Page 49 of Layla

John

Iam in so far over my head. That basic fact runs through my mind again and again over the next few hours. How in the hell did I mess this up so massively? I’m supposed to be a professional. I’m supposed to have control. Yet I stuck my tongue down the throat of the woman I was hired to protect. What the absolute fuck?

Even as I berate myself for my inappropriate and unprofessional behavior, the kiss doesn’t feel like the worst part. Leaving her does. It felt like shit—wrong and cruel and completely against any of my natural instincts.

But my natural instincts don’t seem to be working too well where Layla Perry is concerned. So even when I heard the obvious hurt in her voice I still left, despite the fact that everything in me was screaming to turn around and finish what I started.

Jesus, I kissed aclient. A client that I have to live in extremely close quarters with for the foreseeable future. A client that is in very real danger and relying on me to be sharp, to be on my game. To keep her safe.

How in the hell am I supposed to do that when I can’t stop imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t left her room?

I don’t see Layla again until it’s time to head to the venue for rehearsal. I wait to walk her downstairs, hoping we can talk—though God knows what in the hell I should say to her—but Haylee gets there first, knocking on her door while I hover in the hallway. If Layla sees me when she lets Haylee in she doesn’t acknowledge me at all and she slams the door behind her friend immediately. The two stay inside until all the rest of the band has gathered in the hallway, then join them for the trip downstairs, effectively thwarting any chance I had to speak with her privately.

I can’t help but wonder if she called Haylee over on purpose, just to make sure that would be the case.

I know I’m right when she completely ignores me for the rest of the day. She’s with the band constantly, at the venue, in the car on the way to the radio spots, at sound check. I haven’t seen her this social with her bandmates since I first arrived but she’s constantly with one of them the entire day. And when we’re in the same vicinity, she refuses to meet my gaze.

I make my rounds backstage during sound check, meeting with the venue staff and the rest of my team. The setup here is pretty solid—it’s a newer building which means there aren’t as many hidden doors and winding hallways as you find in the older theaters and concert halls. Plus, the security system is state-of-the art, one of the few places that actually has metal detectors and bag checks at the door. I should be feeling good about things.

I am not.

I’m doing a final sweep of the back hallway before the band finishes sound check when my phone rings. The name on the screen surprises me. I consider ignoring the call but I haven’t talked to Tim in ages. And I find myself really wanting to talk to my best friend now.

“Tim,” I say. “How the hell are you?”

“Well if it isn’t Johnny Whitmore,” he says in that familiar jovial way of his. “I haven’t heard your voice in a long fucking time.”

“Been busy.”

He snorts. “Aren’t we all. So, what’s up, man? How’s the security world treating you?”

“Just peachy. How’s…what the fuck ever you’re doing these days?”

He barks out a laugh. “Property development,” he reminds me. “I can’t complain. Money’s good.”

“Can’t ask for more than that.”

Once upon a time, wedidask for more than that. Both of us. We didn’t just want a paycheck out of life. Tim and I grew up together, were basically inseparable our whole lives. So it was no surprise that we signed up for the service together. Young and idealistic, we were both committed to serving our country, to serving a cause greater than ourselves. And we’d actually believed we’d be able to do it.

How things have changed.

“So, I hear we might be in the same neighborhood,” he continues.

“Yeah? Where are you?”

“Miami.”

“Seriously?” I ask, surprised. The last I heard Tim was headquartered in Vegas. “What are you doing out here?”

“Had to meet with some clients. The whole wine and dine thing, you know how it is.”

I don’t, actually, but I don’t tell him that. It’s only just now dawning on me that Tim already knew I was here. “Who told you I was in Miami?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

“Talked to Frank.”

I bite back a groan, leaning my head back against the concrete block wall as I close my eyes. Of course he’d talked to my dad.

“He’s not too happy with you,” Tim says cheerily.