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CHAPTER 1
DAWSON
FEB 4, VICTORY CONCERT HALL, NASHVILLE
“Holloway’s disappeared.”
The voice of my colleague, Lennie, crackled in my earpiece.
Fuck, this was getting out of hand.
I loved being a bodyguard, but some primaries made my life a living hell. And Iain Holloway was one of them.
Or, rather, he was it.
Join a security team for a popular rock band, they said.It’ll be fun.
Fun, my fucking ass.
The past four years had been a never-ending cycle of yanking the bad boys of Wayward Lane out of one rockstar fire and preparing for the next one.
“What do you mean he’s disappeared?” I barked in response. “You accompanied him from the dressing room directly to their VIP room. How could he have disappeared?”
A year ago, I’d asked my boss, Regan, to take me off Iain’s detail. I couldn’t handle the lead guitarist’s Houdini hijinksanymore. Or his endless flirting. Not that I minded much of the latter, and hell, he flirted with everyone. But it wasn’t smart or professional.
So, I switched to guarding the band’s singer, Brodie James. At least Brodie had grown some common sense. Of course, that could be because he was recently married to his former manager, Ivan Cross. To say Brodie was protective of his husband was putting it mildly.
For a while, my work stress had lowered. Iain was someone else’s problem.
But a month ago, there was a break-in at Iain’s Nashville home, and Regan put me back on Holloway duty. My blood pressure had never been the same. Lately, my face was as red as the hair on my head.
And I had red fucking hair.
Iain was a free-spirited imp who chafed at any kind of authority figure. Rules and safety protocols? Iain ignored—and fought against—most of them.
What he needed was a good, hard spanking to put him to rights.
Not that I would ever say that out loud, or my boss would kickmyass.
And I was still working out how to get through to Iain. He didn’t take me or any of his security staff seriously, and as the band’s popularity rose, the stakes got higher. It wasn’t just a matter of being unexpectedly approached by one rabid fan for an autograph. It was getting swarmed and injured, or worse.
It happened at a nightclub in New Orleans back in October when a drunk hit Iain in the face. I’d been guarding Brodie and Van, but when I heard my boss's SOS call, my blood turned to ice. Just thinking about it now, about something bad happening to Iain, had me sweating like a marathon workout.
All a perp needs is a split-second opportunity to get close. To inflict harm.
And my job was to anticipate those threats.
Even if the biggest one came from the person I was guarding…
“He found a way to sneak out again, boss. None of the guys in the band know where he’s at. I swear, I only turned my back for a second.”
I had a good idea where Iain was at. He was getting sucked off by some groupie backstage or just outside the building. I’d found him in that same scenario so many times that if you asked me what Iain looked like, I could accurately describe his dick and balls to a sketch artist.
And yeah, he had a pretty cock. And balls.
Not that I paid attention. Or that I should be thinking about that.
Ever.
