Wicked Bad Boys (55 page)

“
J
ohnny
, what the fuck?” My manager, Kevin shouted out. He was also my adopted mother’s husband, and hell, the man could be annoying.

“Good morning to you too,” I growled from my bed, the covers hiding half of my face.

“I don’t have time for games, Johnny.
We
do not have time for games. You’re supposed to be at the photo shoot…” Kevin paused, and I didn’t need to look up to know he was checking his watch. It was like a nervous tick. Every two seconds, those serious blue eyes of his would look down to check that relic he kept glued to his arm. “Right now! Jesus, Johnny, you’re supposed to be there already. And yet, here you are. What are you doing?”

“It’s called sleeping, Kevin. Maybe you should try it sometime. I find it quite relaxing, especially after going eighteen hours straight in the studio yesterday.” With that, I flipped over and turned away from the light he had switched on.

“Get up! Johnny, do you think everything is a joke?”

“No, I do not. Jokes are usually funny,” I answered, not making a move to get out of bed.

Secretly, I did think it was fun. Watching this six-foot-three hulk of a man rake a hand through his silvery mass of thick hair and lose his shit was sometimes the highlight of my day. He may have felt it was enough to intimidate me, but at my six-foot-six height, there wasn’t much that could scare me. Somewhere along the line, Kevin had forgotten I was a person, and not the puppet they put to sing on stage and wow the crowd.

“Listen to me. I had to pull some serious strings to make this happen. Raoul is the hottest photographer in the industry. He’s a celebrity himself! If we bail on him, he’s not likely to give you the time of day after this. Besides, the studio is charging by the hour for the space. Not to mention the horde of staff and crew waiting for you to make your appearance. I don’t know why you insist on being so flippant about this. I’m only trying to help, but I can’t help you if—”

“All right, all right.” I cut off his monologue before he could really get going. The fun had faded, and now the sound of his voice was just grating on my nerves. I had a raging headache from the night before, and with each word he hurled at me, my head pounded a little harder. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll be downstairs, ready to do your bidding.”

“Do my bidding? Johnny if that’s what you think this is—”

Realizing my mistake, I held up a hand. He stopped and left the room, slamming the door behind him, taking the dark clouds of responsibility along with him. Back in the quiet coolness of my room, I lingered for a few moments. This was all getting old. I hauled my ass out of bed and went straight into the shower. Feeling the hot water running down my worn out body was enough to almost lull me back to sleep. I propped up against the shower wall as I thought about the day—and Kevin’s recent harassment.

He would probably have a mild stroke if he got any more riled up with his constant screaming at me. As much as he said things like “This is all for you” and “Think about your future”, it really was mostly about him. He thought I didn’t see it, that somehow his true motives were flying under my radar, but it was pretty obvious to me. My career success was another notch in his belt. It meant he was still on the top of his game; that he could still put unknown music artists into the limelight, and skyrocket their achievements.

If I bailed on the photo shoot—or this whole rock stardom shit-show of a public life—he would also lose out on his cut of massive royalties and manager fees down the road. And if I dared cancel out on today, he would have to deal with the wrath of the guys at the label who made it happen in the first place. Usually I didn’t mind messing with him. Hell, sometimes it was cheap entertainment. But I couldn’t take it too far. I needed to start getting on his good side if I ever wanted him to trust me enough to do things my way.

I stopped the water and stepped out onto the heated stone floors of my master bathroom. I pulled a towel off the bar, drying off enough to cross through the bedroom to get some clothes from the closet. I had an absurd amount of clothing thanks to the image consultant Kevin hired, but almost always resorted to the some variation of the same outfit—a pair of worn jeans, leather belt, a plain T-shirt, and a zippered hoodie. I wasn’t like the usual leather-jacket-clad, tattoo-sleeved, shoulder-length-hair type of rocker. It’s not that I didn’t like that edgy look too. I did sometimes. And it was what the image consultants preferred. Somehow, when it came to getting out of the house, I always defaulted to keeping things low-key.

I got dressed and ruffled my wet, dark brown hair to spike it up in the front. I checked the mirror. My eyes looked tired, but I was decent enough to leave the sanctuary of my place. I jogged down the stairs two at a time, and practically bowled Kevin over when I hit the bottom landing.

He sighed in frustration at me, making a point of checking his watch again.

“I know, I know,” I said. “Where are we going, anyway?”

He held out his arm and pointed at the front door, silently directing me forward. If he could have his way, he would probably grab me by the scruff of my neck and drag me out of the house.

“This shoot is to finish up all the promotional materials for the fall tour. I told you all this last night,” he explained on the way out to his Range Rover.

I hopped in the passenger side, and buckled up before reclining the seat back. Starting the car in a huff, he sped off down the long driveway, away from my West Hollywood Hills mansion.

“You need to focus today,” Kevin said as he drove. “We’re running out of time before this summer mini-tour starts, and we still have a lot of other things to wrap up between now and then. Not that I really expect you to care. You’re not much of a details person.”

I grunted my acceptance of his assessment. “And that’s why I hired you, right? Well, that and you’re sort of family.”

“Sort of family? Wow. That’s what I get for the last fifteen years of being there for you, huh? I should be so hurt right now. Anyhow Johnny, you and I both know that no one but family would be willing to do all this with you. I put up a good fight when Lady pitched this whole thing to me. It was a bad idea then, and it still is. Yet here I am. The good agencies in this business weren’t willing to make it happen for you. Believe me, we tried. You know all this already. Only Freedman’s team could pull it off, but you went and pissed off Taylor with that stunt at the Grammy’s. Now Freedman won’t take the chance standing up to Taylor’s ‘it’s-Johnny-or-me’ ultimatum. And why should he?”

I laughed. He was probably right. My godmother and adopted mother, Lady Dame—just Lady to her friends and family—was the headliner of a pretty successful eighties rock band called Razor’s Edge. Her love of music and performing made a huge impression on me from the time I could hold a microphone. Her husband, Kevin, had managed her solo career once the band broke up. And her image soared under his leadership. But when she finally gave up performing altogether, Lady insisted that Kevin work with me to start my career from scratch. I was a teenager when this all happened.

Ten years later, I was now a successful rock star on the rise to super-stardom. He had helped me launch my first three singles as an indie back then, and that ended up kicking off a short, four-stop tour to test the waters. That test was a massive success, and soon I had been booked to do a cross-country tour. From there, everything took off like lightning. It was a lot of fun, and sobering at times, but there was something in me that was still restless. Kevin kept telling me I would settle into the hustle of the lifestyle. I had my doubts. I never voiced this to him, though. Not yet, anyway. Although he had to know something was wrong in the last year or so. I acted like a prick half the time.

He was calmer than usual today, so I took the opportunity to casually throw out an elaborate idea I had been working on for the better part of eighteen months.

“Uh, Kevin, I have an idea that might help for the summer tour coming up,” I said, sitting upright in my seat. I suddenly felt anxious. “There’s someone we can bring on board to take care of security.”

“Really?” Kevin turned briefly to look at me, his eyes squinting with interest, surprise and disbelief.

“Yes, really. She’s really good—”

“She?”

“Yes,
she!
” I insisted. “For Christ’s sake, just listen to me.”

He stopped speaking and remained silent, watching the road as his fingers gripped tightly around the steering wheel. Getting into a shouting match with Kevin would do nothing to help make this happen, and my master plan was too important to risk on another hothead comment. I drew in a breath and calmly continued.

“Her name is Amanda Baker. You might know her by the stage name Roxy Punisher.”

“That MMA chick?”

I ignored his scoffing tone. “Yes. She used to be a fighter. She got injured and had to retire, remember? But now she’s in private security, and I—I’m positive she would be a good fit.”

“Why is that? Are you two friends or something?”

I scrambled to think of an explanation that wouldn’t give too much away. Saying I thought she was amazing, strong, funny, and sexy as hell wouldn’t be good enough to convince Kevin. And actually, the sexy part would probably be enough for him to automatically turn down the idea. I had to look at it from his point of view if I wanted him to go along with it.

“She’s trained in combat, Kevin. She has extensive weapons training that she did on her own while she was a pro fighter. The woman is ambitious and smart. She has been doing security work for a while now, and is taking steps to start her own private security firm. I figured that since she’s a freelancer, she’ll work her ass off to prove herself to you. On top of all that, we could schedule her company for all the tour dates we need.”

“Let me think—”

“You said it yourself,” I continued, cutting him off. “That firm we use now, they keep sending different people to guard me at these events. It’s a pain to have to keep training a bunch of newbies who end up exposing me to shit. Remember that bodyguard who snuck his ex-girlfriend into my hotel room so she could get a selfie with me sleeping? Neither of us needs that headache again. This just gets one more thing off your plate.”

Kevin’s face changed, and he seemed to seriously consider my points. The anxiety built as I waited for his reply. I needed him to agree. It was the only way I could get close enough to Amanda.

“All right, you win. I’ll reach out and see if she’s interested. We’ll probably have to pay a fortune since it’s such short notice, but if she’s freelancing, it could be cheaper overall.”

I hid my smile of satisfaction, but couldn’t keep my thoughts from racing about finally meeting her.

“But, Johnny,” Kevin interrupted my thoughts. “Remember what I said before. I need you focused.”

I didn’t press him to elaborate, his message was clear, so I nodded. “Yes. Focused.”

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. Kevin seemed distracted, which was just fine with me. I reclined in my seat again and stared up at the ceiling. I ran scenarios on what it would be like to spend time with this woman who had captivated me since the first moment I saw her.

I had been a fan of hers since the beginning of her career. The first time I saw her in a fight, a friend had sold me on checking out female MMA matches for a change. In not so many words, he had explained it was basically a bunch of hot chicks dressed in skimpy outfits, wrestling each other on the ground. I was in party mode back then, so it sounded pretty exciting to watch. I ended up hooked—on Roxy Punisher. I followed her evolution as she competed in more prizefights. Roxy was one of the few top-tier women who treated it like a real sport. She respected the cage, excelled at her craft, and watching her take out her competition like an assassin had been much more exhilarating than anything I had ever seen.

I kept up with her progress, and rarely missed a fight if it was televised or on pay-per-view. I even made it to several of her live fights, and that was a feat for me. I borderline stalked her on social media, trolled the internet for updates on her activity, and was generally obsessed with her. I had never drummed up the nerve to approach her in person, though. As a celebrity myself, I knew how annoying that was. I didn’t have the balls to try either. Not until I got this idea that Kevin just swallowed hook, line and sinker.

My chest tightened as I remembered the night of her final fight. I had been there, watching from the second row of the audience. I did my best to go incognito, wearing a dark hoodie and ball cap so no one would recognize me. It had been like watching in slow motion. I had held my breath as she took that final punch, right to the side of the head. It took everything I had in me to fight back my instinct to run up to her. I wanted to help, to do something, anything. Standing in the crowd, seeing her passed out in the middle of the octagon…that was so tough for me to watch.

“Johnny, let’s go,” Kevin said, interrupting my thoughts. “What the hell is wrong with you today?”

I followed the gaze of his widened eyes down to my lap. My hands were clenched into tight fists against my legs.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I’m good.”

I jumped out of the Range Rover and shook off the anxiety, trailing Kevin as he walked across the driveway and into the studio. The rest of the day was spent dealing with this demanding celebrity photographer, pushy directors, staff from the label, hovering fashion consultants and makeup artists, and a whole host of people in their entourage and crew I didn’t know. I went through the motions of being a rock star, but in the back of my mind, all I focused on was finally being with Amanda.

A
nother three days
of security guard duty spilled into my weekend and had left me more desperate than ever to break free. I had to find a way to start my own business. My agent, Greg and I spoke about doing some commentator work. He also thought he could secure a few endorsement deals for vitamins and protein bars. I was getting antsy. None of it was happening fast enough to satisfy me.

By the time Monday rolled around, I was feeling like a caged tiger—cooped up, frustrated, and downright grouchy. When my phone rang and I saw an unlisted number, deep down I hoped Gary had come through for me. I couldn’t bear another day in this job.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Amanda Baker?” a male voice asked.

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Kevin Willis. I manage Johnny Q Venom,” the man explained.

“Johnny Q who? Is this a prank call?”

“No, Ms. Baker. It’s not a prank call. This is a serious business call.” I could hear the mild irritation in his voice on the other end of the line. “You don’t know Johnny Q Venom?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry, what’s this about?” My patience was wearing thin.

“He’s a popular rock music performing artist, ma’am. With twelve platinum albums all in the soft rock and classic rock genres.”

I wrinkled my nose. It didn’t sound familiar to me, but then I had to admit I wasn’t exactly up to date with those kinds of things. I was the type to listen to streaming music on my iPhone and never stopped to wonder whose voice it was I was enjoying so much.

“The reason I am calling is we have a summer mini-tour scheduled to begin in a little over a few week. It’s only seven stops at this point, because he has a world tour starting in the fall. We’re looking for a security firm to assemble a team that will accompany Johnny and provide protection in all seven cities.”

My mouth had dropped open at some point in the conversation. “And you want
me
?”

I heard him let out a sigh. “Your name came up, Ms. Baker. I was hoping you can come out to Los Angeles to meet in person with Johnny and me. We’d like to discuss the assignment and determine if it would be a good fit for everyone.”

“Of course, Mr. Willis. That makes sense. Um, when would you like me to come out?”

“Would a week Tuesday be possible? Obviously I would handle all travel arrangements. I understand you’ll be traveling quite a distance.”

With the phone at my ear, I bolted down the hall to the kitchen where my paper calendar was hanging on the fridge. I scanned along the glossy page and stopped on the following Tuesday. Yoga with Kyle. Damn. Kyle was an uber-popular yoga instructor here in Miami. I had been getting private lessons with him every other week. It was something I eagerly looked forward to—mostly the part that involved staring at his ass and anything involving a position where he needed to touch me to correct my form. The only problem was every woman in Florida also wanted to snag him, so his waiting list was ridiculous. If I gave up this slot with Kyle, it would be weeks before I’d be able to see him again. Just when I was starting to feel maybe there was some mutual interest, too…

Logically, this was a far better opportunity. And they were willing to fly me out to LA? That had to be good. I silently cheered myself up, and got the image of spending my time off being seduced by a drummer in the back of a tour bus somewhere.

“Yes, I can be there,” I said, forcing my mind back to reality.

“Good. I’ll email you the contract details and flight itinerary,” Mr. Willis continued.

I gave him my email address and thanked him before ending the call. As soon as I set down my phone, it chirped to alert me I had a new email message.

“That was fast,” I said to myself, grabbing the phone back and flicking my email app open.

Sure enough, it was from Mr. Willis. I scanned through the email. It was cordial, but felt so formal and stiff. I opened the attachments inside. The first was a non-disclosure agreement. Pretty straightforward stuff. The second document was the actual working contract. I scanned through the beginning portions, and scrolled to the bottom, where it covered the expected security team size, contract payment breakdowns and the total value of the contract.

“Holy shit!” I almost passed out when I saw the number on the screen.

One. Million. Dollars.

I blinked, closed my eyes and reopened them in disbelief, praying I hadn’t accidentally seen an extra zero. But there it was, still staring back at me. I had never made that kind of money, not even at the peak of my career. I knew there were male MMA fighters pulling that down in private security for A-list celebrities, but I had yet to break that glass ceiling by the time my career came screeching to a halt.

This Johnny Q Venom guy must be big. Twelve platinum albums was a huge accomplishment. If he was a performing artist, he had to be online. I needed to see who this guy was. I clicked out of my email and Googled his name. His pictures splashed onto the screen of my phone, and my breath hitched. He was hot. It was weird—he looked familiar, like I had seen him before, but couldn’t remember where. He didn’t at all look the way I had expected from a name like Johnny Q Venom. I had pictured a rail of a man, with long stringy hair, badass tattoos, and maybe a lip piercing. But the image of the man staring back at me was different…and the reaction my body had concerned me even more.

His was tall and muscular. His hair was dark, cut short and spiked up in the front, in an easy, bedhead sort of way. His strong jaw accentuated the five o’clock scruff on his cheeks and neck in this photo, and oh my God, those pouty lips on that darker complexion. I wondered if he had Italian or Greek somewhere in his lineage. But the most striking thing about him, by far, were his green eyes staring back from the screen. One picture showed a tattoo on the side of his abs, possibly a music symbol. It peeked out from under a hoodie he was wearing. I made a mental note to search for a shirtless picture.

It took some will power to tear my eyes away from these pictures. When I finally did, I glossed over his Wiki page. I gathered that his real name was Lorne Stein and his career was well-established. He had gained a lot of ground in a short amount of time during his the early days. As someone who didn’t know much about the music industry, I was impressed that he put out sixteen full length albums and twenty-one singles in under ten years. I then saw a note that he was mentored by this adopted mother, Lady Dame. That was a big deal to me. My parents loved her music, and she could hold her own with all the rock legends back then.

Half an hour flew by as I soaked up all the information I could about my new potential client. It was all done in the name of research, but I had to admit it—the more I read, the more excited I was about the job. And it wasn’t all just about the money either. Johnny was a stunning-looking guy, with what seemed to be quite the back story.

My rock star trolling-slash-wiki-research session wrapped up with me watching a few of the music videos on his website. The first song was a soft, catchy beat, and the man could dance! I found myself tapping along with the rhythm, using my index fingers as drumsticks on the tabletop. The video featured Johnny in jeans and a leather jacket, surrounded by waif-thin models decked out with over-the-top hair, glittery makeup, and opulent jewelry. They all wore super-short, sparkly cocktail dresses, and as far as I could tell, their only task was looking sexy and grinding up on Johnny as his song played in the background. Lucky bitches.

The next video was essentially the same. There were different girls, and a black-light club setting as the backdrop. I was wrong to judge him before we met, but it was pretty obvious what type of image he wanted to project. He was handsome, sexy, successful, and probably so used to women throwing themselves at him at all occasions. Based on watching his dance moves, he knew what he was doing. In one part of the video, I followed his hands as they seductively moved down one model’s body. He pressed up against her, rocking back and forth to the addictive beat.

I rolled my eyes—mostly at myself. I was slightly annoyed at how easily my body reacted to him. This job could turn out to be tough for me. It was bad enough I saw myself as free-spirited in the bedroom. Protecting him meant watching over him, and that meant I’d be close enough to do much more than watch. Sweet Jesus, this gig could be my big break, but it could be too much of an irresistible temptation. With all that running through my mind, I decided to watch one more video before revamping my business plan. This would be one that involved investing the million dollars that was now waiting for me to reach out and take.

The third video on his website was a live studio recording. Johnny was sitting on a stool, in the booth of a recording studio from the looks of it, with a guitar in his lap. There wasn’t any background music; it was a stripped-down performance of the song featured in one of the videos I had just watched. As he played and began to sing, I leaned in and got a little lost in the rawness of it all. It had a hypnotic effect on me, and I found myself hitting replay the moment it was over. After the second time, I spent a few minutes searching for more live versions of his songs, but couldn’t find any. Eventually, I gave up and closed out of all the windows to focus on the business plan.

A new
ding
rang out from my phone then. I checked the email, and there was a new message from Mr. Willis. This message provided all my travel information, the itinerary and our meeting schedule. I would leave Miami the following Tuesday morning to take a first-class flight to Los Angeles. First class! Once I landed in Los Angeles, a car would pick me up from the airport and take me to the posh-sounding Ritz Carlton hotel in downtown LA. After that I had a two-hour break before another car would pick me up. The driver would take me to Johnny’s house in the Hollywood Hills for the actual meeting. My return flight home was booked for the following day. It was another first-class direct flight back to Miami. Sweet!

The email also listed the upcoming tour dates and locations. My excitement bubbled up and over as I read through the cities and countries we would visit. I had to find my passport, stat! This could open up so many opportunities for me. Not to mention the job experience I’d gain if I aced such a high-profile assignment. Suddenly, it was clear that the door to my dreams all hinged on getting this contract.

If
…There were a lot of ‘ifs’. For the first time since receiving this phone call, my heart started to race. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Even before my biggest fights, I hadn’t experienced this much anxiety. The stakes were so high. This had to work. It just had to.