Jaded Hearts Read online

  Avoiding eye contact, I trail my eyes back down until I see the sizable thickness behind his jean zipper. You can tell the man isn't hard, but my guess is he's just ... gifted.

  Damn. I fight not to squirm in my seat. Whoever this guy is, I wouldn't mind unwrapping the present he promises to be. He looks like he belongs on the cover of one of those corny romance books Dyllan is always reading.

  Feeling a sharp tug at my hair, I look over my shoulder at Luke. His lips are pressed tight in an obvious struggle to hold back a laugh if the crinkling at the corner of his eyes is anything to go by. He gives a nod of his chin in the direction of Hotty McBulgePants, and I reluctantly look back, this time up into his eyes and not his dick.

  "I asked if you had finished your interview so that I could help escort your guests out," the stranger questions me. His features don't change in the slightest, giving me no hint of his feelings.

  Ignoring him, I look back over at Casey. "Did you get enough?"

  She nods, looking more uncomfortable now. "I think I can get the rest I need from your manager. Dates and information on the last few weeks of your tour so we can highlight them in the piece."

  "If you'll follow me," Hotty McBulge demands of her, not moving to the side when it becomes clear he hasn't given them much room to exit the living room. "Make sure you have everything that you brought up with you, please. We will not be granting access again, regardless of what you try to conveniently forget in hopes of getting back up here."

  "I ... I ..."

  His eyes narrow, stopping her before she can finish.

  "If you would walk back to the chair you were just sitting in, you can pick up your recording device as well as your personal cell phone and the keys that you placed on the side of the couch. Your photographer can also go back to where he was standing by the kitchen island and pick up the coat that I just saw him stuff under the chair in front of where he had been standing. Like I said, you won't be coming back up for any reason, so planting something here would only result in that item being placed in the trash."

  Blushing profusely now, she quickly gathers up each of the items he called her out on and hurries out the door. He walks behind them, only returning after the door had clicked securely shut.

  "Holy shit, man! How did you even see all of that?" Jamison asks when the man walks back into the living room area.

  "Training," he answers in a bored tone. His eyes sweep over the room, alert and calculating, before settling his attention on my brother. "My employer called ahead and told you I would be a little early. I trust that isn't an issue?"

  "You're with Corps Security? Out of Atlanta?"

  "Correct."

  "I didn't think you would be here for another hour or so, man. Sorry, I know that wasn't something you had to do just now, but thanks."

  "Does the label normally schedule your interviews without making sure adequate security is present with you?"

  Jamison and Weston laugh, Luke grunts, and I couldn't help the snort that escapes me even if I had wanted to.

  "The label only gives us security when we're going out in public, traveling, at a venue, and that's about it. Once we're inside the hotel, we get no one."

  "You're telling me that they get you here and then you don't see them again until you're scheduled to leave?"

  "Got it in one," I smart, gaining his delicious dark gaze. I can't tell the color of his eyes, but I wouldn't mind getting close enough to study this man and find out.

  "And what happens if you want to go somewhere?"

  "Then we go," Luke answers.

  "You go? Without protection?"

  This time, when Jamison and Wes laugh, it holds no humor at all. "They have no problem making a shit ton of money off us, but they don't exactly want to spend it in the process," Wes answers when they stop laughing.

  "You're serious?" He looks around the room, his expression getting colder with each nod of our heads.

  "Why don't you sit down, man? We can fill you in on the past few years with Bitchhouse Records." Jamison points at the couch, and the man moves around, ignoring the couch in the middle of the room in favor of one of the chairs against the back wall.

  "It was my company's understanding that Brighthouse isn't aware that you're looking to acquire your own security detail?"

  "That's right," Wes starts, sitting next to me and causing the cushion to dip.

  I grab his leg to steady myself, my own legs that I had tucked under my body flying forward in an effort not to fall into his lap. I notice the man across from us zeroing in on my palm on Weston's leg, his eyes narrowing so slightly I almost miss it.

  Interesting. Well, it appears that he might not be a robot, contrary to his previous actions and stoic disposition.

  "They've tried, but we've sent away just about every idiot they've tried to hire for our security. It's pointless to keep them around when they're more interested in trying to get some from the groupies that hang around after the show. Not to mention the last bunch who tried to hit on Wren every chance they got. The last guy abandoned his post in our dressing room in favor of fucking one in the bathroom; that's how the last crazy dude got close to Wren."

  He remains silent when Jamison stops talking, looking at me briefly before turning his attention to my brother. "And none of you--besides Wrenlee--has issues with fans taking it too far?"

  "Not any issues that we care to have halted," Jamison answers. I snap my head around to glare at him, and he holds his hands up with a laugh. "What? They want some; I'm happy to help out. I don't want that shit drying up."

  "You're going to get a flesh-eating disease, and your dick is going to rot off, you sicko."

  He looks at me like I've just said the worst thing ever. "If you would give me some loving, I wouldn't have to turn to strangers, Wren."

  "Never. Going. To. Happen." I stress each word and slap away his hand when he reaches up to mess with my hair. "I'm going to go order some food. Anyone else?"

  They ignore me and continue their talk with the man whose name I still haven't caught. The only thing I know about him is the air of danger he wears against the body my own is humming to discover.

  Walking into the kitchen area, I can't decide if I want this man to guard me or if I need to guard myself against him.

  "Tell us a little about yourself?" the one I know as Weston Davenport asks. Now that Wrenlee has left the room, the odd sense of jealousy that I felt after seeing them so close together dissipates, slightly.

  How fucked up is it that I'm jealous of her touching her brother?

  Beyond fucked up, that's how much.

  Cutting off my line of thought, I immediately push it aside and focus on my job--the reason I'm here, the one thing that will hopefully keep me here. I've made peace with the shit that happened back home before I left, but if I get this job, there won't be a chance for me to fuck up again.

  "My name is Chance Nash. Thirty-one, single, no kids. I've worked for Corps Security as head of personal security after spending a handful of years in the Marines. My training as a former Marine was in special ops, specifically dealing with hostages in enemy territory. I cannot give you more details than that, but my employer can verify the training that I gained from that." I take a deep breath before continuing, feeling like an idiot. "I have a background in interrogation, as well as specialized training with various forms of combat and weapons. I did a brief stint as a negotiator for the local PD SWAT team two years ago in my hometown of Hope Town, Georgia, but after some personal issues, I decided that it was best to focus on my work with Corps Security. In all honesty, I needed a change of pace, and when your request came across our desks, I personally asked to foresee this job. Granted that one is offered, that is."

  "Dude, you probably could have just said your name and position at your company, but uh ... thanks?" the blond one, Jamison, says, but I'm not one hundred percent that that is his name. You would have to live under a rock not to know who the members of Loaded Replay are, but I've n
ever really paid much attention to them--past their lead, Wrenlee, that is.

  Directing my attention to the last one who spoke, I continue. "Jamison, is it?" I wait, giving a brief nod when he confirms his name. "Right, well, you should always know all that there is to know about the person or persons in charge of your safety. I'm saving you the trouble of asking, as I'm sure that was coming next ... after my name and position at Corps Security, that is."

  "Right," he continues, deflating slightly. I can tell he's the type of guy who's used to people laughing at his jokes. I should save him the disappointment and let him know he won't get that from me.

  "What makes you think you're the right man for the job?" Weston asks, and I almost cringe. I know I'm right for the job, but after everything that happened back home a year ago, I can't help the little seed of doubt that tries to plant itself inside me.

  "Because when it comes down to it, my clients' lives are the only thing that matter, even over my own, and I'll do anything I need to in order to ensure their safety. If the issues that are of concern remain, I will continue to care for the security, but I will also get to the bottom of the responsible parties."

  They're silent for a beat before the one who had been silent up until this point speaks. "Have you ever failed?"

  "Luke, is it?" I inquire when he finishes speaking.

  He nods.

  "I'm not perfect, but when it comes to what I'm hired to do, my training, and the lives of others--I do the best to be as close to perfection as I can. No one likes to fail, but you would be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn't. Even the best of the best have a black hash mark against him. To answer your question, though, I failed once. I can't tell you how much shame I feel about it, and a lot of the reason why I need a change of pace is because being home reminds me of what was almost lost. I've been told there was no way I would have been able to prevent what happened, no one could have, but that doesn't make it any better. So, with that said, while I might not be perfect, I will do everything in my power to be."

  "Honesty. Not something we've experienced with the last bastards who came up here for the job," Weston says.

  "It's the only way to go into something as serious as personal safety. I'm not looking for new friends. I'm here to do what is needed of me until you no longer need or want me here. Just because I'm not here to be your next drinking buddy doesn't mean I don't care. I guarantee you won't find anyone better than myself or my team."

  "How many men are on your team?" Weston asks curiously, as he leans back in his seat, relaxing slightly. Good, it seems like I've impressed the one I feel is the most important to have on my side when it comes to being hired.

  "Three others. One for each of you. It's my understanding that the main concern is your sister, but I believe that it would be best to have someone for you all."

  "And yourself?" Weston continues, his eyes growing from curious to condemning.

  "I'm here for her and only her. The other men who will be here as well are all highly trained, but no one is as good as I am. You want her to be the main, so the main gets the best. She's the one you have stressed is in the most need of protection. While I trust my men, I don't trust anyone more than I trust myself."

  In their silence, I can hear her tinkering around further in the suite, far enough away not to hear us, but close enough that we're all aware of her presence--being close. I move my gaze around the room, making sure to lock eyes with each of the three men.

  Leaning forward, elbows on knees, I resume. "I'm not here to get my dick wet if that's what your silence is really asking me. I'm not sure of all the details with your past security experience, but I'm here to keep you all breathing and not for any other reason."

  "Are you fans of our music?" Jamison oddly asks.

  "I am." There's no sense in denying it because not many people out there aren't fans.

  "So you're aware of us?" he adds.

  "There isn't anyone around who isn't." Honesty drips from my words. I can tell he isn't asking to inflate his ego; instead, he's trying to ascertain if I genuinely mean what I'm saying.

  "Then you're aware of Wren?" He doesn't have to say anything else for me to catch his meaning. I let the silence linger as I think of the woman in question and how the media has labeled her.

  She's a goddess.

  The unattainable one, according to the world that loves them.

  The woman other females wish to be and the one males crave to be with.

  She's rarely spotted with a man outside of these three, so she's become somewhat of the most eligible bachelorette to their fans.

  She's short, petite, and delicate, like a pixie. Then she opens her mouth, and the raw power and dirty grit that has made her famous knocks you on your ass. She might look delicate, but at that moment, when she's performing, she becomes a delicate little badass. She's a contradiction wrapped up in one hell of a package. One hell of a stunning package.

  "I would lack a heartbeat if I wasn't," I reply, continuing with my honesty. There would be no point in handling their questions any other way.

  "And?" her brother asks, now with a sharpness to his voice.

  "Just because I'm not a blind or deaf man doesn't mean I'm a stupid one. You would be hard-pressed to find someone who didn't feel the same way about her. All I can do is assure you that it won't be a problem." Even though I mean what I'm telling these men, a small part of me can't help but wonder what I would do given the chance to have her.

  "Right," Jamison, the one I can tell is the carefree jokester, butts into the now tense room. Disbelief hangs in the air. "You're aware that we're about to pick up another six weeks' worth of tour dates? We'll keep you on the road with us, and you'll never go home in that time?"

  "I'm aware, and it won't be an issue," I tell him, my eyes moving to Wren when she enters the room.

  She has one hand holding up the ridiculously baggy sweatpants she's wearing and the other carrying a beer. She doesn't give her attention to any of us before sitting down back in the seat next to her brother. Tucking her legs under her ass again, she takes a sip of her drink.

  "No family at home who would need your attention?"

  I had been so busy looking at her that I missed who asked the question, but I give them all a quick glance before answering. "No one besides some close friends, and since they're all connected to Corps Security by blood or marriage, they understand and won't need my attention, as you say. In the last two years, I've been gone from home for all but a few months. They're used to not seeing me around."

  I don't miss the look they give each other.

  I don't miss the look they all give Wren.

  I don't miss the nod of acceptance from her to the men in her life.

  And I don't miss the look of relief when I accept the job they offer me two minutes later.

  The only thing that slipped my attention was the one thing that I couldn't have predicted.

  My life was about to change.

  For the first time in almost ten years, I was about to set myself up to give someone else power over me.

  And I would be powerless to stop it.

  Nothing in the world compares to the feeling you get when twenty thousand people are screaming your name, stomping their feet, and making the air come alive with the power of their excitement. Knowing that they want nothing more than just to see you is exhilarating. That all it takes to drive them to the brink of insanity is to see your face, hear your voice, and enjoy the music you create that will rock them to their very core.

  It's a feeling I don't think I'll ever get used to.

  It's a feeling I hope I never have to live without, but in the same breath, one that I wish I could have just a little reprieve from.

  I could feel them before my feet even left the dressing room. The sounds of pure fan-crazed madness stayed with me while I walked the long corridor that leads from all of the dressing room and storage areas to the belly of the beast, so to speak, under the stage area.

&n
bsp; It was the biggest rush in the world. No high in the world could ever compete with this pre-show adrenaline rush.

  I loved it.

  I hated it.

  Every second of the buildup before a show was euphoric. Every second and every minute of our almost three-hour set was even more so. The letdown, crash and burn, and sweaty, hot mess that would follow in its wake was just as beautiful as the beginning of it all.

  This was our dream.

  This was our life.

  Our completely out-of-control, insane life.

  No matter how much I loved it, though, I still have moments when I wish we were back in some no-name bar just dreaming of the big stage. Where no one knew who you were and still couldn't get enough of your music.

  This has been the guys' and my lives for the last few years, though. And love it or hate it, you don't ever go back to a normal life after finding the kind of fame we have. As soon as Loaded Replay hit the music scene, we have never stopped climbing. We started out as a small house band, hitting every local bar or dive that would have us. There was no active hunt to find what we have now. I think we honestly would have been happy just creating music, no matter what, because we had each other.

  Things got insane when we were first discovered. A sound like ours hadn't existed since the late seventies. Sure, we don't sound exactly like the classic southern rock bands that flooded the music scene back then with heavy guitar solos and drum beats that made your blood flow a little faster--but that's because we sound better.

  I like to think of Loaded Replay as a Lynyrd Skynyrd sound with a new-school twist. Someone once compared us to a Skynyrd and Fleetwood Mac love child. Our new twists and flair are what make our sound unique from that old-school sound. We take the old-school sounds and mix them with the new-school influences of our youth.

  We're pure sex in music form. An orgasm to your ears, if you will.

  Even with all that, though, nights like this remind me that with every high you climb, a downfall is always to be found. The moments that make you wonder if this is something that you can live your life always doing. Those stolen moments make me question whether we could give it up and attempt to live a life as close to normal as we could find.