Wicked Bad Boys (96 page)

T
he joys
of Kevin’s sudden shift may have come to an end. There were two days left to the Rock Hits Video Awards. He would not let me forget it. This morning, we were finishing up breakfast to get down to the basement gym for the dance rehearsal.

“Remember,” he said. “This is the most important show of your life. Alessio is a stickler, but don’t get hotheaded. He’s here to help.”

I grunted. I had been up early to have some alone time with Amanda. That’s where I wanted to be right now. I was not in the mood for Kevin’s orders—or Alessio’s. He was a well-known choreographer that Kevin hired to help me get ready for the RHVA performance. We had been working with him off and on since before the tour, when I filmed a few music videos. The name Alessio invoked fear and loathing among my dancers. The man was a hardass.

“Johnny,” Kevin said in a stern voice, his left eyebrow raised at me.

“I’m listening. Don’t worry, I’ll be your trick pony.”

I finished the last gulp of my coffee and set down the mug.

Kevin tilted his head sideways. “Don’t start. I’m doing this for you. Come on, let’s get down there.”

F
or most guys
, being surrounded by hot girls in barely-there workout clothes would be a dream come true. Add in the fact that they were bumping and grinding all over me, and it was the stuff of pure fantasy.

All I wanted was to get back to my woman.

Upstairs.

It was an odd realization. The Johnny that most people knew would have already picked out which girl, or set of girls, he would be inviting up to get banged for one night. That time had passed.

“No, no, no!” Alessio shouted as he marched across the room. He stopped the music then came over to me, poking and prodding, trying to correct my steps. Or was it my form this time? I wasn’t paying attention. “All right, again!”

The music cued up and we started again. My focus was shot.

“Stop the music, Alessio.” I waved to get his attention at the ending part of the routine. “Carry on with the backup performers. I’m taking a break.”

“Johnny, I could stay late and help you, if you want,” one of the dancers said to me.

She had blonde hair pulled back into a high school inspired ponytail. Her cutoff shirt barely covered her breasts, and every time she moved, I caught a flash of her black and pink bra top underneath. As I considered her offer, I felt nothing. Not even a hint of temptation. My former band members would probably tell me I was losing my edge.

“I’m good,” I told her, heading for the door.

She raced after me. “Really. I don’t mind. I could…stay late and show you some extra moves,” she said, winking at me.

“Thanks, but I’ll get it. What’s your name?”

“Molly. Want my number for later?”

“I think Alessio wants you in there,” I told her, pointing in his direction.

She returned to her spot in the dance sequence. I went upstairs for a break and returned about half hour later.

As the rehearsal wrapped up, Alessio approached me. He gave me a long lecture about my posture, wearing the proper shoes, and how I needed to be more “on” in my dancing. I looked at him and nodded.

“Were you even listening to anything he said?” Kevin asked as he walked in with Fred.

“Yes. I’ll be on for the show. Nothing to worry about.” The three of us left and took the back staircase to the kitchen. “Kevin, there was a dancer in there named Molly.”

“Yes? What about her?”

“Is she new?”

“Yes. Sabrina got a gig in Europe. Why?”

“Someone needs to give her an orientation or something.”

“What? She tried to hit on you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you never approached her?”

“Hell no.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll take care of it. And if she tries it again, I’ll Donald Trump her ass.”

T
he dance rehearsals
went from bad to worse. By the day before the RHVA performance, I was more exhausted than ever.

“This is our final run-through,” Alessio announced as things picked up after lunch. “Think of it as a dress rehearsal.”

I did what I could. When we wrapped up, I went up to the kitchen. Kevin and Fred were talking over security plans.

“Johnny. Get over here.”

“What’s up?” I said, grabbing a sports drink from the fridge. “Is it something about the case? Have there been more messages?”

It had been days since anyone had even mentioned the stalker.

Fred set down the file he and Kevin nay have been going over. “Things have gone silent. There haven’t been any messages since before Amanda was hurt.”

I nodded. It was a relief to hear the nightmare might soon be over, but if they didn’t get her put away before the RHVAs, what would happen once the FBI left? This had to end eventually. I was not going to be a prisoner in my own home for much longer.

“Have they tracked the woman down? I thought we had a name and all her details now.”

“All signs point to her going underground. A team raided her home in New York. It was already emptied out. She has no prior record, and no employment to speak of. We’ve questioned relatives, friends. Nothing.”

“Christ. Do you think she’ll show up tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know. My gut says this thing isn’t over yet. Don’t worry. We have the best of the best on the job. We know what she looks like now.”

“Didn’t Amanda say the woman looked different? Like her eye color was off or something?”

“Not to worry, Johnny. If she shows up, she won’t get past us.”

“And what if she doesn’t turn up at all tomorrow?”

“What do you mean?”

“What involvement will you have after the tour is over? Who’s going to be searching for her?”

“She’s wanted for attempted murder, with both local police in LA and San Diego, and the FBI. Eventually, we’ll find her.”

“And your team?”

“Formally, the case will remain open. Unofficially, we’ll all be reassigned to high-priority files.”

“So we’re on our own after tomorrow.”

Kevin looked up at me. “We’ll keep the private security we have. You know how these things work. It’ll be back to business as usual. What are you worried about?”

“Just a gut feeling.”

I left the kitchen to check up on Amanda.

“
H
i beautiful
,” I said from the door.

“Hi baby. How’s it going out there?”

“Not bad.” I stepped into her room, which was quieter than it had been since her friend from Miami came to visit. “Where’s your friend?”

“Shopping on Rodeo Drive. I would have gone too. but stepping out in heels and crutches sounded a little risky,” she joked.

I smiled at the image. “No doubt. How are the crutches working out?”

“Good. I can’t complain.”

“Great. I’m just heading upstairs for a shower. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Get over here and kiss me, Lorne.”

I snuck into bed beside her, pulling her in close for a kiss. “Do you know how hard my cock is for you right now?”

“Mmmm,” she groaned, reaching her hand down between us. She snaked it under the waistband of my sweat pants, and wrapped her hot, tiny fingers around the shaft. “I want to feel it inside me so bad, baby. Just another few days, and you can fuck my brains out.”

“I can’t wait,” I whispered, distracted by what her hand was doing to me. My cock was hard like granite from waiting for her wound to heal. My hips tilted forward, enjoying the effect her skillful fingers had on me. I nipped at her ear lobe. I kissed across her neck, taking in her scent, biding my time until I could have her again. “I’m gonna grab a shower, babe. Before I blow a gasket.”

I
awoke from a catnap
. The house was quiet. The RHVAs were just hours away. Johnny and his entourage had gone down to the event location to set up. They were the first big act of the night. Eva had gone to the spa, and promised she would be back in time for the show.

I got up and grabbed my crutches to get a bottled water from the kitchen, nodding at the three private security guards who had stayed behind with me. When I got back to my bed, I scooped my tablet off the night table. I open it and automatically logged onto Johnny’s fan page. It was partly habit, but mostly curiosity, because I was not working the gig anymore. The page loaded and I scrolled down to the news feeds, scanning through the most recent messages.

I told myself I was just making sure he was all right, and that the stalker was not stirring up trouble again.

“Right,” I scoffed out loud to the empty room.

We still had not talked about what would happen after tonight. I stared blankly ahead and let my warring mind duke it out with my heart. In the end, I had to admit, I was just afraid of another rejection. Every time I came to that raw truth, my heart pounded. I pushed the device aside and buried my face in my hands. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just ask him? How long would he take before asking me to stay?

I stopped myself. I was being an idiot by waiting for him to raise it. I would talk to him tonight.

I grabbed the tablet again and resumed the search.

“What the hell?” I sputtered, as the tab marked News opened. At the top of the page, there was a picture of Johnny and me at the last concert, with a black jagged line down the middle, between us.

Johnny and Rachel Split.

My eyes tore through the article. I didn’t know who had written it, but it was on Johnny’s official website. Kevin or the social media firm had to have approved it to be posted. It explained that Johnny and “Rachel Preston, the lady of a thousand aliases” had parted ways after his last concert. I read some more. It seemed to subtly suggest my poor performance and injury led to the breakup.

What the fuck?

There were hundreds and hundreds of comments beneath the post. Most of them were from fans who posted everything from condolences to marriage proposals. A few people even replied that Rachel wasn’t nearly hot enough for him in the first place. I rolled my eyes and decided not to let those comments offend me, because I was already appalled.

My eyes glazed over halfway through, but something snapped me back to attention.

It was her!

The stalker had posted a new message in response to the news.

So sad your girlfriend survived. Damn, she’s strong. She nearly got me good with that headlock. Now, I get you to myself tonight. See you soon.

“Shit.” I grabbed my phone to call Fred. No answer. It was the same for Larry, Kevin and Johnny.

Crap.

I got out of bed. Sliding the phone in my pocket, I threw my bag over my shoulder and across my body—the way messengers carried them, because I had to maneuver with the crutches. It was still early. The awards show was hours away.

“Get a car ready,” I told one of the guards standing in the hallway. He hurried off toward the front door.

I tried phoning everyone again, leaving Johnny for last. No one answered. “Geez, Johnny. Answer your phone!”

I hung up and tried again, wondering deep down if not taking my calls was the beginning of the end, considering the article on his home page. It would certainly be a new way for me to get dumped.

No.

Johnny wouldn’t do that to me.

Would he?

Whatever the case, this call was important. I had to reach him.

The private security team had the car out front within a few minutes. I looked like a fool, laying on my side across the back seat, in my pink sweat suit, no makeup, and my hair disheveled. I didn’t care. I tried phoning again; no luck. As they hurried over, I peeked in my bag. I had my handgun if I needed it.

“Ugh,” I sighed, tilting my head to stare up at the ceiling.

The hairs on my body stood on end. The stalker was going to show up, I was sure of it. The FBI and a slew of security would be on the lookout, but I needed to be there too. I had started this crazy journey, and it was time to finish the fight. The fact that I would get a chance to confront Johnny about that article was only a secondary motivator. Once it was all over, if it was true, I would go on the job interview here in LA, and if that didn’t work out, I’d return to Miami, ready to tackle business decisions with a clear mind.

Alone.

Focusing back to the present crisis, I thought of how the stalker might strike this time. I had heard Fred and Kevin go over the logistics of this show at least a dozen times. Johnny would start on the red carpet, answering questions for the media portion, taking pictures with fans and other musicians. After thirty minutes of that, he would be shown to his marked dressing room and remain backstage until his cue to perform. Once his act was over, he would head back to his dressing room to change, and finally would sit in the audience until the event wrapped up.

There were so many opportunities for the woman to get to him, and Fred had been betting on something public, like on stage while Johnny performed. He and the other FBI agents, along with the private and event security teams, would monitor everything. I had no doubt they would be glued to Johnny’s side the entire night, but still there was a nagging tug in my stomach. Something was going to happen.

The drive there was maddeningly slow. Rush hour was a hot mess, only second to how I looked. During the ride over in the sludge of traffic, I busied myself with restyling my hair and putting on some makeup with the few items I had in my bag. I tried, but I was fooling myself tonight. No amount of makeup would help my appearance with this pink sweat suit getup.

Traffic got even thicker as we neared the theater, and some streets were blocked off altogether.

“I’ll take it from here,” I told the driver when we got as close as possible. “I need one of you to radio Fred and let him know I’m out here. Tell him it’s urgent.”

No one would believe I was with Johnny’s entourage or even the road crew the way I looked, so I couldn’t begin to imagine getting past the outer perimeter of fans. I hopped out of the car and the guard passed me the crutches from the trunk. I broke out into a strained hobble-hop, hurrying toward the cluster of fans near the red carpet.