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Ronan
The Seasons Change held bandpractice in a warehouse that had been converted to private rehearsal spaces. On the drive over, Iris had told Bill they weren’t recording right now, nor touring, but they were performing at a German awards show in a couple weeks, so they needed to shake the rust off their strings in preparation.
Bill was good at small talk and asking questions. It probably came with the territory of being a driver. My silence was preferred in my line of work, and even when it wasn’t, I was too well practiced to easily change.
I walked with Iris into the warehouse, keeping my hand on her back. A few paparazzi were around, waiting to see which musicians appeared. Iris paused, posing for a few pictures, giving them what they wanted without hesitation. I stood in the background, close, but out of frame, scanning the street.
After a minute, we went inside. “Are you staying?” she asked.
“I’ve no other plans.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Mmm. It’s a yes.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “You know, I’m going to be here all day with my boys. No threat here. You could go run an errand or something.”
I chuckled. “I don’t run errands.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is running errands not alpha enough for you? You could take yourself a little less seriously, Ronan.”
“Aye, I probably could.”
Her hand wrapped around my tie. “Come on, serious boy. I hope you brought ear plugs because things are about to get loud.”
Her band was already waiting for her in their rehearsal space. Iris went around, greeting each of them. I found a spot against the wall, observing the group. First, she went to Adam, who was tall and rangy and hugged her like he truly loved her. If she hadn’t pushed away from him with a laugh and patted his cheek like a brother, I might not have stopped myself from intervening.
Next, she went to the shorter guy, who was packed with thick muscles. She squeezed his face and called him Roddy. He tried to ram her like a bull.
Her final stop was to the one who held himself apart from the rest. From the pictures I’d seen, this long-haired man was Callum, the mysterious bass player whose online presence consisted of an article or two without so much as a quote from him. He allowed Iris to kiss each of his cheeks, and they spoke quietly to each other. She squeezed his arm and got in his face. My muscles tensed, prepared to pull her away from him, but he laughed and then she did too.
When Iris turned around, she met my gaze, her eyes more lively than I’d seen since we first met. She was happy to be here, ready to make music with her band.
She pointed at me, and her boys took note. “This wall of a man is Ronan. He gets paid to stalk me while looking dapper in custom suits. Everyone, say hi to Ronan.”
I tipped my head at each of them, which appeared to be enough of an introduction for all of us. They seemed antsy to begin their rehearsal, already strumming chords and tapping sticks. Iris belted the chorus of a Britney Spears song, a broad grin lighting up her face.
She spun and faced her band, putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t know, boys, maybe we should add some Britt-Britt to our set list.”
Rodrigo jumped up from behind the drums. “Only if I get to wear the schoolgirl costume.”
Her head bobbed. “Of course, honey bunny. Was there ever any doubt?”
I stood against the wall, observing. In my time doing this job, I’d guarded several singers, but never a member of a band. Despite myself, I found their dynamic interesting, and fuck, it felt like I was getting to watch a behind-the-scenes documentary live and in person.
Iris sang like fog rising off a crystal-clear lake. Her voice was dense yet untouchable, easy to get lost in, and even easier to drown beneath. I’d listened to some of TSC’s music out of curiosity, and it had captured my attention, but hearing it in person was something else entirely. Each member brought something different to the fold. Four distinct talents, melding together in clashing, perfect harmony. I was no music expert, but I knew what I liked.
I liked this music.
My knee started pulsing the longer I stood against the wall. My pride could be a dangerous thing, but I’d learned over the years since my injury not to let pride get in the way of healing, so I took a seat in one of the armchairs lining the far side of the room. That vantage point allowed me to have a visual of the door and Iris. My instinct said she was safe here. No one could get in unless they were supposed to be here. I probably could have runerrandsand she would have been fine, but my stronger instinct, the part that resided in my base center, roared for me to protect this woman at all times.
It didn’t help that she fought me on it, but I had hoped we’d turned a corner after her intrusion into my bedroom.
“Goddammit, Rodrigo, where the hell are you today?” Iris exploded, throwing her arms out.
The man behind the drums stared at her with an almost blank expression before he snapped out of it and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”
She stalked to his drum kit, her hands on her hips. “That’s it? You’re never off your game like this.”
