Page 12 of Sangre
“I thought about it but didn’t think it would be professional to talk about it at the venue.”
“And ogling me was supposed to be professional? Please.”
“You’re a pretty woman, and I’m a man. So there you have it.”
A pink flush colored her cheeks and chin. “That’s it?”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Did I?”
She glanced at her hands in her lap, squirming a bit in the chair. Sangre liked that she was nervous and that he was most probably the cause of it. She looked up and captured his gaze. “No, you didn’t. You should’ve just said something, that’s all.” Turning away, she dug through her large purse, took out a bunch of letters, and handed them to him. “These are what I’ve received just in the last week. I have to admit that I’m real spooked. I mean, I’ve received letters before from fans but never at this intensity or frequency. It’s just damn scary. People are so nuts nowadays.” As she chewed on the side of her thumb, all he wanted to do was to pull it away from her mouth and tug her to him, just to hold her close, stroke her hair, and tell her it’d be all right.
He looked at the letters. It seemed like they were all sent by the same person. Every one of them were written on notebook paper, and they all had a postmark of various towns in the surrounding area. Each of them had hearts next to the name,Your Best Fan.
“You never got these in LA?”
“I received a few in the last year that were very similar to these, but I didn’t think anything of them. I get fan mail, emails, tweets, and Facebook posts from people telling me they love me, think I’m great, and other things. I never got any bad feelings about them… but these”—she waved her hand over the letters—“are in a category all of their own. I know it’s the same person who wrote those few fan notes last year because the hearts are exactly the same.”
“Do you have those?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t bring them with me.”
“That’s convenient,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What? You think I’m making this shit up? Why the fuck would I do that? I’m not in the habit of throwing away my money.” She grabbed the letters and shoved them back into her purse. “I’ve made a mistake. I’ll just go to the cops.” As she stood up, he rushed over to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, gripping it.
“Calm the hell down. I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re overreacting.”
Staring hard at him, she unloosened each of his fingers then pushed his hand away from her. “Didn’t you know I’m a nut case? Yeah… I had a bona fide breakdown. So maybe I am imagining all of this. Oh… wait… maybe I’m the one writing the letters without knowing it. Yeah, a real wacko.” She sank down in the chair and put her hands over her face.
Sangre stood there watching her. Regret left a bitter taste in his mouth. He ran his hand over her hair; it was soft and silky.Why the fuck did I have to say that to her?“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he grumbled then went back behind the desk.
Isla Rose peeked through her fingers. “Do you think I’m imagining all this?”
He didn’t know what to think. If he were being honest, at first he absolutely did; however, as he watched how upset she was, and after reading the content of the letters himself, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Before he answered, she put her hands back in her lap.
“No.” Of that he was certain. She didn’t strike him as a nut job, and he’d seen his fair share of those over the years. “I really don’t think you’reimaginingany of it.” Now, whether she was just making the whole thing up for publicity… well, that was another story.
“I guess we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just really stressed today because recording didn’t go so well.”
“Are you recording at The Spots studio?”
She gave a weak smile. “Yeah. It’s a killer studio, and Terry Z is beyond awesome, but he’s a taskmaster, that’s for sure.”
“I’ve heard that,” Sangre replied. Located at the foot of the San Juan Mountains, The Spots Recording Studio was opened by Terry Z, the lead guitarist from one of the biggest bands of the 1980s. Musicians from all over the world came to record at his studio. “It’s cool that he agreed to record Iris Blue.”
“It’s actually a huge compliment, and we’re eternally grateful for the chance to work with him. It’s a major boost to our egos.” She took out a pill bottle and shook some out into the palm of her hand. “Do you have any water?”
“Sure.” He went over to the mini fridge and took out a bottle. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to her. She put the pills in her mouth, took a gulp, and threw her head back as she swallowed.
“So, how does this work?”
Looking into her eyes, he paused. In the sunlight, the color of her blue eyes were too vivid. Her fingers tapping on the desk drew him back to her question. “We provide twenty-four seven bodyguard service. That means we’re your shadow. When you’re recording, if you feel safe there and don’t want our man inside, then he’ll wait in the lobby. At your house, we’ll watch from outside unless you want us to be indoors with you. It’s imperative that you get an alarm system—”
“I already had one installed. I bought the house about five months ago. The rest of the band came out a couple of weeks ago to start recording. The letters started up about that time. I feel safe in my home, but knowing that one of your men is watching the house makes me feel a lot safer.”
“This guy may back way the hell off once he sees our presence. It happens like that a lot of the time. These jerks are bullies, and when they see someone challenging that, they ease off and move their attention to someone else.”
“I hope that happens in my case. It’s just a scary, vulnerable feeling to know someone is out there watching me, knowing my every move and making plans to strike, and I don’t have a damn clue when or where. He has all the power.”
