Broken: (McIntyre Security Bodyguard Series - Book 3) Read online

  I get curious stares from the other band members, a scowl from Dwight, and absolutely nothing from Ruben, who completely ignores us as he butters a roll.

  I smile as I sit. “Hi, everyone.”

  “Excellent,” one of the guys says. He’s blond, with gorgeous, Caribbean blue eyes and surfer-boy good looks. “I was afraid you were going to say she’s your date.”

  “Forget it, Dylan,” another guy says. This one has brown hair and brown eyes. He’s good looking, in a boy-next-door way. “You don’t have a chance with this girl.”

  Esperanza smiles warmly at me from the doorway. “Welcome to the family, Lia. Please, help yourself. There’s always plenty to go around.”

  I smile back. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Jonah says. “Esperanza’s an incredible cook.”

  A giant salad bowl makes its way around the table, as well as the platter of pot roast and vegetables, rolls and a crock of fresh butter. Obviously these guys eat well. There’s a happy, low hum around the table as the guys discuss the flight from LA, how long it was, how bad the snacks were, how many drinks Ruben had on the flight. And then there’s a loud discussion about the guy who hogged the bathroom for much of the flight.

  As we eat, Jonah points everyone out by name, starting with the hot blond. “Dylan is our drummer. Travis plays guitar. And next to him is Zeke, who plays bass guitar.” Zeke has midnight black hair. “And that’s Ruben, our sound engineer. And last but not least, of course, is Esperanza, who takes good care of us all.”

  The guys are all in their early twenties, considerably younger than Jonah, who’s twenty-eight, and far younger than I would have expected. But with all their tattoos and piercings, they sure look the part of the rocker.

  The guys all talk over each other as they stuff their mouths and drink from beer bottles. Esperanza presides over the table, always hovering, always on the ready to jump up and get anything for anyone. She gets up from the table at least a half-dozen times to run back to the kitchen for something. She’s like a dorm mother to them all, which is fitting since the guys remind me of college frat boys, carefree, living the good life, mostly out to have a good time. The only one I can’t read well is Ruben. He’s far too quiet and is taciturn and brooding.

  Esperanza is clearly the mothering type. She’d changed out of the austere taupe pantsuit that she wore on the plane into a loose-fitting maxi-dress with a vibrant, red and black geometric pattern.

  After we indulge in a delicious meal, Esperanza brings out the pineapple-upside-down cake, which is still warm, to a very appreciative audience. I swear, these guys must eat their bodyweight in food. If they eat like this all the time, it’s a wonder they’re all in such good shape.

  When the meal ends, the guys take off to the media room in the basement to play video games. Dwight remains at the table, settling in with a fresh cup of coffee and a copy of the Chicago Tribune, while Jonah and I start carrying the dirty dishes to the sink.

  “Oh, you don’t have to bother yourselves with that,” Esperanza says when we carry in our first load. “I’ll take care of the dishes. You two go, have fun.”

  “It’s the least we can do,” I say, setting down a stack of dirty plates on the counter near the sink. “Thank you for a delicious meal.”

  Her face lights up with a smile, and her dark eyes sparkle with genuine pleasure. “Thank you, dear.”

  I get the feeling this woman doesn’t hear those words often enough. While she starts rinsing off the plates and loading the dishwasher, Jonah and I make short work of clearing off the dining room table. Dwight’s still seated at the far end of the table, engrossed in the newspaper he has spread out on the table in front of him. He’d shoved his plate and utensils aside, and his hand is wrapped around his steaming cup of coffee.

  “You missed one, Lia,” he says, turning the page and smoothing out the paper. He tips his head at his discarded plate and silverware, then peers up at me expectantly. I swear, would it kill him to get off his ass and help?

  I think this guy takes way too much pleasure in pushing my buttons. “What’s wrong, Dwight? Are you too good to take your own plate to the kitchen?”

  He frowns at me, his lips thinning in a compressed line. “You’re costing me a fortune, Lia. Make yourself useful.”

  Oh, he did not just say that. I cross my arms over my chest and glare down at him. “Are you serious?”

  Jonah walks into the dining room. “Serious about what? What’d I miss?”

  I scowl at Dwight, but bite my lip. I don’t need anyone fighting my battles for me, least of all Jonah. “Nothing. You missed nothing.” I pick up Dwight’s empty place setting and brush past Jonah to carry it into the kitchen.

  I half expect Jonah to follow me, but he doesn’t. Curious, I glance through the open door into the dining room and see Jonah having a quiet word with Dwight. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Dwight’s face is flushed, and he’s glaring defensively up at Jonah. When Jonah catches me watching them, he smiles, then claps Dwight on the back in a friendly good-old-boy gesture. Dwight doesn’t seem to appreciate the overture and he shrugs away from Jonah, his jaws tight.

  Esperanza comes up behind me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, Lia. Dwight’s an ass to everyone.”

  I snort with laughter. “I can’t help it. He rubs me the wrong way.”

  “He rubs everyone the wrong way.”

  Jonah joins us in the kitchen, an innocent smile on his face. “If you’re free, Lia, let’s head to the studio. I just need to run upstairs and grab a guitar.”

  I nod, only too happy to put some distance between myself and Dwight. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Chapter 11

  The ride to the recording studio is uneventful, once we make it past the gate. Thank goodness for the security guys manning the property. Otherwise, we’d never be able to get through the gate without running over a few fans, and that would be bad.

  “So, how long have you all known each other?” I ask Jonah. “You and the rest of the band?”

  Jonah fiddles with the radio, checking out the local stations. “The record label hired the guys about two years ago, when they signed me. They’re young, but they’re good guys, all of them. We have a good time together, and they’re excellent musicians.”

  “Tell me about Makayla. Is she someone I need to worry about?”

  “I hope not. She’s back in LA. She’s the reason I wanted to get out of there. Her behavior had become increasing inappropriate, shall we say. I caught her leaking personal information about me to the tabloids.”

  “Define inappropriate.”

  “I found her naked in my bed a few times after we broke up. The guys and I share a house back in LA, and she’d sweet talk them into letting her in. I got tired of kicking her out of my bed. She just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “She didn’t handle your break-up well?”

  Jonah chuckles. “She claims we’re just taking a break. She’s in total denial.”

  We park in the rear lot behind the recording studio and walk to the door at the back of the building. Jonah presses a door bell to alert the security guard to our arrival.

  “At least there’s some security,” I murmur, looking around the empty parking lot.

  The door opens and a white-haired man pokes his head out and smiles. “Good evenin’, Mr. Locke.”

  “Hi, Bob,” Jonah says as we step inside.

  The building is quiet and most of the lights are out. There are four recording studios in the facility, one of which Jonah has rented for the duration of his stay in Chicago. It looks like the place is empty right now, except for Bob.

  The four recording studios branch off a central hallway, two studios on the left and two on the right. We walk down the dimly-lit corridor to studio two, and Jonah punches a code into an electric keypad to open the door. The door opens into a small vestibule, and through that doorway we enter the main control room. One wall i
s filled with an electronic control panel with what looks to be hundreds of little switches and slider bars. Over the control panel is a large picture window that overlooks the sound booth.

  Jonah flips on the overhead lights, and the place lights up, revealing a rather outdated space. The floor is covered in an olive green carpet that surely dates back to the ‘70s. There’s a well-worn brown leather sofa, a pair of upholstered arm chairs and a large wooden coffee table with names carved into the top. The place smells old and musty, tinged with the odor of old cigarette smoke.

  “Ugh! You couldn’t find anywhere better than this dive?” I say.

  He chuckles. “I know, it’s rough. But the acoustics are great. Make yourself at home. There’s a small kitchenette with a vending machine and a restroom through that door there. I’ll be in the sound booth, here.” Jonah points through the window at a padded room with several mic stands, stools, and sheet music racks.

  I take a seat in a large, overstuffed black leather chair at the recording console. While Jonah gets comfortable in the sound booth, I check out the control panel, which is a confusing mess of electronic switches. But the boards are not on, so apparently he’s not planning to actually record anything this evening.

  After dimming the lights in the recording room, I return to my chair and get comfortable. I have a feeling we’ll be here for awhile. Jonah sits on the other side of the viewing pane on a tall wooden stool in a pool of warm light shining down from an overhead spotlight. He pulls a music stand close, which holds a pad of paper and a pen. He props his acoustic guitar against his jean-clad thighs.

  I figure I have the best seat in the house because I have a direct view of him. Since the control room is dark, and he can’t really see me through the glass, I’m free to look my fill. He’s not hard to look at. In fact, I can’t help staring. Watching him sitting there on that stool, tuning his guitar, does things to me. I feel warm suddenly, as my body responds to him. I feel an unfamiliar ache down low in my belly.

  The microphone must be open, because I can hear him plucking the individual strings on his guitar as he tunes them by ear. Then he strums a few chords, testing his work. Apparently, he’s satisfied with the results, because he starts playing a familiar song.

  It’s one of my favorites of theirs, one of their slower songs. It’s almost a ballad, but it still has enough rough edge on it to avoid being sappy or sweet. It’s an earthy song about a man in love, a man in pain because the woman he wants doesn’t return his affections. The song sounds so different with just Jonah on the acoustic guitar. Without the drums and the bass, and his band members singing back up, it’s almost a different song altogether... more intimate, more sensual.

  I love watching the expressions on his face as he sings. My gaze zeroes in on his mouth, and I watch his lips form the words. I watch his arms as he plays the guitar, as those sinewy muscles and tattoos bunch and flex. A shiver courses through me, and I mentally shake myself.

  He runs through a few more numbers, all of which I recognize because they’re all sitting on the music charts right now, in the top twenty. Eventually, he starts tinkering around on his guitar, trying out different chords and different notes. I can hear him trying to tease a melody out of a variety of notes, and I realize he’s writing something new. Occasionally he stops to make a notation on the pad of paper propped up on the music stand at his side. He’s alone in there, with just his guitar and a pad of paper, and he seems quite content. Cooper was right. Jonah doesn’t seem to fit the mold of a rock star, whatever that mold is supposed to be. He seems more like a loner. Like me.

  I’m perfectly content to sit in my swivel chair, with my feet propped up on the control panel, and listen to the music coming through the speakers. Jonah seems lost in his own world, and he pays me no attention, which is fine. Having some quiet time to spend alone with my thoughts is a good thing. The melody he’s working on starts to come together, and I begin to recognize pieces and parts of it as he repeats them in different combinations. It’s a ballad with a poignant, simple melody. I’m curious to find out what the lyrics will be.

  My musings are rudely interrupted by the muffled sounds of voices in the hallway outside our door. I can make out two voices – a male and a female – in heated discussion. The voices grow louder, and the woman starts to get shrill.

  “Jonah! Jonah, where are you? I know you’re here, damn it! Open the door, right this minute!”

  Since the sound booth is also soundproofed, Jonah’s oblivious to the outburst in the hallway. But I can certainly hear her. I have a sinking suspicion that whoever she is, her presence can’t be good news.

  I can hear someone working their way down the hallway, systematically knocking on doors. Whoever she is, she sounds determined.

  “Jonah! I know you’re in here somewhere! Open up!”

  I consider simply ignoring her, hoping she’ll go away. I really don’t want to deal with any drama – and this woman is definitely drama.

  Finally, she pounds on the door to Jonah’s studio. “Jonah, open the door! I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

  I reach down to my ankle holster and pull out my handgun and tuck it into the back waistband of my jeans.

  When I rise from my chair, Jonah’s head snaps up and he looks at me. I shrug at him and point toward the door. When I open it, I come face to face with someone I never thought I’d see in person. Makayla Hendricks. Shit! What’s she doing here in Chicago? She’s supposed to be back in LA.

  Behind her, Bob the security guard stands flustered, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m sorry, miss,” he says, peering at me from behind Makayla. “I tried to stop her, but she just wouldn’t listen.”

  Behind Bob is a young woman with long black hair, straight as a stick, and a huge bruiser of a bald muscle guy – apparently Makayla’s own bodyguard.

  My gaze goes back to Makayla Hendricks. She’s gorgeous, I have to give her that. Her long, sleek brown hair which normally hangs down to the middle of her back, is up in a high ponytail that looks like it’s sprouting right out of the top of her head. Her complexion is the color of cafe au lait, soft and smooth, and her dark eyes are lined in khol. She’s beautiful, exotic, and apparently spoiled rotten – according to the tabloids. She’s dressed in a glittery halter top, a black leather mini skirt with black fishnet hose, and black knee-high boots with wickedly pointed heels. Around her slim neck is a stunning diamond choker that surely costs more than most people make in a year.

  I look past her at the security guard. “It’s okay, Bob. I’ll handle this.”

  Makayla’s eyes narrow as she glares down at me. With her spiky, fuck-me heels, she’s at least five-ten. “Who the hell are you?” she says, propping her hands on her half-naked hips as she stares down her nose at me.

  I smile, enjoying this way too much. “Who the hell are you?”

  She frowns. “Don’t get smart with me. Answer the question. Where’s Jonah? I know he’s here.” She peers over me into the studio. “Jonah!”

  “How do you know he’s here?”

  Her dark eyes narrow. “That’s none of your business. Where is he?”

  Jonah reaches over my shoulder from behind and opens the door wider. “Makayla, what are you doing here?”

  Makayla breaks into a beatific smile at his appearance. “Hi, baby!”

  “Why are you in Chicago? You shouldn’t be here. We talked about this.”

  Her smile transforms into a sex-kitten pout, her glossy lips plump and poised for attention. “Don’t be silly, baby. Of course I’m supposed to be here. Dwight arranged everything. He invited me. You and I are going to perform our duet at the show Friday night. We’re going to do our song.”

  I look back at Jonah. “What show? No one said anything about a show.”

  Jonah exhales a rough breath. “It’s news to me, too,” he says, clenching his jaw.

  “Don’t be silly, baby,” Makayla says as she pushes past me and wraps her bare arms around Jonah’s nec
k. “The two of us, together on stage again... it’ll be perfect. The fans will go nuts. We’ll be Jakayla again, just like before.” She leans forward and plants a wet one on him before he can react.

  I can’t help chuckling. “Jakayla? Seriously? You mean like Brangelina or Bennifer?”

  Jonah pulls back from her and glares at me, clearly not amused. “Shouldn’t you be doing something about this?”

  I smirk at him. The woman’s clearly not armed – I can practically see every fucking inch of her barely-clad, svelte body – so she’s no physical threat to Jonah. I suppose I could intervene on his behalf, put some distance between them, but watching him squirm is far more entertaining. “You act like this is my fault.”

  She moves toward him again, in hug mode.

  “A little help here, Lia,” he mutters.

  I smile and bat my eyes at him. “I don’t know. I think you’re handling her just fine... baby.”

  Makayla frowns at me. “Jonah, who is this bitch? I don’t like her.” She studies me for a moment, cocking her head, her expression pensive. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

  My heart skips a beat, and for a moment I can’t fucking think straight. Recognition is my biggest fear – that someone will recognize me from the damned video, even six years later. The thought that Makayla might put two and two together makes me ill.

  Jonah lays his hand on my shoulder. “Lia’s my bodyguard. Watch how you talk to her.”

  Makayla’s eyes widen. “She’s a bodyguard? Are you kidding me? She’s just a child.” She raises her hand imperiously. “Seriously, Jonah, I don’t like her. Get rid of her.”

  “Makayla, you need to leave.” Jonah walks the pop diva back to the doorway, where Bob and her entourage hover anxiously. “Bob, Makayla was just leaving. Would you see she and her companions find their way to the nearest exit? Thanks.”

  “Jonah, we need to talk, baby,” she says, as Jonah carefully, yet firmly, pushes her through the door.

  “No, we don’t. We’ve done all the talking we’re going to do. You need to leave.”