Page 3 of Petty's Crime

I grimace. “Just more of the same.” Strangely enough, I’d have been more upset if my bodyguard hadn’t riled me up. My horror at yet another intrusion into my life had been put on the back burner with the comments Petty had made.

My stylist stares at me accusingly. “Why am I just hearing about this? And what was it this time? Heavy-breathing phone call? Mysterious flower delivery—”

I butt in before she can list everything that’s ever happened to me. “An ‘in deepest sympathy’ card left on my windshield.”

“They’re going to have to swap out your rental again.” Bart, as usual, focuses on the practicalities.

Sitting back on the couch, I fold my arms. “Again being the operative word. Whatever I do, Bart, he’s one step in front of me.” It’s annoying how clever my ex has become, though my view is that he made some contacts in jail.

He’s totally mad, of course. His gifts range from things expressing how much he still loves me, to threats about how I’m going to feel when he catches up with me again.

I know it’s my ex’s access to information that draws Petty to think I’m making it all up. When I hire a new car, within days, or even hours in some cases, he seems to know exactly what make and model I’m driving. Same with my house. When I moved to evade him, a letter turned up in my new mailbox the very next day. I don’t know how he’s finding everything out. I’m just worried that he does.

“Petty said you looked shaken,” Bart continues, eyeing me carefully.

Petty should mind his own fucking business. “I’m fine,” I lie. Getting a death threat, which I interpret the card as, is never pleasant. I know the blood had drained from my face when I’d opened the envelope—carefully, of course, always conscious for fingerprints that my ex has so far been too clever to leave. It could only be him, but as far as the police are concerned, they need proof to proceed.

I huff to myself, noting Bart’s phrasing. Petty had said I’dlookedshaken, not that I actually was. Does he think I’m that good of an actor?

Mine is the sad, typical story of women who can’t see what’s in front of their faces. I got into a relationship with a man who seemed so perfect for me, so caring and loving. I jumped in with both feet. Then I discovered his controlling side and his jealousy. I wasn’t buying what he was selling, and the first time he hit me, I called it a day.

But women don’t walk out on Saul Ranger, as I found to my cost. He followed me, caught me, and beat me up so badly, I was in the hospital for a week. It didn’t have the desired effect of making me go back to him. Instead, I brought charges, and he ended up in jail.

And now he’s free, he’s coming after me for revenge.

I’m a no-name singer who’s been lucky enough to score a residency at a fancy casino in Las Vegas, an opening act for the major stars who the customers really come in to see. But from the day I first started two months ago, I’ve had someone stalking me.

At first, I just brushed it off, thinking it was probably a fan who had an unhealthy obsession. I’d even been flattered that I was apparently worth so much attention. But then the threats became more pointed and personal. That it coincided with Saul being released was what had alerted me, and I know the type of mental games that he plays. He’s taunting me like a cat playing with a mouse, and one day soon, he’ll jump in for the kill.

It was when I’d only just managed to jump out of the way of a truck heading straight for me that Bart decided we had to take things seriously.

The cops would do nothing. They couldn’t find evidence that Saul had entered the state. I got the impression that the bored lieutenant who’d interviewed me wasn’t convinced that I wasn’t making everything up for attention.

I was torn. I didn’t want Saul to have more influence on my life, but neither was I going to give him another opportunity to hurt me. So I’d agreed with Bart we needed to do something about it until he could be caught and again sent away.

It had been my lucky day when Bart had approached me with an offer to manage my career. In him, I’d found someone who believed in me. It was down to him that I was given this chance. He believes in me, and that this is only a steppingstone to my making it in the big time. Wanting to protect the investment of his time and unwilling to lose the money that comes along with managing me, Bart had decided the threats were serious enough to employ someone to provide protection.

Did I mention I’m not one of the major stars? Well, I’m certainly not someone used to having security wherever they go. Being very far from famous, until now, I could get away with living off the strip, and doing most of my everyday stuff without anyone recognising or bothering me. I do, or did, my own grocery shopping, without fear of being stopped and asked for my autograph. I still could, were it not for the fear that Saul could leap out and confront me.

My bank account, and Bart’s, thanks to me, is reasonably healthy, but I attract nothing like the dollars that major stars make. Hence, we couldn’t afford to go to a reputable company. Bart used his contacts with the various casinos and found an outfit that would provide their services relatively cheaply.

He’d come up with an organisation that had been in the security business for some time, and who had recently landed a good contract with one of the casinos. But what they hadn’t done before was provide personal protection services. It seemed it was something they wanted to get into, and so this was an opportunity which benefitted us both. This was a good opening for them, and, as it gave them experience and hopefully a good reputation—as long as I’m alive at the end of it—it came at a relatively low cost for me.

That’s how come I’m now guarded by a rotation of men from the Las Vegas chapter of the Satan’s Devils MC.

Blend into the background they certainly don’t, nor do they wear the kind of uniform of bodyguards you’ve come to expect to see in movies. No, they don’t come complete with black suits, and dour but clean-shaven faces with earpieces in their ears. Oh no, not at all. My bodyguards? Well, they’re tattooed leather-wearing bikers, whose adornments might run to studs and earrings and chains which attach wallets to their belts.

At the very least, their presence should dissuade Saul from messing with me.

I’ve three members assigned, all of whom are vets, and each taking eight-hour shifts. Their names are Petty, Sarge and Roller. Each of these men shadow me everywhere I go, and even stay in my house while I sleep. As well as having someone with me at all times, back at the Satan’s Devils’ base, other members are trying to solve the problem that has so far stumped the police—that being where the hell is Saul?

Saul wants to hurt me. There’s no more mystery than that. I got away from him and he doesn’t like it. While I acknowledge the suggestion it could be someone else, I don’t give any weight to it. I live comfortably but have no savings. If I died, no one would benefit from my death. To my knowledge, I haven’t upset anyone. It has to be Saul. There is no one else.

Up until two weeks ago, I’d been trying to deal with it myself, but my growing fear and nervousness was affecting how I was performing on stage. I started forgetting lyrics and musical cues. When Bart and Kylie had found me crying in the dressing room, scared to go home, Bart was determined something had to change.

Over the past week, I’ve had to get used to always having someone with me. It’s done wonders for my peace of mind. While it’s not nice knowing my ex is out there and is fixated on me, having now worked with the Devils for a while, I know he wouldn’t get past them. The feeling of safety has helped me get my head back into the game. I also have more confidence that the Devils will eventually track him down than I have in the police.

Sarge is great. When Petty takes me home after my performance, he’s already waiting in my modest house, having made sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for me. He’s been quite open about the fact he suffers from PTSD, and has difficulty sleeping in the dark, so volunteers for all night-time shifts. He’s a perfect houseguest—clean, tidies up after himself, and never bothers me.

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