Triple-Duty Bodyguards: Chapter 13

Cameras flash around us as the car stops outside the gala. Matt steps out into the road first and stiffly offers me his hand. I swing my legs around, careful not to flash my underwear, and let him help me out onto the street. Photographers crowd around me, jabbering questions. Behind them is a press pit; a long row of reporters from various news outlets, standing next to their cameramen. I invited as many stations as possible to get word of the charity out. Right now, though, I’m starting to regret that.

I still feel shaky and odd. I spent the whole car ride trying to calm down my whirling thoughts. My freakout in the bedroom is playing over and over and over in my head.

Matt goes to push through the crowd, and I grab his sleeve, tugging him back. “Give me your arm,” I mutter.

He looks at me like I’m a lunatic. “What?”

“Your arm. Did you pass kindergarten? It’s this thing.” I poke his bicep through the thick fabric of his suit jacket.

I have to admit, he looks incredible in his new outfit. Michel fitted him out in a navy tuxedo with black lapels and a matching tie. The clothes mould perfectly to his body, and the colour makes his eyes look inky-blue. Before I screamed at her, Nin did something to his hair, styling it with gel so it flops fashionably over his forehead. He’d look like the picture-perfect Hollywood boyfriend, if he wasn’t glaring daggers at me. Slowly, he offers me his elbow, and I wrap my hand around it, giving him a subtle tug towards the rose-covered archway that leads to the garden party. As we step forward, the closest journalist steps forward, pushing her microphone into my face.

“Not now,” I say through gritted teeth.

Matt frowns as we walk past her towards the entrance. Glen and Kenta follow us at a distance, melting away into the shadows. Neither of them said a word to me on the ride here. Even Glen wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Isn’t the whole point of tonight that you talk to the press?” His voice is dripping with disdain.

“Later,” I say. I need a drink before I can face that. “Let’s talk to guests, first. I need to thank them for coming.”

“I don’t have anything to say to any of these people.”

“Then scowl and ignore them all,” I mutter. “People will think we’re a match made in heaven.”

He gives me an annoyed look. I ignore it, pulling him through the archway and into the garden. I look around, admiring my work.

The event took months to perfect. I booked out a sprawling private garden on an old Tudor estate, full of plum trees and big, carved bushes. Fairy lights and streams of soft, translucent fabric are strung through the trees, giving the whole place a whimsical, dream-like effect. On a small raised stage, a string quartet is playing a classical version of Taylor Swift’s Wildest Dreams. Behind them is the only evidence that tonight is a charity event: a single, tasteful poster announcing the name Help for the Homeless. There are a handful of Instagram models taking selfies next to it. I sigh.

Yes, I understand the irony of rich people coming together to drink thousand-dollar bottles of champagne to raise money for homeless children. Unfortunately, this is just how celebrities work. They want to be seen donating. If I just sent all the invitees a link to the GoFundMe page, it would go straight into their spam folders. This event is a spectacle. It’s a place to be. It cost over ten grand to set up, but the tickets are fifteen hundred quid a pop, and we have hundreds of guests. Add in the donations we’ve already received, and we’re looking at over a million pounds earned in one night. Plus an immense amount of media coverage. The profit is worth it, but God, it feels tasteless to be splashing out on caviar and ice sculptures when the kids we’re trying to help are dying on the streets.

Matt is silent as we trail through the clusters of people chattering quietly, glittering in their fancy dresses and expensive earrings. Most of them step up to speak with me, politely thanking me for the invitation and unashamedly looking Matt up and down. I nod and answer all of their questions, but I feel like I’m in a haze. My mind is back in my bedroom. I reach out to shake someone’s hand, and my silver nails sparkle under the fairy lights. Embarrassment scrunches my insides.

God. I was awful to that poor woman. I made her cry.

A man in a white suit passes by, holding a silver tray of canapés. He offers one to both of us, and Matt waves him away, looking irritated.

“Caviar?” He asks me. “Wouldn’t Tesco Value baked beans be more appropriate?”

“Shut up.”

“Where are all the homeless kids, exactly?” He asks loudly, looking around. “The party is supposedly for them; don’t you think they’d enjoy the canapés and the live music?”

“You think it would be better to invite some?” I mutter. “They’d be used as props for everybody’s Instagram stories. It would be dehumanising. They’re better off just getting the money.”

His mouth twists.

Irritation flicks through me. “Look, can you please just tell me what your problem with famous people is? I get that you think we’re all spoiled idiots, but we’re actually trying to do something good, here.” He doesn’t respond. I scowl. “Tell me. What was your ‘bad experience’ with a celeb? Because right now, you’re just acting like an asshole for no reason.”

He shoots me a glare. “I’m acting like an asshole? That’s funny; I don’t think I’ve made any poor people cry today.”

Heat flushes to my cheeks. I ignore it. “Tell me.”

“Fine.” We float past a crowd of drunk footballers. One of them staggers towards me, and Matt puts a hand on my back, glaring at him until he walks off again. “On our last celebrity job, the girl was obsessed with seducing me. It was like her own personal challenge. She was always grabbing me, trying to sit in my lap. Do you have any idea how hard it is to escort someone through a crowd of paparazzi when they keep trying to stick their hands down your pants?”

“I’ve not personally had the pleasure. I’m usually the escortee.” Although I get the attempted hands down my pants pretty much every time I leave the house. A lot of people think that touching celebrity genitals is a massive achievement, consensual or not.

He nods, scanning a nearby group of actors. “She didn’t care that I didn’t actually want to sleep with her. She was used to getting whatever she wanted, and she wanted me, so she figured she could just take me. She thought, since she was paying me, she owned me. My opinion didn’t matter.” He glares at a guest shoving her phone into a waiter’s hand, knocking over a full tray of drinks as she asks him to take a picture of her. “That’s what I don’t like. The entitlement.”

I smile blandly at a passing acquaintance. “What happened?” I ask through gritted teeth.

He’s quiet for a second. “One night, she kissed me in the back of the limo. I’d had enough. I quit on the spot, and she was so mad I’d rejected her that she called her parents, whining and crying, saying I’d forced myself on her.”

My heart drops. “Oh my God, Matt.”

He nods. “Luckily, she forgot there was CCTV in the car. If there hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be here today.” He glances across at me. “You can see the tape, if you don’t believe me.”

I stop walking, gripping his arm. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” I tell him honestly. “No one should be sexually harassed at work.”

He pushes my hand off him. “No one should be verbally abused at work,” he says quietly. I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone.

Before I can respond, a photographer steps into our path, brandishing a huge camera. I’m jumpier than usual tonight, and his sudden appearance startles me.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the press pit?” I ask sharply.

The photographer blinks, taken aback. “I’m the event photographer. You hired me to take pictures for social media?”

Oh. Right. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just… nervous.”

He grins. “No problem, Miss Saint. You look beautiful this evening.” He wiggles his camera. “Can I get a shot of you with your new man?”

I glance up at Matt. He shuts his eyes briefly, then bends, brushing his lips against my cheek. The camera flashes, and Matt’s mouth is gone before I can even really register what’s happening. All I’m left with is a warm face and the lingering scent of lemony aftershave.

“Gorgeous.” The man says, checking his camera. “You two make a lovely couple.” He floats away to snap some shots of the band.

“So, is there a reason you think it’s okay to treat your employees like shit?” Matt asks conversationally.

I close my eyes briefly, then pull away from the crowd and make a beeline for the buffet table lining one side of the garden. It’s laid out with delicate crystal plates stacked with finger foods. An ice sculpture of a swan is melting and glittering in the middle of the table, surrounded by flutes of sparkling champagne.

“What’s he going to do with that photo?” Matt asks, coming up behind me. “I’m not going to be plastered over some teenage girl’s bedroom wall, am I?”

“You really think you’re that attractive?” I mutter, nabbing a glass of champagne and tossing it back. God. I really don’t feel good. My skin is numb, and my head feels swimmy. I wonder what would happen if I passed out. Would Matt catch me, or just let me fall and walk right over my unconscious body? I put the empty glass down with a shaky hand, and reach for another. “D-do you want a drink?”

Matt doesn’t reply. I glance up at him. He’s frowning, staring into the middle distance. “Matt?”

“That’s it,” he mutters. My stomach twists. Oh my God. Has he just seen X? I turn to follow his gaze, but all I see is trees.

“That’s what?”

“I remember why you look so familiar.” He huffs a sudden laugh. “Glen had a picture of you, years ago. He carried it in his pack for a whole tour.”

My blood pressure spikes. “Are you serious?”

He closes his mouth so quickly his jaw clicks. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Okay, then.” I honestly don’t have the emotional bandwidth to process that information right now. I’ll get to it later. I take a deep breath and lift my glass to my lips.

“B!” Someone exclaims behind me. “Is that you?!”

I freeze, a wave of cold flowing through my body. No. There’s no way. There’s only one person in the world who’s ever called me B, and he is the last man I want to see right now.

Maybe this is my karma for being such an asshole.

Slowly, I force myself to turn around and look into the face of my ex-costar, Thomas Petty.