I draw a blank.
I used to go out with the guys from Eleven, but we’re talking VIP sections of clubs so we wouldn’t get mobbed, high security, and artificial fun environments where we were constantly paranoid about what we were doing and who was watching.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to go out without that cautious voice in the back of my head warning me about impending stampedes of fans.
First-world problems, I guess.
Iris writes a few more things down on his list and then grins up at me. “How much will you care if Brix’s first impression of you isn’t the best?”
“You mean second impression? His first impression was me pointing a gun at you like a crazy man. How much worse can it get?”
“I’m taking that as permission to go full pop star diva on him.”
I laugh. “That actually might be close to the truth.”
“Definitely gonna be so much fun.”
Chapter Four
Brix
When I return to the house, laughter filters through the large empty space as soon as I open the door.
It doesn’t sound like Iris, but imagining the guy from earlier today—the one on edge, the one willing to shoot someone—he doesn’t seem like the type of person to go from erratic to laughing so easily.
Yet, when I walk through the kitchen area and into the sitting room, there’s no denying the happy sound is coming from Harley Valentine’s mouth.
I have to admit, it’s a mesmerizing mouth. His smile lights up his whole face. Gone is the tired-looking, wrecked man I met earlier.
His stormy-blue eyes shine when he laughs, and his long, ginger-tinged lashes frame his eyes in a hypnotic way. The contrast between his brown hair and the reddish scruff on his face makes me wonder what his natural hair color is.
Either way, there’s no denying he’s a good-looking guy. Sharp jaw and pouty lips.
He might just be the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen. Even more so than Iris, which I didn’t think was possible.
Though, they’re sitting too close for my liking, and something wrong twinges in my gut.
Not because of the pretty thing but because Iris is known to blur lines. I don’t think he’d ever cross them, but his favorite thing is blurring them.
Even if the client has a fiancée, Iris doesn’t care. It’s like his flirt button doesn’t have an off switch.
I clear my throat, and the laughter between them dies down, but their matching mischievous smiles don’t fade. “Iris, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure thing, boss.” He stands.
“Wait,” Harley says. “Brix is your boss?”
“He’s taking point on this assignment, so technically …”
Suddenly, Harley doesn’t look so happy anymore. I don’t know what’s changed in the last ten seconds other than I’ve come home.
Great start, but I can’t dwell on what he thinks about me right now. I know I’ll need to apologize for the mix-up earlier, but that can wait.
Iris leads me into the kitchen and pulls some orange juice from the fridge. “What’s up?”
I fold my arms. “Do you need me to lecture you about being professional with this guy?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, but I’m totally interested in what you have to say, so please, go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
“He’s our client.”
“Right.”
“It’s our job to protect him. Not … flirt with him.”
Iris puts a hand to his heart. “Oh, you poor, sex-deprived man. If you think that’s flirting, I feel so, so, so, so sorry for you. Want me to give you a few pointers?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s a bit direct, but I guess it could be considered flirting.”
“Griffin,” I snap.
He knows I’m serious when I use his last name. “I wasn’t flirting. I was getting to know the guy. If I have to spend my next twenty-six Sundays with him, I figure I should get to know what type of guy he is and find out if there’s a chance he’ll sneak out one night and do something stupid that’ll get him killed and us fired. Does he want bodyguards to begin with? Clear answer on that is no. He feels like he needs them. The poor guy never goes out and never has fun. He only has his work. So yeah, while you might be jealous of us having a laugh together—”
“I’m not jealous. I’m being professional.”
“Right. Like you can’t say he’s not the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.”
“Not my type.” At all.
“Uh-huh. Pretty sure anything with a pulse would be your type at this point. The last time you took someone home was …” He tries to recount the last time I hooked up with someone when the team went out. He’ll be at it a while.
“What would you know? I might hook up all the time.” Yeah, I don’t, but fuck him for trying to turn this around on me. “All I’m saying is, you should keep your distance.”
“And all I’m saying is, you shouldn’t. We’re not used to this kind of job, but I’m treating it like I would any other, and the only way to do a job correctly is to get as much intel on your target as possible.”
“Harley Valentine isn’t our target. His stalkers are.”
“S-stalkers?” Harley’s voice is quiet as he stands in the entryway to the kitchen.
I spin. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough. What’s this about stalkers? Plural?”
“Wrong choice of words. I mean your fans in general. From your file, it’s not the first time one has crossed a line. That’s why we’re here.”
Harley’s chin juts out. “Well, in that case. Here are some things you’re expected to do that weren’t in my file.”
“What is that?”
He hands me three sheets of paper with a list of ridiculous requests on it. “Think of it as a rider. Us musicians have them for everywhere we go.”
I glance at Iris, who stares like it’s no big deal, but he’s not the one who’s going to have to do these ridiculous things on a daily basis.
“Bodyguards must taste Mr. Valentine’s food and any beverages before him in case of poisoning or spiking or drugging.” I turn to Harley. “Have you ever been drugged before?”
“Nope, but until a few days ago, no one had ever broken into my house before either. I’m Boy Scouting it from now on. Be prepared for everything.”
“Bodyguards must walk into a room and shout ‘All clear’ like they do in TV and movies when it’s empty. Guns don’t have to be drawn but are appreciated.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing that.”
“It’s the request of your client.” Iris is trying not to laugh.
“Bodyguards are responsible for Mr. Valentine’s fun-o-meter, and as such, they cannot let it fall below the level of enjoyment that a video of someone getting kicked in the nuts can bring.” My gaze shoots between Harley and Iris. “Did you guys get high while I was gone?”
“Ooh, no, but we should add that to the list,” Harley says. “I’ve never been high. We should do that. But, like, weed high. Not high high. And, you know, where one of you can look after me in case I think a demon is chasing me. Wait, does weed cause hallucinations?”