“I’ll keep it in mind to stay neutral and only speak of facts when it comes to the break-in.”
“I would go wake him up to meet you right now, but with how little sleep he’s had, I’m reluctant. He’s supposed to be writing songs for his new album, but he can’t think when he’s had no sleep.”
“It’s fine. I have some stuff in my car, but I might go home and get some more clothes and belongings. I packed light. Iris … uh, Isaac can stay with Harley while I’m gone.”
“Sounds good.” Gideon gestures for me to go first, and we make our way back through the house.
We don’t make it to the front door.
Gideon and I both freeze in our steps at the sight of what’s happening in the foyer.
A guy around five nine or ten with brown hair points a gun at Iris.
Iris is calm, his hands up, and he doesn’t appear to be worried, but Iris is always cool under pressure. Frighteningly so.
The guy’s back is to us, and I don’t think he heard us come in. His hands shake, which makes me nervous considering the safety on his gun is off, and he’s clearly not in control.
Tactical instincts kick in.
My first guess is the fan who attacked Harley a few nights ago has broken his restraining order and come to finish what he started.
It all happens so fast.
I move quickly and with precision.
The loud “No” coming out of Iris’s mouth barely registers as I rush the assailant and tackle him to the ground.
In the blink of an eye, I have the guy on his stomach on the tiled floor with my knee in his back and his gun in my hand.
Then laughter pierces the room. From both Iris and Gideon.
The guy beneath me groans.
“First day on the job, and you’ve already broken the man you were hired to protect,” Iris says.
“W-wait, what?” I stare down at the guy. His head is turned to the side with his cheek pressed against the floor. I can’t make out any of his features except for the ginger scruff on his face.
Gideon steps up beside me. “Nolan, I’d like you to meet Harley Valentine.”
Aww, fuck.
Chapter Three
Harley
“Harley, this is Nolan Reins and Isaac Griffin,” Gideon says. “Your new bodyguards.”
The heavy weight on top of me lifts, and I let out a grunt.
“Good work, Rambo.” Even I can’t tell if my words are sarcastic or genuine.
On the one hand, Hi, random stranger on top of me. How about buying me a drink first before pinning me under your hard body? On the other, I should be thankful my new bodyguard can take down a guy with a gun. Even if that guy is me.
In my defense, I woke up disoriented from not having had much sleep the last three days, and I found another stranger in my house.
I may have overreacted. A little.
We climb to our feet, and I come face-to-face with my … protector-slash-UFC-superstar.
And, oh hell.
Nope.
No, no, no.
This will not work.
I don’t have a type. I haven’t had the luxury of being able to figure it out being forced into a dark closet for my entire adulthood. Guys I’ve been attracted to in the past have come in all shapes. But whatever my type is, this guy would top them all.
Oh, fuck, do not associate the word top with … him.
My eyes roam over his body from his black crew cut to his muscles that are as big as mountains. His tactical pants are tight, and his all-round badassness is badass.
The only reason I’m not protesting aloud to this arrangement is because this guy has to be straight.
Gay cupid could try to penetrate him with arrows, but he’d still be immune.
Damn, don’t associate this guy with the word penetrate either.
The deep brown color of his eyes is almost black. He stares at me, cold and calculating.
While I’m looking at him in a sexual way, he’s checking me out in an assessing way—probably trying to figure out what he’s working with. There’s not much to find behind the pop star. I’m a scared guy with a gun.
Which he now has.
“Uh, gun?” I hold out my hand.
“Yeah, no, you don’t need this.” In a swift move, he releases the magazine. “Someone who can’t handle a gun shouldn’t be holding one.” He stares at it. “Even if it’s unloaded.”
I glance down to see the magazine is empty. I turn to Gideon. “You gave me an unloaded gun? How is that supposed to protect me?”
“I’m not an idiot. It was to make you feel safer, not to actually use.”
“Hot tip,” Rambo says. “Don’t aim a gun at someone unless you plan to shoot them.”
“I did plan to shoot him.”
“With imaginary bullets?”
“He was in my house.” I turn to the other muscular but prettier guy. “But I’m sorry I pointed a gun at you.”
He smiles. “Not the first time I’ve been shot at.”
“Hey, I didn’t shoot.” Yet. It was close. All that was running through my head was shoot now, think later. Not that it would’ve mattered anyway because it turns out the gun wasn’t loaded.
I’m both thankful Gideon did that and a little pissed.
What if this had been a real emergency?
Bang, bang, Mr. Bad Guy. I’m shooting you with air.
The dude who broke in has really messed me up.
For the first time in all my years of fame, I truly worried for my life that night. There have been close calls before, some scary moments with intense fans, but nothing compares to being face-to-face with someone who thinks they know you and wants the fantasy.
Rambo hands my gun back to me. “Call me Brix. I’ll be with you six days a week.” He nods to the pretty guy. “He’ll be with you on Sundays.”
“Brix? As in built like a brick shithouse?” Fitting.
The other guy scoffs. “Nah, as in dumb as bricks.”
Brix gives his partner the finger. “I go by my middle name Brixton. Even my parents never called me Nolan.”
I eye him again. I can’t help it. “You don’t look like a Nolan.”
“You can call me Iris,” the other one says.
“Which stands for ‘I require intensive supervision,’” Brix adds.
Iris sighs. “That is sadly true. Not that I need supervision, but that’s what it stands for.”
Brix leans in. “He totally needs supervision.”
“Only when in the vicinity of explosives.”
“Good to see you all getting along,” Gideon cuts in. “I’m going to leave you to it. I have a meeting to get to.”
My brow furrows. “Meeting?”
“With the label.”
“What am I in trouble for now?”
“They want you to do appearances about the intruder and talk about it.”
“No way.”
“That’s what I keep telling them. And since there’s a trial coming up, you really shouldn’t talk about it publicly, so I’m going to go and convince them of that for you.”
I release a loud breath. Gideon really is good at his job even if he’s more impersonal than Eleven’s manager. Cameron Verikas was like a father figure to us, but that might’ve been because we were all teenagers when we started out. We needed the guidance and reassurance that he gave. Gideon lacks that, but as an almost twenty-six-year-old, I guess I’m supposed to be above all that now.