Page 8 of Layla

They continue as if I hadn’t made a noise. John has pulled a small pad from his pocket and he’s jotting down notes. “What happens on performance days?”

Louis drones on about our schedule, what’s typical for us and how that changes depending on whether we’re staying overnight in a city or driving straight through after a show. “So glad I’m here for this,” I mutter, taking a sip of my drink.

John turns his attention to me. “How often would you say you go out after shows?”

“Most nights.”

“Alone or with bandmates?”

“Both.”

He nods, making another note. “And how often would you say you interact with strangers while you’re out?”

I glance over at Louis. “Is this really necessary?”

Louis opens his mouth to respond but John holds up a hand. “Miss Perry, I understand this is an uncomfortable situation for you. You don’t want someone following you around, cramping your style. But you need to understand that my first and only priority is keeping you safe. That’s the job I was hired to do, and that’s the job I intend to accomplish. But I cannot do that if you spend all your time questioning my decisions.” His eyes are intense on mine and for some unfathomable reason, I feel a flush coming to my cheeks. “I don’t want to be your babysitter,” he goes on. “But I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. If you’re not willing to follow my rules, you need to tell me right now so your label can make other arrangements.”

I just stare at him, unsure of how to respond.

“This is serious, Layla,” Louis says, his voice tense. I look over and see that same fear that’s been haunting his eyes for the past few weeks. “You know what can happen when we brush off these threats.”

A memory of Haylee in the police station after her attack flashes through my mind. Her eyes wide with panic, her mouth a set line. The way she had clung to James when he got there. She hadn’t even been able to talk, she was so afraid. And she had gotten out without being hurt, at least not physically. She had been lucky.

As I look at Louis’s grim expression, I know he’s remembering the exact same thing.

So I draw in a ragged breath and turn back to John. “Fine,” I say, dread filling me at the words. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”