Page 78 of Layla

“I thought my ass woke you up,” I call back, getting to work on the coffee maker.

“You took your ass away,” she replies. “So, I’m grumpy again.”

“Coffee’s on the way,” I assure her. While it starts to brew, I look around for my phone. I hadn’t brought it to the bedroom—probably because Layla had started ripping my clothes off the moment we got to her room last night. I see my pants slung over the couch by the door and grin to myself, remembering just how they had got there.

Then I freeze.

There’s an envelope on the floor just in front of the door, as if someone had shoved it through the crack. My stomach immediately drops. No one is supposed to have access to this floor. Only the band, Louis, a few select crew members, plus my team. And if any of them needed to get something to Layla, they would have called her, right?

Maybe it’s just a note from Haylee or something, I reason as I cross the carpet and kneel in front of the door. But why in the hell would Haylee give her a note in a manila envelope?

I pick it up by the corner with suddenly shaking fingers, trying to touch as little of the envelope as possible. I tear the corner off, not wanting to get my finger prints on the metal fastener. The piece of paper falls out easily and I catch it by the corner. A wave of nausea flows through me as I look at the contents, followed by a sharp stab of rage.

It’s another picture. Layla is laughing in this one, her head thrown back. And I’m standing next to her, looking at her face, all the adoration I feel for her shining in my eyes. We’re holding hands.

In spite of the anger and horror I feel, my training kicks in, brain immediately going to work analyzing the shot. A city street, the sidewalk crowded behind us. Her hair is up in a messy bun. I catalog the clothes we’re wearing, the shadows around us indicating late afternoon. New Orleans, I’m sure of it. Which would mean this was taken a few days ago. And then delivered here, in Texas. Three hundred miles away.

He followed her here. He got close enough to her on the street to take this and then followed her here. And somehow got onto her floor. Got all the way to her door.

I’m having trouble breathing through my rage. I want to find this guy. Want to rip his fucking arms off for threatening her. Want to fire every person on my team for allowing him to get this close. Tear down the whole damn hotel for whatever security lapse had allowed him to step foot on this floor.

“Coffee done?”

I turn to see Layla standing next to the counter, dressed in my undershirt from the night before, the long legs that I love bare as her hair tumbles around her shoulders. Then her eyes narrow on me as she takes in my position on the floor.

My first instinct is to hide the letter. I can’t stand the thought of the fear I know she’ll feel when she realizes what happened. But there’s no way I can wipe the anger from my face and her eyes widen as they trail from me to the piece of paper clutched in my hand. “Where’d you find that?”

Fuck. I can’t lie to her. “It was pushed under the door.” I stand, trying to force myself into action, force myself back to the job. “I’m calling Louis.”

Her wide eyes are fixed on the photo. “You can’t,” she says, reaching for my arm. I give her an incredulous look and she gestures at the picture. “We’re together.”

It takes me a second to realize what she means—we’re obviously holding hands in the picture. And the text on the back—the part she hasn’t seen yet—makes explicit mention of her “new boyfriend” and what the asshole plans to do about it. It will be obvious to anyone who sees this that our relationship is no longer strictly professional. “Layla.” I try to keep my voice gentle. “It doesn’t matter, baby. Louis needs to see this.”

She’s shaking her head, her eyes wide and scared. “But he’ll…he’ll know. And then they’ll fire you and…” I can see the panic rising in her eyes, the way she’s breathing hard and fast. For the first time since I’ve known her I think she might be on the verge of losing it.

“Hang on,” I say, moving to the kitchen area and rummaging through the drawers until I find what I need—a spare plastic bag meant for the ice bucket. I slip both the envelope and photo into the bag, still careful not to touch more than a corner. Then I turn back to Layla and the sight of her makes my stomach drop. She has a hand pressed over her eyes, shoulders rising and falling with each rapid breath. “Hey.” I pull her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin in that place she fits so perfectly. “It’s going to be okay.”

Her voice is muffled against my chest but I can still hear her panic. “If they fire you…if they make you leave…John I can’t—”

It hits me then—she’s not freaking out because of the picture. She’s freaking out over the possibility of losing me. I squeeze her tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But—”

I cut her off. “Layla, I really don’t think they’ll fire me but even if they do, it doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving you.”

She pulls back enough to look up at me, her eyes wide and filled with fear. “You’re not?”

I shake my head. Does she really not understand how entwined I am with her? “This stopped being about a job for me a long time ago,” I say roughly. Of course, it would be easier to help her if I was still employed by the label. The thought of not having control over her security team makes me sick. But there’s nothing they can do to keep me away from her, not if she wants me at her side. And as long as I’m at her side, I’m taking care of her.

“You would stay with me…even if they fired you?” She sounds uncertain and hopeful all at the same time.

I manage a grin, even though I still feel angry enough to break things. “Sure. I’ve always wanted to be a groupie.” She chokes out a laugh and I kiss her nose. “I’ll keep following you around just like I’m doing now. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

She breathes out a shuddering sigh. “Call Louis.”