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“Right, yeah,” he looks amusingly awkward as he realises where he is and backs out again. “Good luck,” he mumbles.
“You’re meant to say break a leg.”
“Donotbreak a leg. Lance will kill me if I take you home broken.”
Of course. Because Brent doesn’t care. He’s off back down the corridor to wait for me in the bar. I have twenty minutes before I’m due on stage, so I do my usual preshow routine. I warm up my voice, stretch my limbs, drink half a bottle of water, and use the bathroom.
The DJ introduces me and I walk out onto the stage as the band take their places, my smile is stretched wide and I wave to the crowd who are all cheering emphatically. “Hi, beauties! You guys ready to get bumping and grinding?”
They are loud in their agreements and I shake my butt as the opening beats of Christina Aguilera’sDirrtystart and I sing, channelling my inner Xtina. I dip it low, spread my knees, and push back up to standing, all while holding my mic and belting. There are the usual wolf whistles, screaming and cheering, and men making lewd gestures. I thrive off it. Smiling and winking flirtatiously as I sing. I make my way into the crowd from the stage and right into the throng, they surround me, arms in the air, bodies writhing, and alcohol fuelled dancing. I can feel Brent’s eyes on me the whole time, which only makes me dance a little sexier and push my chest out a little further.
I am so lost in my song that it takes me a few seconds to realise that I am surrounded by people, barely an inch of space around me. For the first time since starting my career, I feel uncomfortable within my audience. I keep going, trying to figure out the best route back to the stage without looking awkward. An arm hooks over my shoulder from behind and then crosses my chest and it pulls me back to a dark apartment, to the gut-wrenching panic of being dragged kicking and screaming to a fate unknown. They’re touching me, I don’t want them to touch me. Please don’t grope me, not again, I can’t handle it again. I scream, mid-chorus and drop my mic when I struggle out of the embrace. An instinct in me makes me drop to my haunches and cover my head with my arms.
A few screams cut through the silence as the band, the backing track stops, and then I can feel a warm and looming presence next to me. I look up to see Brent standing by my side, he’s holding some guy by the front of his shirt until his feet dangle off the ground. That must be the guy who had held me, out of the panic I can rationalise that he had been dancing with me and I may have flipped out slightly.
Brent has a face of thunder, vibrating with angry energy as he seethes. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“I…I…I…”
“You do not get to touch what isn’t yours!” He bellows.
A couple security guards come running into the much wider circle that’s formed around us, pulling the terrified man from Brent’s grasp. They start to admonish Brent but he ignores them completely, sweeping me into his arms bridal style and carries me right out the front door.
I wake up groggy the next morning. Last night, Brent had taken me straight back to the apartment without saying a word on the journey. He asked me if I was okay when we walked through the door and as soon as I had confirmed that I was, he nodded and went to his room, leaving me reeling. I slept in Hayden’s room but for no longer than an hour at a time. I kept waking in a cold sweat, reliving the panic.
It’s only seven when I give in and get up. I make my way out to the living room to find the sofa unslept on. I knew it. I jump slightly seeing Brent in the kitchen already, he is leaning against the counter and looking at me like he’d been waiting. He looks me up and down and gives a small nod as though approving my outfit, which makes me check my leggings and tank combo.
“Go pack a change of clothes, be quick.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go back into your room, put another set of clothes into a bag, do not take too long, and then return to this exact spot.” He speaks slowly as though telling a child. Eurgh,rude.
For some inexplicable reason, I follow his orders, packing a pair of jeans and a large knit jumper in my trusted duffle, along with clean underwear…hoping I don’t need it. Once back in the kitchen, Brent takes my bag and opens the front door, ushering me out. In the hall, he strides ahead of me to the lift and I boil.
“Are you going to say anything to me?”
“What do you want me to say?” Annoyingly calm.
“You want to tell me where we’re going? Or maybe why you flipped out on that guy last night and then refused to speak to me?”
His jaw ticks as I get on the elevator behind him. “I was doing my job, I did not flip out, and you will find out where we’re going when we get there.”
I decide I’m in a mood, so I sit in his car and stew as he drives me across the city. We pull up to an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city in what looks like a sketchy neighbourhood. He retrieves my bag from the backseat and, to my utter shock, takes my hand in his and pulls me to the door of the encompassing brick building. I can’t focus on where we are as I stare at his skin on mine. His big, rough, inked hand completely envelopes my much smaller one. I imagine what that would feel like against the most sensitive areas of my skin.
I am torn from my naughty ponderings by the sound of leather hitting vinyl. Looking round, we seem to be in a gym of some sort. Not the high end, air conditioned, modern gym that I am used to but a large open space with two full sized boxing rings in the middle with rows of punching bags down one side, and floor mats covering the floor along the other side. Everywhere I look there are half naked men; they obviously all went to the same school of walking around shirtless as my new-old roomies. There isn’t an ounce of fat to share between them, all sweat slicked and every single one of them have bulging muscles and chiselled abs. Brent is not the tallest in the room; I don’t think a single one of them could be under six foot. One man walks past us, looking down on Brent with a nod in greeting; I put him to be near on seven feet.
What the fuck am I doing here?
“Hey, Briggs, where’s Ruby?” Brent calls to one of the guys bashing his bandaged fists against a black punching bag. He jerkshis chin toward one of the rings where two mountainous men are attempting to beat the shit out of each other. It’s not boxing, they’re not limiting themselves to fists. It looks like WWE…but not fake.
Brent pulls me along behind him with his hand still wrapped around mine, between the two rings, on the other side, people are leaning on the ropes watching the fight.
“Ruby,” Brent calls and a woman steps from behind a muscular figure out.
I am not generally that way inclined but fuck, this chick is hot. And short. In a sea of giants, she stands at no more than five foot four. Her sleek black hair hangs in gentle waves past her shoulders. Unlike Hayden’s inky locks, I feel hers are coloured. That theory is confirmed when the harsh halogen lighting hits her head at the right angle and it shines blue. She has pale skin and bright blue eyes with naturally deep pink lips, there’s a silver ring through her septum and she is makeup free. The muscles are evident throughout her body, and she shows them off wearing nothing but an electric blue sports bra and tiny black cycle shorts. Her entire right arm is covered in ink that disappears under her bra and comes back out to cross her stomach like a sash before dipping beneath her shorts and then covering her left leg. She looks badass and honestly, my lady parts are reacting.
“Hey, you!” She smiles brightly at Brent, which cools my jets slightly.
