He glanced back to where Ricky was dragging Paris down the stairs. I could hear him shouting about his girlfriend getting groped.
Fuck. The shit was about to hit the fan.
The bouncer signaled his man by the stage to grab Ricky. The front man interrupted the song to ask Paris if she was alright. The drummer slammed his cymbals with a deafening crash.
“What are you talking to her for?” the drummer yelled into his microphone.
Laughing hysterically, Paris released Ricky and ran up to me. “Are you as messed up as me? Let's get out of here.”
Ricky went straight to the towering underwear model who was too busy gawking at the complete breakdown of the band to pay much attention to Ricky yelling at him. The drummer was now wielding his stool like a club and chasing the front man back and forth across the stage.
All of that, I assumed was real. I was pretty sure the koala bear riding on the drummer's back, however, was just the drugs.
I protested as Paris grabbed my hand. “But the show's just getting good.”
She laughed and yanked me toward the side door. We burst into the alley and ran out onto the street. A passing cab honked and slammed on its brakes. Paris ran up and drummed across its trunk until the driver jumped out. He yelled as she spun on her high heels, and we ran across the four lanes of traffic to the Western-themed bar.
“Howdy, boys,” I said as we ducked behind a group of cowboy wannabes.
There were shouts from across the street, and it was impossible to tell if it was Ricky, the fighting band members, or the angry cab driver. Either way, it was fucking hilarious.
“I'm not going home with Ricky tonight,” I told Paris suddenly. “And I'm not going back to my grandfather's house either.”
“Who says we're going home?” Paris winked at me. “I think we might need to buy some cowboy boots and dance until dawn.”
One of the men we were hiding behind tipped his hat and smiled as he looked down at us. “Sounds like a plan, ladies.”
I blinked as his white hat became a puffy owl. Fuck. I was afraid its sharp beak was going to peck at me.
“Why does everything have feathers?” I asked in a not-so-quiet whisper.
Paris peered at his hat, her eyes wide. Suddenly, she shrieked. Flapping her arms she stumbled back and almost fell into traffic. The cowboys stared at her, but I wasn't sure which they were more concerned with, our sudden fear of hats or the fact that Paris was flashing all of them her very skimpy pink thong.
Once the owl turned back into a hat, it struck us both as insanely funny and we took off down the street. Before we'd gotten too far, our high heels caught on the rough sidewalk, and we both stumbled. Somewhere in my brain, a warning voice told me we were garnering too much attention. Too much male attention, and not every set of eyes wanted to take care of us.
Shit. We needed to get out of here.
“Hang on, hang on,” I said, fumbling with my phone. “I can take care of us, I can call your driver.”
Ten minutes later, her town car found us sitting on the curb transfixed by the 'Don't Walk' sign. The driver opened the car door and waited for us to drag ourselves inside. He wasn't as nice as my driver. He would've helped us in. My eyelids were so heavy, and I had to fight an epic battle to keep them open as I looked up. I held one eyelid back with one hand while I shook Paris with the other.
“Is our food ready?” she asked.
“We gotta get in the car,” I said.
“You mean we're not in the drive-thru? Oops.” Paris giggled.
We climbed in the car and rolled down the windows. Hot air poured into the air-conditioned car.
“I'm glad you came back, my little Lee-town.” She giggled as she said the nickname she'd given me when we were five. “Nobody makes a wild night like you. What made you change your mind?”
“My grandfather,” I said, feeling myself starting to lose my fun buzz. “He worries about me, thinks I can't take care of myself. So he hired a bodyguard to follow me around.” I folded my arms and stuck out my bottom lip, feeling more like a child than I had in years. “Can you believe that? Like I need a bodyguard.”
“Yeah.” She gave a firm nod. “You showed him. I mean, we had a great time and we're getting home safe.”
“And nothing bad happened,” I said.
Paris laughed. “Yeah, it's not like we took drugs, almost caused a riot, and then got attacked by a cowboy's owl hat.”
“Exactly.” Something caught my eye. I tapped on the divider for the driver to stop. “And we're still better off than him.”
Ricky was wrapped around a stop sign, too drunk to stand without swaying. He was searching his pockets for his phone but apparently could only use one hand because he needed the other to hold himself steady. The town car slowed, and we watched his contortionist moves for a minute before lowering the window.
“Hey, hun, need a ride?” I asked, unable to stop myself from laughing.
“Hey, babe.” Ricky staggered toward the car, managing the last couple feet in a crawl. He climbed in beside me and curled up next to me. “You forgive me?”
“Sure.” I sighed. “Why not.”
Chapter 9
Haze
Blake came by to congratulate me a few days after our night out at the Corner Tap, and my little encounter with Tara. He caught me working out with my free weights on the back patio of the renovated barn. At least I could still lift. No matter how depressed I was over the shit-hole my life had become, I at least could keep myself from getting out of shape.
“Impressive,” he said, leaning against the screen door.
“Just getting back to it,” I said.
“You're really nailing down the 'positional' part, huh?”
I knew my mother and sister had forwarded him all the notes from Dr. Bouton and my brother-in-law was well-versed in the inner ear damage explosives could cause. Though he'd never pushed it, Blake had treated a few patients with the same type of vertigo. I was grateful he only brought it up casually with no lingering note of advice to follow. But I knew if I needed him, he was there.
“Yeah, getting easier,” I said.
I tested myself every evening. Certain head positions triggered the overwhelming vertigo, so I'd taken to recording videos of myself flexing and turning my neck to see exactly what angles troubled me. Not only did it help me avoid the dizzy spells, but it also stretched out my stiff neck. I'd refused to move it normally since I'd woken up, not wanting to risk a dizzy spell.
“Just don't take up yoga,” Blake said, a frown settling on his face.
“Why? You thinking of trying yoga?” I asked. I grinned at the thought of my tough buddy taking yoga.
He came inside and took a seat in one of the wide Adirondack chairs on the patio.
“Your sister's taking pre-natal yoga, supposed to help with back pain and labor. Whatever she wants,” he said. He gave me a serious look. “You don't argue with a pregnant woman. Especially if she's a Welch.”
“Not joining in?” I asked, putting down the weights and sliding into the chair next to him.
“Nah, but it's all the craze in California,” Blake said.
The mention spun my mind back to that short leave I took. I could still see the sun glinting off the open ocean, the surfers in the water through the dusk, and the long crowded stretches of the Pacific Coast Highway.
And those bright blue eyes.
“You miss it, don't you?”
“I was only there a few days,” I said, intentionally keeping my eyes on my hands. “Why do you ask?”
“Thought it was worth asking, you know, before your family plans the rest of your life out for you here.”
I could tell there was something else he wasn't saying, but I didn't push him. I was curious, but I knew he'd let me know when he was ready.
I sighed. “You just keep trying to get rid of me, huh, brother? First you ditch me at the bar...”
He laughed. “Me? More like you got out of there as
fast as you could. What was her name again?”
I remembered but didn't want to say. Tara had called me, but I hadn't returned her calls. I knew it was sort of a dick move, but I hadn't wanted to string her along. A clean break was better, especially now that I knew I couldn't be with someone without thinking of...her.
Despite my father's efforts, I was staying off Fort Riley's radar as well. I wasn't looking for a desk job or a pension. I wanted to be left alone, and the renovated barn's obscure location was becoming less of an inconvenience and more of a positive.
“I'll take your silence to mean you won't be joining me in town for another drink tonight.” He stood up.
“Sorry.” I shrugged. “It's just not my scene.”
He gave me a knowing smile. “Maybe if there was an ocean view and a sea of Hollywood hopefuls?”
“Why do you keep bringing up California?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.
“A man with a California ID was asking about you around town,” Blake said. He shrugged. “Maybe nothing.”
“Asking about me?” I looked up at him. “How do you know he had a California ID?”
“The sheriff's a friend. No one in town was inclined to tell the stranger much. Especially about a local hero.”
“Military?” I asked.
“No, civilian, maybe a lawyer or something. Nice suit, nice car, you know the type. And I'll take a rain check on that drink.”
After Blake left, I went back to my workout. Except I was so distracted by the thought of someone looking for me that I tipped my head too far to the right. The vertigo hit and I let the heavy weight crash to the patio.
I felt as if a tornado had inhaled me and any moment I would crash to the ground. I reminded myself that what had occurred to me lately, as I watched the video recordings of my positional tests, was that the feeling was literally in my head. My body didn't react, didn't become unbalanced, unless I let the sensation convince me I was moving.
“You're not falling,” I muttered. I closed my eyes, my hands squeezing into fists.
I must've stayed there for a full two minutes, but when the feeling subsided, I opened my eyes. I stretched my cramped fingers and saw the half moon marks of my nails on my palms. I was going to conquer this, but it was exhausting. I left the free weight on the cracked patio and headed inside the renovated barn. I'd take care of the damage later.
The knock on the door was brisk and loud, impossible for me to pretend to ignore. I gave the couch one more wistful look and turned to answer the door. The man in the dark suit had his fist raised to knock again, but instead held it out as a handshake. I crossed my arms across my chest and waited.
“My name is Davis, James Davis. I work as a personal attorney for a man named Devlin Pope. Are you Cormac Welch?” he asked.
I gave a short nod, but didn't say anything.
“You're a hard man to find, Mr. Welch. After searching for quite a while, I finally met a friendly redhead who told me you were in town.”
Tara, I thought. Maybe I should've returned her calls.
“Like I said,” Mr. Davis continued. “I work for Devlin Pope. He sent me to find you. Does the name Ian Machus ring a bell?”
Something about the name was familiar, but I said nothing.
“Ian Machus is Devlin Pope's grandson, his late daughter's only son. He enlisted in the army and was injured on his first assignment, surviving only because of you.”
“Mr. Pope already did more than necessary. Please thank him for me,” I said. I wasn't trying to be rude, but I hadn't been happy when I'd found out that some hotshot had pulled strings to get me into Cedar-Sinai.
“Mr. Welch, there's more.”
I tightened my arms across my chest. Mr. Pope must have spent a fortune on my private medical care. Now he sent this obviously successful lawyer all the way to Kansas to find me. How many billable hours did that take? And why the hell wouldn't he just leave me alone?
“By all means, come in, Mr. Davis,” I said, resigned.
Mr. Pope had sent the man across the United States to find me, the least I could do was make him earn his pay. I gestured to the couch and headed into the kitchen.
“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Davis?” I asked.
“No, thank you. I don't wish to take up too much of your time.” He popped open his briefcase on the wide coffee table.
I grabbed a beer and came back to sit on the arm of the couch across from him. As much as I wanted to be alone, I was raised to be polite.
“As I said, Ian Machus is Devlin Pope's only grandson, and no words can express his gratitude for what you did,” Mr. Davis said.
“My duty,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “No thanks necessary.”
“Actually it's not thanks that I want to offer,” Mr. Davis said. “Mr. Pope would like to offer you a job.”
“A job?” I asked, sure I'd misunderstood. I'd expected...well, I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but employment definitely hadn't been it. “I'm not much for the corporate, suit-wearing type of life.”
Mr. Davis smoothed his immaculate tie. “Mr. Pope believes you have other skills that he would like to put to good use.”
“Skills?” I asked. “I'm not sure what Special Forces training would be applicable to the life of some Hollywood business type.”
Mr. Davis reached into his briefcase and brought out a thin folio. “Mr. Pope would like you to consider a career in personal security. His idea for your duties, and the description of your position is outlined in here. Please note the salary and benefits package laid out on page five.”
I let him drop the folio untouched on the wide coffee table. “A bodyguard?”
“And more,” Mr. Davis said. He flipped open the folio to the job description and tapped a long bullet-point list with his pen.
I glanced at it and let out a low whistle. “Poor Ian Machus. This is a pretty short leash.”
Mr. Davis smothered a smile. “It's not for Mr. Machus. You'd be providing personal security for his sister, Devlin Pope's only granddaughter.”
“Available twenty-four seven, accompany everywhere outside designated residences, track if necessary,” I read, then looked up. “Is she some sort of criminal mastermind under house arrest?”
The man's smile broke through and he said, “Ms. Machus is the product of a large inheritance and a comfortable life. Mr. Pope would like you to provide any self-preservation and common sense her privileged upbringing failed to instill.”
“And Mr. Pope is okay with this description of his only grand-daughter,” I asked.
“Those were Mr. Pope's words exactly,” Mr. Davis said. “The position provides room and board plus a generous expense account.”
“In Los Angeles?” I asked.
Mr. Davis looked around the renovated barn. It was stylish and comfortable, but his eyes still saw what it was: a barn in the middle of nowhere Kansas.
“Los Angeles may be an acquired taste, but it is a world class hub of culture,” Mr. Davis said.
It wasn't the culture I was thinking about. LA was far from Kansas, the desk job at Fort Riley, and the constant ministrations of my overly concerned family. I loved my family, but I needed space.
It was strange, I thought, that LA could offer space that Kansas couldn't.
“I'll take it, Mr. Davis. When do I start?”
Chapter 10
Leighton
“Hello, Ms. Machus, nice to see you again.”
Mr. Davis smiled as he left my grandfather's study. He was one of Grandfather's main lawyers, the one who took care of most of the important stuff Grandfather dished out. I frowned. It was past dinner. What could have brought him there so late?
“Is everything okay?” I asked, suddenly worried.
It was strange. After my parents died, I spent the next four and a half years acting like nothing bad could touch me. Ian was injured but survived, and now every little thing was making me think that something had gone wrong.
Mr. Davis stopped
a few steps down the hallway and smiled again. “Yes, actually. Thank you. I just returned from a successful business trip and wanted to give your grandfather the news in person.”
“So it was good news?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. He glanced down at my outfit. “Going out?”
I was wearing a low-cut light aqua blue dress. The material shimmered under the hall lights as did the matching sequined fronts of my high heels. I checked my smoky eyeliner and curled eyelashes in an antique mirror. The effect was dramatic, and perfect for the underwater theme of the nightclub Paris and I would be visiting tonight.
I smiled. “Of course.” I glanced at the door. “Is he in a good mood?”
Mr. Davis chuckled and shook his head. “Enjoy your freedom, Ms. Machus.”
I frowned as the lawyer left. That hadn't sounded promising. When I turned around, my grandfather was waiting with his office door held open.
“Good news,” Grandfather said. He had that smile on his face that meant something had gone his way. That happened a lot, and it rarely meant anything good for me. “I've hired the perfect bodyguard for you.”
“You already told me,” I said with a sigh. “The man who saved Ian.” I scowled. “I guess that means I have to be nice to him.”
Grandfather frowned, his eyes flicking down to my dress and shoes. “You're going out.” It was a statement rather than a question.
I spun on my high heels and stalked out of the office. As I went, I threw a last comment over my shoulder. “Guess I better get my fun in before my warden arrives.”
I wasn't really surprised when I didn't get a reply. One call from Grandfather and my driver would refuse to start the car. But, when I bounced down the front steps, the car door was open and waiting. I tossed my tiny shell-shaped purse on the far seat and slid inside. As the car pulled down the driveway, I remembered what Grandfather had said about paying people to keep an eye on me. I guessed he figured he could keep that up until this guy arrived.
During the entire ride to the nightclub, I kept expecting to hear my phone vibrating. I assumed Grandfather was perfecting the text message lecture, and though I decided I would make a point of ignoring the content until the very last moment, I was shocked when no message arrived. If I hadn't known about the arriving menace, I would've almost thought Grandfather was letting me be an adult.