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"Right? The motherfucker isn't particularly original, but he's pissing off her brother and starting to freak her out." Bryant bends to grab my water bottle before tossing it to me. "Her manager wants to go to the police, but she wants to handle it quietly. She just signed her first record deal. She doesn't want this to scare off the label."
"Will it?"
Bryant shrugs. "Could if they decide she's more trouble than she's worth."
"Is she any good?"
"She's fucking incredible."
"You know I hate working with musicians." They're a pain in my ass for a whole lot of reasons. Crazy comes out of the woodwork around musicians. They have rabid fans, and more often than not, in situations like this, it's a rabid fan who's the problem. But trying to pick out which fan is the issue is like trying to find a goddamn needle in a haystack. They sneak into their houses. They follow them across the country. They dress like them, talk like them, act like them. It's fucking creepy.
But trying to convince a musician that they need to exercise caution with their fans is an exercise in futility. They never fucking listen. Ever. They are as devoted to their fans as their fans are to them. It makes them walking targets. You can only do so much to save someone who isn't trying to help you out.
I can't tell Bryant that, though. And we—my brothers and I—can't tell this girl no, either. Musicians may drive me nuts, but Bryant has been a friend since we were eighteen. He's basically family at this point.
And while dead flowers and creepy poems may be unoriginal, they still follow a playbook that tends to end with shots fired and blood spilled. The dead bird is nothing short of a threat. We can't leave someone in danger just because I don't want to deal with the headache. I may be a dick on occasion, but I'm not heartless.
"You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't think there was something to it."
"Why do you hate me?"
"That ugly ass mug."
"Man, fuck you," I say, cracking a smile. "Asshole."
Bryant shoots me a grin. "Seriously, please don't make me ask Zayne. He scares people."
"Yes, because he's an idiot." It's true. My older brother is an idiot. He stresses people the fuck out...and by people, I mean me. And my younger brother doesn't do well with crowds since losing partial hearing, so he's not even an option here. If this girl needs a bodyguard for a big event, I'm the last Carmichael standing.
Son of a bitch.
"Fine," I growl, giving in to the inevitable. "I'll help. But I swear to God, if she gives me any problems, I'll be camping outside Gia's hospital room to kick your ass as soon as the baby is born."
"She won't," Bryant says.
I don't believe him. They're always famous last words.
"Hey." I pop my head into Zion's office to find Zayne already seated across from him with one foot propped on the edge of Zion's ridiculously tidy desk. You can take a motherfucker out of the military, but you can't take the military out of the motherfucker.
Zion's a testament to that. Out of the three of us, he's the one who was born for that life. Most people assume it's Zayne because he's direct and to the point, but Zion thrived on the order of military life. He lives for being in control. Unfortunately, a hail of bullets changed everything for him. Shit. It changed everything for all of us. We damn near lost him. But he's a resourceful son of a bitch. It'll take more than a few bullets to take out my little brother.
Maybe a plague or two. Possibly our Ma.
"Ma, we're not hiring you," he says. Well, speak of the devil. He leans back in his chair, his good ear tilted toward the phone. I guess it's on speaker.
"Jesus Christ. Not this shit again." Zayne scrubs a hand down his face. Ma has been trying to convince us to hire her damn near since we started the business. Dad already warned us if we did, he was sticking his boot up our asses. Not that we have any intention of hiring her crazy ass. We're not complete idiots. She only wants to work here so she can boss us around and try to marry us off.
She wants grandbabies, and she's convinced none of us are capable of finding a good woman on our own. It's a valid point, considering none of us ever date. But we do not need Ma around here more than she already is. The woman is a menace. Love her to death, but she's terrifying.
"Don’t you take that tone with me, Zion Alaric Carmichael," Ma says. "I didn't say you should hire me. I said maybe I should come and answer phones for a few days."
"We don't need you to answer phones, Ma."
"Well, you boys need something," she huffs. "Because clearly, prayer isn't working."
"You been prayin' for us, Ma?" Zayne asks, grinning.
"I've been praying for Jesus to take the wheel with you boys since you were born. He's not answering. Apparently, not even he can help the three of you."
