on my hands off on my jeans, surveying the area for Monroe Blue, trying to make sure there wasn’t an accomplice to the attack. I sigh in relief when she steps out of the backstage area, bright blue eyes glazed over. I step toward her, but the hands around my shoulders pull me back.

“Let him go!” she commands, her hands shaking.

They instantly obey, releasing me. I take a step closer, keeping a few feet of distance between us. Before I have time to ask her if she’s okay, I notice her shirt was torn so far up that the bottom part of her breast and all of her tanned stomach are showing, and she tries to cover herself with trembling fingers in the chilly air.

I slowly unbutton the shirt I’m wearing before shrugging it off my shoulders and stretching it out to her. There’s only alittle bit of blood and sweat on it. The dog tags around my neck from my time in the Special Forces as a Green Beret are glinting in the stage lights.

She stares at the denim shirt with widened eyes for a few seconds before turning her back to me. At first, I think she’s denying the gesture. Then, I realize she wants me to put it on her. I drape it over her slim frame, careful not to touch her skin, which, now that I’m closer to her, I see is glittery.

She turns back around to face me, clutching the shirt closely around herself. Her supple lips part as an angelic sound escapes her mouth.

“You saved my life. What’s your name?”

Her raspy, iconic voice cuts me like a knife.

I tilt my cowboy hat toward her. “Cash Redford.”

“Cash Redford,” she repeats.

It floats off of her tongue, sounding better than anything I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

“Yes, ma’am.”

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