“Got it,sir,” I say, dripping sarcasm, mimicking the way I sassed him in the truck.
On the drive up, he’d softened for a second, chuckling when I teased him about his boring taste in cars on one particularly boring bit of the ride.
I thought maybe he wasn’t a total robot. But now? He’s back to full-on control freak, barking orders like I’m one of his super risky rescue missions or whatever the hell he usually does, not the star who’s paying his bills. Well, technically Trent’s paying him, but same difference.
Max ismyemployee, not the other way around. And that’s just the way it is whether he likes it or not.
Max narrows his eyes, that chiseled jaw tightening as he steps closer, towering over me.
“Lose the attitude, Billie,” Max barks. “This isn’t a game. You’re here to stay safe, and that means doing what I say.”
I huff, crossing my arms.
“Safe from what?” I scoff. “You and Trent keep talking about some big, scary threat, but I don’t see any crazed fans or evil buttholes out here. All I see is snow and a guy who thinks he’s my father.”
I blush. I hate myself for doing it, but I do.
My voice may have been sharp, but there’s a tiny part of me—a part I’m trying to ignore—that feels a weird spark at hiscommanding tone. It’s like my body’s reacting without my permission, my stomach doing this annoying flippy thing.
Max steps even closer, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Those blue eyes are like ice, but there’s a fire behind them that makes my breath hitch.
“You don’t need to see the threat to know it’s real,” Max says, his voice low and steady, like he’s explaining something to a child. “My job is to keep you alive, not cater to your ego. So drop the diva act and get inside.”
I stomp my foot, the snow crunching under my boot.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” I snap, my voice louder than I meant it to be. “I’m not your prisoner, Max. I’m Billie B! People don’t boss me around!”
My heart’s pounding, and I’m not sure if it’s anger or something else, something that makes my cheeks burn despite the cold.
Max’s eyes flash, and he raises his voice, just enough to make me freeze.
“You’re acting like a spoiled brat, Billie. Keep it up, and I’ll treat you like one.”
Max’s words are sharp, cutting through the air, and they hit me like a slap.
Brat.
The word echoes in my head, and suddenly my whole body’s tingling, like I’ve been shocked. I should be furious, should scream at him for talking to me like that, but instead, my head’s spinning, and my legs feel wobbly.
“I… I… I’m not a brat!” I stammer, but my voice cracks, betraying me.
Before Max can say anything else, I snatch the keys from Max’s hand, spin on my heel and storm into the cabin, my boots thudding against the wooden floor.
I barely even look at the place—I don’t care about the cozy fireplace or the plaid blankets on the couch. I just need to get away from him, from that voice, from the way he’s making me feel things I don’t understand.
I spot a door down the hall, a bathroom, and I bolt for it, slamming it shut and twisting the lock with shaky fingers.
“Fuck. What the hell was that?” I ask, breathless, my heart racing.
I lean against the door, my breath coming in short gasps. My reflection in the small, foggy mirror looks like a stranger—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and lips parted like I’m about to cry or scream or both.
What iswrongwith me?
I’m Billie B, the boy who sells out stadiums, who faces paparazzi and critics without blinking.
So why does one stern look from Max make me feel like I’m unraveling?
Bang. Bang. Bang.
