Page 9 of Layla

John

The first thing I do when I’m back in my own room is a make myself a strong drink. I usually completely abstain from alcohol on the job, but that’s not going to fly tonight. I’m way too amped up to try to sleep without something to take the edge off.

Fuck, I think as I sink into the couch. This whole thing is starting to feel like a colossal mistake.

The job itself doesn’t seem all that complicated. Louis has these guys on a pretty strict schedule, which makes watching Layla a hell of a lot easier. And it’s clear that I have both his and the label’s support in doing what I need to do to keep her safe. The fact that they’re all determined to keep the situation from the band is a wrinkle, and, frankly, seems just about impossible to pull off. But that’s not what’s bothering me.

I can’t get the image of what she looked like when I showed up at her room out of my head.

The girl that I saw backstage before their encore was every bit as beautiful as she had looked in her pictures. Except the pictures really hadn’t done justice to her hair, which cascaded over her shoulders in a mass of blonde and pale pink waves. Her black leather pants may as well have been painted on with how tight they were, and the straps on her tank top had been miniscule, showing off miles of creamy smooth skin. I have no idea how she managed to operate the kick-drum wearing those sky-high stilettos, but she had. The girl was a fucking blur on those drums.

But when I knocked on her hotel room door, if I had been expecting to come face-to-face with the kick-ass, take-no-prisoners rock chick from earlier, I would have been vastly surprised. She had barely looked like the same person. With her wet hair and face scrubbed of all that colorful makeup, she was clearly just out of the shower. And she was shorter, much shorter without her heels. In fact, she looked smaller all together in that fluffy terry-cloth robe. Smaller and plainer and so fucking beautiful she took my breath away.

Never in my life had I felt more compelled to get closer to someone and to run away at the same time. And that feeling didn’t go away throughout the meeting with her manager. Beneath all of her brash bravado, Layla is clearly freaked out by what is happening. And knowing that inspires the kind of protective urge in me that I haven’t felt in years. I’m absolutely certain that this woman needs me. That I have to help keep her safe.

But how can I do that when I’m so undeniably attracted to her?

I polish off the whiskey and go back to the mini-bar to pour another. “You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter as I add a few ice cubes. So the girl is hot. She wouldn’t be my first attractive client. Since going into private practice three years ago I’ve protected my fair share of actresses and trophy wives to the rich and important. One of my clients was a Victoria’s Secret model, for God’s sake. And I’d never had a moment’s difficulty in keeping things professional. I had a job to do, and I always did it well.

But none of those women had ever called to me the way Layla Perry does.

Before I can come close to figuring out why that is, my cell phone rings. I pull it from my pocket, frowning when I see my father’s contact on the screen. What in the hell is he doing up this late? With a rush of worry, I bring the phone to my ear. “Dad?”

“John,” he says, his voice just slurred enough for me to know exactly what’s prompting such a late call.

“Hey,” I say, trying not to sigh as I sink back into the couch. “How’s it going?”

“Called to ask you that,” he says, and I hear the rattle of ice cubes in the background. I set my own glass aside, the whiskey no longer appealing in the slightest. “You taking the job?”

We’d spoken earlier in the day, when I’d been on my way to the airport to head out here. He’d already expressed his displeasure, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear more of it now. “I am.”

“So you’re going to spend the month following some spoiled little pop star around the country, keeping a bunch of teenage boys from getting too close. You really think that’s the best use of your skill set?”

“Did you need something, Dad?” I ask, unable to keep the tightness from my voice. “Because it’s pretty late and I have an early morning.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Busy, important day ahead of you. Real fulfilling work.”

“More fulfilling than what I was doing before,” I snap, regretting it the second the words are out of my mouth. There’s just no point bringing this up with him, especially not when he’s been drinking.

“You listen here, Johnny,” he slurs. “Just because you had some hard times doesn’t mean you just throw away a decent job. You had a purpose on the force. You had the chance to make a difference.”

Jesus. I’ve heard this speech a hundred times and I just don’t have the patience for it tonight.

“Dad, I have to go. You take care of yourself. Lay off the scotch.”

I hang up before he can answer, tamping down the surge of guilt I feel. Time was, I’d let him rant at me for hours if that’s what he felt like doing. But my patience is running thin these days. Not to mention the fact that I’ve been up since six and I flew eighteen hundred miles today.

Yet despite my exhaustion, the thought of falling asleep sounds even more impossible now than it did a few minutes ago. I glance at my nearly empty glass. Just one more wouldn’t hurt. I head back to the mini bar and curse when I realize that I’m out of ice. I’ve never been a fan of whiskey straight up, so I grab the bucket and my room key and head out into the hall.

And walk straight into Layla.

“Shit,” she gasps, stumbling in her heels. I use my free hand to steady her, then scowl down at her. She’s gotten dressed since our meeting, now decked out in jeans and a sparkly tank top. She’s wearing makeup, too. It’s pretty obvious that she’s ready to go out.

I scowl at her. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?”

She doesn’t look the slightest bit guilty at being caught. She merely scowls right back. “I was going downstairs for a drink.”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough about security protocols,” I say, which is total bullshit. She knows this is against the rules. I lean down a little closer, putting some steel in my voice. “Let me reiterate, you don’t go downstairs for a drink or for anything else. Not by yourself. You don’t leave your room by yourself. Not at night. Not ever. Is that clear enough?”