Page 79 of Layla

Layla

Less than three hours later, I’m on a plane with John. But we aren’t heading back to LA with the rest of the band.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Louis so angry. Not even the time Lance got completely shit faced before an important gig and puked right on some radio bigwig’s shoes after the set. When John called him to my room this morning, he went ballistic. He was on the phone with the label within seconds, demanding that they get the hotel manager fired and put pressure on the feds to get to the bottom of this. Once he hung up, he looked between me and John, his eyes narrowing.

“I want to talk to you alone,” he said to me.

I’d refused. “You can talk to both of us. Whatever is happening between me and John isn’t up for debate.”

He had held by gaze for a long moment, as if arguing something in his head. Finally, he’d nodded grimly and stormed off, presumably to go rip the hotel manager a new one.

“You okay?” John asks for the hundredth time and I tear my gaze away from the clouds outside my window to scowl at him.

“How many times you going to ask that?”

Like usual, he doesn’t seem at all affected by my attitude. “Until I’m sure the answer is yes.”

I sigh, my annoyance deflating. I know he’s stressed. Hell, stressed is an understatement. I’ve never seen him this worried—or this pissed off. It was his idea that I head to Dee’s house outside of Detroit instead of following the rest of the band back to California. He said he thought that seeing her would help me feel better, but I’m pretty sure he just suggested it because it feels safer to hide away on her farm than to endure the frantic pace and crowded streets of Los Angeles.

John reaches over to take my hand across the arm rest, and I try to let myself relax into the touch.

“Excited to see Dee?”

I don’t know if excited is quite the right word. Relieved is probably more accurate. “Sure,” I say, trying to keep things light. “You’ll probably be bored, though. She lives in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but fields and forests for miles.”

He shrugs. “I happen to like fields and forests.”

“You know it’s going to be cold there, right?”

He rolls his eyes. “Cold in Michigan in December? Yes, Layla. I figured that.”

“Smart ass.”

He shakes his head at me. “I grew up in Indiana. I’m very familiar with Midwest winters.”

I scrunch up my nose. “I didn’t know you grew up in Indiana. I thought you were from Cali.”

His face looks a little tighter than it had a moment ago. “I’ve lived in LA for the past few years, since I went into private security. But I grew up outside of Indianapolis.”

I let my eyes scan his face before drifting down to his body. “You probably played football in high school, didn’t you?”

He snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, I did. What of it?”

I sigh. “I can’t believe my boyfriend’s a jock.”

I watch as his expression freezes and I realize what I said. “Sleeping with,” I blurt out quickly. “Sleeping with a jock. I know you’re not…you know. My boyfriend. I mean…” I trail off, looking away and wishing I could go hide down in the luggage hold. I’m babbling. In front of a guy. Who in the hell am I right now?

John slips a finger under my chin, tilting my head up to look at him. He’s smirking. “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, Layla Perry?”

I groan, pushing his hand away. “I hate you.”

He leans down and kisses me, swift and hard. “No, you don’t,” he whispers against my lips.

And he’s right. Damn him.

The label arranged to have a car waiting for us at the airport. While we walk through the crowd toward luggage claim, John keeps a steady hand on my elbow, his eyes scanning the area, clearly in bodyguard mode again. It’s kind of hot to watch—the dark flash of his eyes as they scan our surroundings, his big body coiled and tense as he evaluates the scene. He looks determined and professional and entirely capable of taking a man’s head off with his bare hands.

It would be totally sexy. If, you know, he wasn’t on the lookout for a crazy stalker trying to get to me.