Page 18 of Layla

“John. You iron creases into your slacks. I wouldn’t be surprised if you ironed that tie. I’m pretty sure you part your hair with a ruler. I bet you’ve never broken a rule in your life.”

For the first time since I met him, John laughs. Not just a polite chuckle—he really laughs, tilting his head back against the couch and everything. His laugh is deep, and warm, and it hits me right in the gut.

“I can assure you, Layla, that I have broken plenty of rules.”

It’s the first time he’s ever used my first name. I probably shouldn’t like the sound of it coming from his mouth so much.

“Now those are the stories I want to hear.”

He smirks over at me. “Absolutely not.”

I make my best pouty face, the one I’ve used a million times to get some unsuspecting random in the bar to buy me a drink. “Please?”

“No way. I have a feeling it’s going to be hard enough to get you to follow my instructions without giving you a bunch of ammunition about my past.”

“You have to give me something,” I say. “You probably know tons of stuff about me.” His eyebrows go up but he doesn’t respond. “Come on. Like you don’t have a whole dossier of research on me.”

John’s lips twitch. “A dossier? I think you watch too many movies.”

“You haven’t done research on me?”

“I didn’t say that. I just said I wouldn’t use the worddossierunless I was in a spy movie or something.”

He’s teasing me. Huh. I kind of like that, too. “What would you call it then?”

He thinks for a moment. “A folder.”

I snort. “What kind? Are we talking a flimsy file folder? Or something more substantial, like a three-ring binder.”

He laughs again, more softly this time. “I promise you none of my folders are flimsy.”

I’m enjoying this little banter so much that I almost forget the subject we’re dancing around. Almost. I shift in my seat, looking away from his twitching lips. “So, uh. What kind of stuff is in that folder?”

I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. “Mostly basic information. Your career, your schedule. A bit about your general behavior and patterns.”

My eyes snap up. His expression gives nothing away. “My general behavior and patterns?”

He shrugs. “You like to go out. You like dancing. It’s not really a big deal.”

I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than he’s letting on, but I don’t push it. That’s not the stuff that I’m uncomfortable with him knowing, anyhow. You could glance at any gossip piece ever written about the band and find a mention of my partying and penchant for casual hook-ups.

I run my fingers over the label on my bottle, picking at the edges a little. “And what does it say about me from before I joined this band?”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment and my stomach drops. So it is in there.

His voice is surprisingly gentle when he finally answers. “There’s mention of your foster mother, Delilah.” A pause. “And a bit of information about what happened to you before you went to live with her.”

I close my eyes. It shouldn’t bother me this much, him knowing about that stuff. Everyone in the band knows, and Louis too. But that’s different, somehow. Those people are my family, the only family I’ve ever really had, with the exception of Dee. I know with total certainty that none of them would use that knowledge to hurt me or judge me. I don’t necessarily think John would use it against me, but I still don’t like him knowing.

I don’t want him to feel sorry for me.

“I think you’re right,” he finally says, his voice much more neutral than it was before, much more like the emotionless security guard I met yesterday. “I do know quite a bit about you. I guess it’s only fair that I tell you something about me.”

I look up, surprised, and see that his face is back to that expressionless mask. Except for his eyes. His eyes still look warm.

“Really?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Why not?”