Someone wants to hurt me.
Once I’m tucked inside the only safe space here, my changing room, I try to make out the sound of muffled voices in the hallway. Michel and a few other guards.
Shooter. Take down. Solace. Safe.
Once they’ve gone back and forth a few times, there are two knocks at the door, followed by a low voice. “Sally the camel has…”
“Three humps,” I reply, using our code that lets me know it’s Michel and it’s safe for him to come in. He slips inside, his shoulders slump as he closes the door, and looks at me. The room fills with the scent of his cologne. Citrus, with a hint of lingering smoke.
Michel’s dark olive figure is slim, precise, and tailored down to the last cuff. While the rest of the world has security details built to block doors, Michel is built to control a room without touching it.
He’s not imposing in the obvious way, no bulky frame or aggressive stance. He’s composed with shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, his deep brown eyes scanning like he’s already three steps ahead of whatever might happen next.
“It’s all right, Solace. We’ve apprehended the suspect, and security is engaged in crowd control as we speak.” Michel’s face is his usual stone, not a hint of emotion anywhere. A complete opposite of his husband, Tommy, who occasionally comes to my shows as a full-fledged fangirl. His words, not mine. Michel is always a mystery, while Tommy is an open book, which makes sense since he’s an elementary school teacher.
I don’t respond, but he can see it in my eyes.
“Vi,” he whispers. My real name spilling from his lips is always a sure sign he means business when he’s talking. “This isn’t a prank. It’s a walking, breathing threat.”
“The show must go on.” I quote every famous person from history who has ever said those words.
“We’re getting a feel for the situation before we take the next step.” He knows I hate to interrupt a show for any reason. Fans pay good money for these tickets, and I don’t want them to miss out.
Michel’s calloused hand reaches to his earpiece, a sign that someone is talking in his head. He doesn’t like it when I ask what “the voices” are telling him to do, but I usually do it anyway. His dark eyes meet mine as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, so I throw him my best innocent smile and wait.
“The suspect—”
“What is their name?” I interrupt.
Michel stares at me like I have three heads. He would run his hands through his hair if it wasn’t cut so close to the scalp.
“The suspect’s name?” I repeat, slower this time, like I’m talking to a preschooler who won’t hand over a permanent marker.
“Beckett,” he says, studying me. “Were you expecting someone specific? Should I extend the search?”
I shake my head. “I just needed to know the name of the person who put me and my fans in danger. They don’t get to hide behind a mask.” My eyes drop to my feet as the guilt of my hypocrisy threatens to drip from my eyes. I wipe away the single tear, shake the emotion from my voice, and then look back toward Michel. “Was anyone hurt?”
Michel shakes his head and reaches for the electronic voices again. His eyes narrow, and he holds a hand toward me to keep me from cracking a joke. That means it’s not over. He was just given further information.
“They’re evacuating the building.” He adjusts the hidden pistol he carries on his hip, a little Smith & Wesson, but any bullet going through skin is enough to slow down a person, I suppose.
No, Michel doesn’t let me shoot it.
Yes, I’ve asked him before.
“I’m guessing that means the party is over.” I sulk, sinking into the couch on my left, my blonde, bob-styled wig bouncing around my shoulders.
Michel’s lips form a thin line like he’s confirming and apologizing in one quick movement. He slips out the door, and I hear him instruct the three guys guarding my room to get me out of the building safely, which means they are to take me to the designated meeting place, then Michel will get me home safely.
I exhale, waiting for my next move, until I hear the wordaccomplice.
Beckett wasn’t working alone. Someone else is looking for me, and it could be one of them.
The Long Island village where I live is quaint, and I love that. I could live in a mansion or on a secluded beach if I really wanted to, but I’ve always found it best to be subtle about my lifestyle. Thankfully, my boyfriend agrees, especially since I don’t want my professional life to collide with my personal one.
Theo, my boyfriend, is the only person, aside from Michel, my agent, and my best friend, who knows that Solace and Violet are one and the same. All four people having signed NDAs is what keeps my mind at ease, that and my shark of an agent. Ollie all but threatened to cut off Theo’s dick if he even breathed a word about who hides behind the mask of Solace. He’d lose his position as an NHL hockey star, and that’s the last thing he wants, as his career path is taking him to the Olympics this month.
The amount of prep I’ve seen him put into hockey is honestly impressive. He practices every day, keeps up with his social media status, and is really close with the team’s captain.
