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

  “You have to talk to me, silly,” she pouts. “We need to rehearse. We’re performing Friday night at some stupid club downtown – it’s some surprise thing Dwight set up.”

  “Apparently, this little plan slipped Dwight’s mind, because he’s not mentioned it to me or the guys.”

  “Well, it’s on,” she continues, “and it’s being advertised all over social media as we speak, so you can’t back out now.”

  As he shuts the door in Makayla’s face, Jonah makes a noise that sounds awfully like a growl.

  “Well, that was fun,” I say. “You’re just full of surprises.”

  He looks down at me, far from amused. “Let’s go. I need to talk to Dwight.”

  Chapter 12

  We lock up and head out. The hallway is quiet once more, and there’s no sign of Makayla Hendricks and her people. On our way out the rear door, Bob apologizes once more for letting her in the building.

  “It’s okay, Bob,” Jonah says, patting the man on the back. “I know how persuasive she can be.”

  On the way back to the house, Jonah’s pensive.

  “Well, that was fun,” I say. But Jonah’s lost in his own thoughts. “You know, all levity aside – and trust me, that was the most entertainment I’ve had in a long time – the security at the studio sucks. No offense to Bob, but he should never have let her in. I’ll have to tell Shane. He’ll either have to augment their security while you’re there, or you’ll have to find new studio space.”

  Jonah nods. “The less I have to deal with her histrionics, the better.”

  * * *

  It’s late when we get back to the house, and Dwight’s in bed for the night. So are Esperanza and Ruben. We find the rest of the band members in the lower level, playing video games in the media room. It’s a sweet set-up down here, with a huge, flat panel TV that takes up half the wall, Surround Sound speakers, and comfy leather sofas. It’s a gamer’s playground. The guys are playing a first-person shooter game, and the sound of gun fire and explosions is deafening. It’s a good thing this place has really good soundproofing.

  The guys plead with Jonah to join them, but he begs off, telling them he wants to finish working on some ideas for a new song. They challenge me to join them, but I beg off too. I’ve got work to do this evening if there’s really going to be a performance Friday night. That won’t give us much time to plan the security.

  Jonah and I head back upstairs, and Jonah walks me to my bedroom door.

  He reaches out and absently tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “It’s late. You should go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He’s standing a little too close for comfort, and I find myself reacting to the scent of his skin and a faint whiff of his cologne. It’s an intoxicating mix. I reach behind me for the doorknob to my bedroom. “Yeah, see ya in the morning.”

  “Thanks for today, Lia.”

  “For what? I was just doing my job.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, and I swear he’s suppressing a smile. “Well, it didn’t suck for me to spend a few hours with you, so thanks for that.”

  “I never suck, Jonah.” I was just trying to be funny, but the joke backfires on me as a wave of heat rushes through me and I feel my cheeks turn pink.

  His eyebrows lift in amusement. “Never?”

  I chuckle. “Go to bed, Jonah.”

  “Goodnight, Lia.”

  I watch him as he heads upstairs, thinking of him all alone up there in his private retreat. I get the feeling he’s a bit of a loner. He’s nothing like what I expected of a rock star. He doesn’t appear to be chasing the spotlight. On the contrary, he tries to keep a low profile.

  After grabbing a quick shower to cool off my overheated body, I put on a pair of comfy knit shorts and a T-shirt, then sit down at the surveillance console and review some of the day’s footage. Nothing unusual shows up.

  After a quick trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I climb into bed and listen to music for a while, hoping it will help me relax. My pulse is still racing – it has been ever since Makayla asked me if she knew me.

  Millions of people saw that damn video before Shane managed to get it pulled off the Internet – which took some serious doing. It took a court order and an entire cyber forensics team to hunt down every copy they could find. Of course they didn’t get them all, and occasionally the video resurfaces on some obscure video file server. But Shane’s IT folks have automated bots looking for the video, and when they find it, they delete it. The thought of Makayla, or Jonah, or any of these guys seeing that video makes me sick.

  I lay there listening to my favorite playlist, my heart still racing. After an hour of this, I accept the fact that I’m not going to be able to sleep. The fucking video is playing in my head now, caught in an endless loop, and it makes me want to gouge my eyes out. I keep replaying the image of myself on top of Logan, rocking on him, looking awkward and so damn unsure of myself. Hell, I was just sixteen years old – far too young to be doing what I was doing. I had long hair back then, and it’s up in a ponytail, bobbing along with me as I move on him. His big hands grasp my hips, squeezing them as he holds me in place. His hips rock as he thrusts up into me. I was so out of my league with him, trying to act cool and pretend I wasn’t scared shitless and hurting.

  I was just a sophomore, and he was a senior. He was the golden boy who could do no wrong. He played every sport known to man, and he played them all well. He was the football team’s starting quarterback, the starting pitcher on the baseball team. He played basketball and soccer. Everyone liked him – the teachers, the students, the parents. And I was a nobody.

  That night, when I glanced down and saw a smear of bright red blood on his abdomen, my blood, I panicked and tried to get off of him. But he rolled us, so that he was on top, and finished himself off, slamming into me with the force of a jackhammer as his bruising hands held my legs wide open. He ignored my tears and my pleas for him to stop. And while the physical pain was bad enough, the sense of betrayal had hurt even more.

  At school on Monday, I thought it was just my imagination that the kids were staring at me, whispering behind my back. Some of them blushed, some of them snickered. It wasn’t until a girl cornered me in the bathroom during lunch and told me about the video that reality began to sink in. At first I didn’t believe her, but by the end of the day, I knew she was telling the truth. All the looks and snide comments and innuendos made it impossible for me to remain in denial.

  The final straw was when the principal called me into his office to read me the riot act. Me! He lectured me for an hour on personal accountability and personal conduct. He never once said a critical word about Logan. I was sent home in tears, feeling sick, and my mother had to pry the story out of me. She’d called Shane immediately.

  God, I want a drink. I want to drown out all the noise, the sick fear of discovery that I feel even now, six years later. I’m not that naive little kid anymore. I’m not! And yet I still can’t seem to escape the sick sense of dread, the hopelessness, the sense of violation. I need to dull the pain. I need to shut it down.

  There’s alcohol in the house – there’s a bar in the library stocked with unopened bottles of top shelf goods – and I’m so tempted to help myself. But I know that way lies disaster. I’ve turned to alcohol too many times to dull the noise in my head, and each time it gets easier and easier to drink my way to oblivion. I saw firsthand what abusing alcohol did to my brother Jake a few years ago, and I don’t want to go there.

  It’s two o’clock in the morning, and Jake’s probably asleep, but I pick up my phone and call him anyway. He made me promise I’d call him if I ever felt myself wanting to slide down that slippery slope.

  Jake answers on the second ring, his rough voice sharp and alert. “Lia? What’s wrong?”

  Of all my brothers, Jake is the hard ass, the tough guy. I guess pain and loss and betrayal have made him that way. For a long time, he lost himself in alcohol, trying to self med
icate and almost got himself killed in the process. But somehow, he made it through. If he can do it, so can I.

  “I want a drink.” I huff out a breath. “I need a drink.”

  He sighs heavily. “What happened?”

  I shrug helplessly, but of course he can’t see that over the phone.

  His voice is low and comforting. “Lia, talk to me, honey. Tell me what happened.”

  “I thought someone might have recognized me tonight. She’s an ex-girlfriend of Jonah Locke’s. She asked me if we’d met before.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “Do you think she put it together?”

  “I don’t know. She said I looked familiar.”

  “That doesn’t mean she connected you to the video. Don’t worry.”

  “I know. It’s just – I don’t want Jonah knowing. If she makes me, she’ll tell him. She’s already made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t like me.”

  “Shane says he’s a nice guy. I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Jonah? Yeah, he is. I just don’t want him to know.”

  “So, what are you going to do in lieu of drinking? Because you’re not going to do that, right?”

  I laugh. “Right. There’s a workout room downstairs. I guess I could spend some quality time with a punching bag.”

  I remember watching Jake pummel a punching bag time after time until his knuckles were shredded.

  “Good choice,” he says. “Call me back if you need me. I’m always here for you, you know that, right?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Jake.”

  Chapter 13

  The fitness room in this place is nicely outfitted. Besides the spacious bathroom, there’s every piece of workout equipment known to man in here, including a regulation punching bag hanging from a reinforced steel beam in the ceiling.

  I put on hand wraps, but forego the gloves. Gloves are for pussies. Jake hits the bag without gloves, so can I.

  I slam my left fist into the bag, which has hardly any give to it at all, and pain shoots up my arm to my brain, setting off fireworks. Good. I superimpose Logan’s face on the bag and start delivering calculated blow after blow. I immediately slip into a familiar rhythm, with a jab, right hook, then four undercuts in rapid succession. As I beat the bag, I focus on the strain of my muscles and the pain in my knuckles, the feel and the sound of my breathing as my lungs suck in air. I alternate between hitting the bag and kicking, letting my mind go and giving myself over to the sheer joy of grueling physical exertion. The harder I hit the bag, the worse the pain in my hands and shoulders, the quieter my head, the better I feel.

  I lose all track of time as I pummel the bag, my fists flying in a comforting routine. Sweat runs down my forehead, burning my eyes, and I brush it away with the back of my arm. My fists are slipping on the bag now, and I realize it’s because my hand wraps are smeared with fresh blood. So is the bag. The thick, viscous fluid trickles down the bag and drips onto the floor. My knuckles are bathed in blood, the red strikingly bright against the white wraps, and I revel in it.

  I learned years ago that external pain masks internal pain. I know some people cut themselves for the external pain, for the distraction, but I can’t do that. My brothers would see the cut marks, and they’d kill me. But I can beat the bag senseless – batter my fists ragged – and no one will question my motives. They’ll just chide me for overdoing it.

  I beat the bag repeatedly in a finely choreographed dance of jabs and crosses, my numb fists flying as fast as humanly possible, connecting with the heavy bag with as much force as I can muster. My arm muscles are screaming in agony now, starved of oxygen. My lungs burn as they strive to draw in more oxygen. But my muscles are burning up the oxygen faster than my lungs can replace it. The more searing the pain, the better. Pain radiates up my arms, swamping my brain with warning signals.

  Strong arms snake around me, long arms with taut, golden skin stretched tightly over sinewy muscles and decorated with intricate designed black tattoos. Long fingers encircle my wrists, surprisingly gentle as they slow my blows.

  “Lia, stop.”

  His voice is low, his breath ruffling the hair near my ear. I know who it is without looking. Not only do I recognize the low, resonate timbre of his voice, but I can smell him – his cologne, the warmth of his body heat, his skin. My gut clenches in recognition, and I exhale on a harsh breath, knowing I’ve accomplished nothing now in trying to still my mind. He’s ruined it all.

  “Let go!” I try to pull away from his hold, but his fingers are like manacles locked around my wrists and I can’t easily shake him off – not without hurting him.

  Wrapping his arms around me, he forces my arms to cross over my chest. Then he leans in closer from behind, his head dipping down so that his mouth brushes against my left ear. “Jesus, Lia. You’re bleeding.”

  I glance down at his big hands, which are now smeared with my blood. “Mind your own business, Jonah!” I hiss, trying half-heartedly to pull free. “Let go!”

  “No.”

  His voice sends shivers down my spine. My knees go weak, and I just want to melt into his arms. And that pisses me off even more, because I don’t want his help. I sure as hell don’t want to feel what I’m feeling right now – a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and... arousal. I’m tempted to toss him across the fucking room just on principle, but Shane would be furious if I hurt him. And the truth is, I don’t want to hurt him.

  Jonah turns me in his arms, stepping back to get a good look at the damage. He holds my hands in his, studying the shredded wraps and my torn, bloody knuckles. “Why aren’t you wearing gloves?”

  I ignore his question. “What are you doing here?”

  “Probably the same thing you’re doing. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d come down and work out a bit.”

  I can’t help wondering if the unexpected appearance this evening of Makayla Hendricks has anything to do with his inability to sleep tonight. Maybe he’s not as immune to her plentiful charms as he claims he is.

  He circles one of my wrists with this long fingers and pulls me with him. “Come with me.”

  Curious, I follow as Jonah leads me into the bathroom. After flipping on the light switch, he lifts me up onto the cool granite countertop, then turns on the water to let it warm up while he grabs a couple of hand towels and the first-aid kit from the cabinet beneath the sink.

  “Here, let me,” he says, gingerly unwrapping the bandages from my hands. He tosses the bloody wraps into a waste basket.

  He rinses the blood from my hands, then pats my knuckles dry with a pad of sterile gauze. “Jesus, Lia.”

  I’m struck by the pained expression on his face, and my chest tightens. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.” I know I sound defiant, but I can’t help it.

  He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “It’s not nothing.”

  After dabbing antibiotic ointment on the cuts and abrasions, he carefully wraps the knuckles of both my hands in clean gauze.

  While he’s busy doctoring my hands, I stare at his deft fingers as he works. These are the fingers of a musician, I remind myself. And yet I can’t help noticing the multitude of scars and nicks on his own knuckles. He certainly didn’t get those scars from playing a guitar.

  I glance up at him. “Looks like I’m not the only one who didn’t always wear gloves.”

  He smiles ruefully. “Let’s just say I’ve been in my fair share of fights.”

  His voice is low, rough, almost hypnotic. His hands come up to cradle my face, and he peers down at me. His hands feel good against my hot face, and I lean into his touch despite my intention to keep my distance. Neither one of us needs this kind of complication.

  “Jonah – ”

  “You are such a fierce little thing,” he says, brushing my hair back.

  His hot gaze drops to my lips, and he swallows hard. Oh, my god, he’s staring at my mouth. The realization is both shocking and tantalizing, and something flutters low in my belly, like tiny little butterflies awakening from
a deep slumber. Startled by my reaction to him, I knock his hands away. “Don’t patronize me, Jonah.”

  “I’m not. I’ve never met anyone as fearless as you. I’m in awe of you.” His thumb brushes across my lower lip, sending a pang of unwelcome need coursing through me. His eyes darken with something that looks an awful lot like desire, and he leans toward me, his gaze still on my mouth.

  I push him back and hop down from the countertop. I can’t do this with him. When I reach the door, I glance back. “Do us both a favor, Jonah. Save it for the girls lined up outside. They may fall all over you, but I’m not going to. You’re nothing more than a job to me, and it’s going to stay that way.”

  * * *

  Damn it, I still can’t sleep. Although this time it’s for a completely different reason. I’m back in my bed and now, thanks to Jonah, my body is a raging mess of hormone overload. The moment I realized he looked like he was about to kiss me back there, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The problem is, I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to lick and suck and drink him in. I wanted to taste him. And now my body’s punishing me for sending it mixed signals. My traitorous body is hot and flushed and throbbing, and I’m squirming like a worm on a hook. Stupid celebrity asshole.

  For a split second, I tease myself with what might have been. I can’t help wondering what it would be like to kiss him. When I first saw him in Shane’s office, I thought yeah, I’d tap that. But I never dreamed then that I’d be assigned as his bodyguard. Now that we’re essentially in each other’s back pocket, my words are coming back to haunt me.

  I strip off my panties and shorts and slip my hand between my legs, to that lush warm place that’s demanding some attention tonight. The only way I’ll get any sleep now is if I get myself off and then crash in the lonely, post-orgasmic glow.

  Chapter 14

  Early the next morning, I head to the kitchen in search of coffee, where I find Esperanza already hard at work.