Page 35 of Layla

Louis continues with the meeting and I find my attention returning again and again to Layla. She’d been happy when she arrived with Haylee, smiling and looking more at ease than I’ve seen her since the incident at the club. But now her expression has gone tight, her face pale. She’s nervous about the club thing, too.

When the meeting wraps up, Louis gestures for her to hang back. The others are arguing about food again and no one seems to notice when she doesn’t walk out with them.

“I wanted to see how you’re feeling about the club opening,” he says, and her shoulders stiffen. “You don’t have to go, Layla. In fact, I think it’s probably better that you don’t.”

Layla’s expression goes from worried to annoyed. “And what are you going to tell everyone?”

Louis shrugs. “We can tell them you’re sick—”

“That excuse is going to get pretty old,” she mumbles. “Haylee is already suspicious.”

“We can say you have a solo interview,” he suggests. “A feature about women in drumming. Or come up with something else. Either way, it will be fine.”

Her hands clench into fists on the table. “It’s not right that they all have to go to work and I don’t.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Again, it’s a night out drinking and posing for a few pictures. It’s not a hardship on them, Layla.”

“It is when it’s our only night without a show for four days,” she snaps back. “They’re all tired, Louis. Why should I get to chill in my room when they don’t get to?”

He sighs before turning his gaze to me. “I think this is John’s call,” he says.

Layla scowls. “Like hell it is.”

“It’s a security issue,” he snaps. “John decides security issues. You agreed to that.”

She won’t meet my eye. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say softly. “This is a publicized event. If this guy could find you in a random club…” I don’t finish the sentence, but I know she gets my point. It would be easy for the asshole to know exactly where she’s going to be and when at an event like this where the whole point is to promote their presence.

She blows out a breath, looking defeated. “Fine.”

“Layla,” Louis begins, but she stands, already heading for the door.

“I said it’s fine.”

Louis’s shoulders slump as she walks out and he turns tired eyes to me. “We should talk about the rest of—”

But I’m already standing. “I want to make sure she gets to her room. You know what she’s liked when she’s pissed.”

He rolls his eyes and mutters, “I sure as hell do,” while I stride from the room.

I find Layla standing in front of the elevator, arms crossed. She looks up as I approach, her entire body tensing. “I can get to my room, John.”

I stick my hands into my pockets, standing back to give her some space, and don’t answer. Ever since the disaster at the club, I’ve been telling myself over and over again that I need to do a better job keeping my distance. My jealousy that night had put her in danger. Layla needs me to be on my game, and the only way to do that is to keep myself detached. Guarding someone gets so much more difficult when there’s an emotional attachment. I know this.

So why in the hell is it so difficult for me to stay professional around her?

The elevator dings and Layla steps inside. I follow her, moving to the opposite corner. A man runs into view, holding out his hand to stop the door from shutting, and I immediately step forward to press the door close button. “Grab the next one,” I say, my voice gruff, then step back into my corner for the ride up.

Layla throws a glare at me over her shoulder as we begin to move. “That guy recognized me,” she says. “And now he’s totally going to think I’m a snob.”

I shrug. “I don’t really care.”

She turns back to the mirrored doors, and I can see her jaw clench in the reflection. She refuses to meet my eyes in the mirror and when the elevator stops on our floor, she stomps off of it without a word. I follow a few steps behind her all the way to her door. “Mind if I take a look inside?”

She pulls a key card from her pocket, shoving it at me, and I think her hands might actually be shaking in anger. I open the room and walk inside, scanning the space quickly before checking out the closet and bathroom. Clear.

I step back into the hall, gesturing her in. “You’re all set.”

“Thanks,” she says, sarcasm dripping from the word. “What would I do without you?”