Triple-Duty Bodyguards: Chapter 20

I’m already in a bad mood when we land in LA. Jet lag is kicking my ass, my head is hurting, and I’m covered in plane grime. On top of that, the journey to the hotel is taking forever.

First, our plane gets stuck in the air for half an hour because some idiotic billionaire is parked in our spot. Then we have to stand in the burning heat for fifty minutes as Matt checks the car the studio sent for me, interviews the driver, sends the poor guy away because he ‘has a bad feeling about him’, and orders a new car to come pick us up. LA traffic is even worse than I remember, and Julie spends the entire drive ‘catching me up with the locals’, which essentially means scrolling through other women’s Instagram accounts and telling me who’s gotten a nose job, like I give a shit. When we finally arrive at the hotel, all I want to do is collapse into bed, order some room service, and sleep for twelve hours, but of course, I can’t. Instead, we have to wait around for another forty minutes while the guys sweep the corridor, the suite, the fire escape, and probably the inside of the toilet’s U-bend. Eventually, when I watch Kenta and Glen painstakingly checking the wainscoting of the hallway, I snap.

“For God’s sake, can I please just go inside? I’ll take my chances with dying, at this point. X could sneak in through the window and slit my throat in my sleep, and it would be the highlight of my fucking month.”

Kenta blinks, but holds open the door for me. I stomp into the suite. It’s big; three bedrooms, a lounge space, a kitchenette, and a balcony with a stunning view over Hollywood Hills.

I ignore it all, heading for the master bedroom.

“Yours is the room with the fire escape,” Kenta calls after me, and I have to fight the urge to growl at him. Or maybe run back, grab his face, and snog him until I run out of air. My head has been all over the place since I kissed him. I don’t know why I did it, other than he’s really nice and hot and he kept staring at my mouth. Which is a dumb reason. I step into my room and slam the door, leaning heavily against it.

I feel terrible.

I know I’m being a bitch. And I’m not angry at the boys, really. They’re just doing their jobs, and they’re doing them well.

I’m angry at X. I’m angry that my life has become this stifling. I’m angry that one anonymous man can have such a massive impact on my safety that I need private planes and a special suite. I’m angry that I can’t stop myself from checking my socials every few minutes, to see if he’s posted anything about following me to LA. I’m just angry.

There’s a knock at the door, and I fight the urge to scream. “Briar,” Matt says. “Unlock the door. You need to keep it open at all times.”

“Piss off,” I hiss. I don’t want to talk to him. He hasn’t said one word to me in the last week that wasn’t an order. It’s getting on my nerves.

He pauses for a moment, then I hear him mutter something that sounds an awful lot like fucking celebrities. I rub my eyes, looking around the room, then walk over to the bed and flop my aching body onto the mattress. I’d like to take a nap, but I don’t think I can sleep alone anymore.

I’ve spent the last week sleeping with Glen. We’ve had a few cuddles, but we haven’t fucked again. He usually gets into bed after me, and he’s always gone by the time I wake up.

I hope that he’s just an early riser. Although I certainly can’t blame him if he’s lost interest. I wouldn’t shag someone as annoying as me.

Fumbling in the pockets of my skirt, I pull out my phone to check twitter. I go to the ‘Search’ function, typing in my name and the word ‘angel’.

Outside my room, I hear footsteps and raised voices. I ignore them, clicking on a new tweet. It’s a response to a promo picture for the movie; I’m standing in red lipstick and a flapper dress, pouting at the camera, my elbow-length gloves spattered in blood. Someone has responded:

I stare at the words, my chest getting tight.

There’s another light rap on the door, and I jump, dropping my phone. “Briar,” Julie calls. “The studio director is here to talk to you about your schedule.”

“In a minute,” I mumble.

“Now,” she orders. “Before your Angels murder him.”

“What?”

“Come see.”

When I open my bedroom door, I’m confronted by the sight of my security team in a heated debate with Derek, the studio director. Everyone is crowded around the large dining table, red-faced and scowling. They all look up as I step into the lounge.

“Briar.” Derek stands up and takes my hand in both of his sweaty ones. “Thank God you’re here. Will you please inform your damn guard dogs of your contractual obligations?” He gives me a nasty look.

I pull away and wipe my hand on my skirt, looking between everybody. “What’s happening?”

“This idiot,” Matt declares, “is insisting that you attend some bloody party tomorrow night.”

“You mean the press party?” I nod. “Yeah. It’s in my contract.”

“You never told us that!” He snaps. “We’d get in, do the premiere, get out. That’s what we agreed on.”

“The press party is part of the premiere. It’s where we do most of the interviews.”

Matt shakes his head. “You’re not going.”

“She has to!” Derek cries. “If she doesn’t promote her own movie, people are going to assume it’s a flop, and she’s cutting her losses before it’s even out!”

I swallow back a sigh and sit down next to Kenta. This will probably take a while.

The conversation rages over my head. Other executives call or Skype to chime in. The studio’s PR manager, the movie’s director, my agent. I sit in my chair, watching all of these extremely well-paid people argue about what to do with me.

It’s weird, being a product. Sometimes I feel like my mum signed my life away when she brought me to LA and handed me over to the Hollywood House producers. Ever since then, I’ve belonged to other people. You think that celebrities are powerful, but my opinion matters the least at this table.

After a while, I just tune out. I check my phone again and again, scrolling through my Facebook DMs. Every time I see a message with a kiss at the end, my stomach lurches.

An hour passes. The bright LA sun is shining through the window and slanting over my face. I can feel beads of sweat popping up on my forehead. Kenta reaches over and passes me a bottle of water. I force myself to smile at him, cracking the lid and gulping it down. He doesn’t smile back. His eyes are concerned.

I try to focus on the conversation. “We have to use the limos,” Derek is telling Matt. “We don’t have a choice. We have a brand deal with the company.”

Matt leans back, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus, do you people never just buy things?”

“Why don’t you ask Briar if she has a preference?” Kenta asks.

I open my mouth, but Matt waves me off. “What Briar wants doesn’t matter.”

I rub my eyes. Across the table, Julie waves to get my attention. She points to my bedroom door. I need to tell you something, she mouths.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, standing. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

I head back to my room, Julie hot on my heels. The argument continues behind me, like no one even realises I’m gone.

I shut the door behind us. “Yes?”

She purses her lips unhappily. “I’ve got some bad news,” she says.

“What is it?”

She offers me her phone. “It looks like someone leaked the story about X breaking into your house. I’m doing what I can to crush the rumours, but—”

“Give me that.” I grab the phone and look at the news article on the screen, horror curling in my gut.

STALKER BREAKS INTO ACTRESS BRIAR SAINT’S HOME, PLEASURES HIMSELF IN HER BED!

My mouth goes dry. No.

This is the last thing I ever wanted. Now no one will give a damn about the movie. Instead, I’m going to get followed down the street by grown men yelling at me about the time a guy wanked over my sleeping body. The worst night of my life will be sold as front page news.

“Do you have any idea who could have leaked it?” She asks quietly, studying my face with uncharacteristic softness.

“It must have been either the policeman or Rodriguez.”

She nods. “I’ll track them down. Get them to retract the statements.”

I take a deep breath through my nose. My hands are shaking. I hate this. I hate that reporters and magazines can make money off my pain. I hate that there’s a table of men outside arguing about how to control my life. I clench my fists, feeling my nails biting into my palms. I’m done. I’m so done.

Handing Julie back her phone, I stomp back into the living room. The argument is still going strong.

“I don’t think you’re getting it,” Matt is saying. “She can’t leave this hotel room. She will not be attending any dinners or drinks. She will not be going to fittings. She will not be going shopping to get candid paparazzi shots. Nothing.”

Derek looks like he’s about to explode. “You’re being ridiculous,” he spits. “Briar’s not just a person, she’s a brand. Hundreds of people make money off her image!”

“She’s not a brand,” Matt snarls back, “she’s my client. I’m not backing down on an assignment just so you can take photographs of her!”

I clear my throat. “Can you all please shut up?” I call.

The conversation immediately dies down. I turn to Matt. “We’re doing the event tomorrow.”

He stares at me. “What?”

I keep my voice level. “I didn’t hire you to stop me from doing my job. I hired you to keep me safe while I do it. I always honour my contracts.” I turn to Derek. “I’ll make the appearance. Please leave. We can discuss my timetable over email or Skype later tonight.”

Derek opens his mouth.

“Now.” I order. He makes a hasty exit.

Matt watches him leave, then jumps to his feet. “Briar, when you hired us, you agreed to let us make decisions about your safety—”

“I’m doing the event,” I snap at him. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“This might be hard for you to understand, princess, but not everything is about what you want.”

I laugh hollowly, throwing up my hands. “Of course it isn’t. Why would it be? It’s my career. It’s my professional reputation. It’s my life. But I’m not a person, am I? I’m a brand, or a client, or a job. You act like I’m this spoiled diva, but all anyone cares about is what they can take from me. Magazine articles, or brand deals, or autographs. Pictures of me half-naked.” I look down at the papers scattered over the table. “I’m not trying to make your job difficult. And I appreciate your work. I’ll let you pick out my cars. I’ll do all my other interviews remotely. I promise. But I will fulfil my contracts. That’s my final decision.”

Matt looks down at me. A muscle twitches in his jaw. I hold his stare. Seconds pass.

He turns on his heel and leaves, slamming into the hallway.