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1.FML

Spoonman // Soundgarden

Javier

I'm screwed.

Royally.

I wish that was a euphemism. I wish my current mental distress wasn't due to the Hollywood hellcat I've been assigned to protect.  She's already under my damn skin and I haven't even started the job.

To make matters worse, my run this morning isn't helping at all. I can usually count on my daily five miles to clear my head. On a day I'm not dreading, the slap of my shoes against the pavement quiets my mind from the lists of expectations playing on a loop. Running is my only stress relief and the way I work through what needs to happen next to ensure success in whatever project I'm wrapped up in.

Except for today.

Nope, today I've spent my entire run contemplating the life choices that led me to this moment. The moment that will define all other moments leading up to it as worthless.

I grit my teeth and pound the pavement a little harder, picking up the pace.

Stress relief, my ass. This run is going to kill me if I keep this up.

I've worked too hard to get where I am for it all to end now. I pulled myself up out of the gutter I lived in. I overcame every obstacle and all of the odds stacked against me. I'm not in a gang. I'm not hooked on drugs, or caught in the trap of selling them. I don't have a criminal background, and literally none of the guys I grew up with can claim the same. I am gainfully employed in a secure if not potentially dangerous job and excelling at it.

Professional bodyguard in Hollywood? No one could have predicted I'd end up here at the age of 23; working for the best private security firm in town. I've been on tour with America's favorite pop star, Brianna Royce, for God's sake! Not to mention the up-and-coming rock band Citizen One. I'm on the homepage of Star Tracker, the Hollywood gossip website, pictured guarding Jacob Stewart at his blockbuster premier last night.

Which was taken only minutes before my boss, Clinton, lowered the boom and destroyed all of my upward momentum.

When he told me I've been assigned to guard Emily Montano.

I don't think Clinton understands what he's done. She's Hollywood royalty, the daughter of world class award winning actress, Anita Brooks - who's scary as fuck.

But Emily's also the biggest brat in town.

She's a household name more for her scandals than her talent, even with several blockbusters of her own under her belt. Including last night's movie premier for Fatal Payback where I guarded Jacob.

I didn't watch the movie so I have no idea if she was any good. And I don't freaking care. She may be one of the hottest women I've ever seen, but she'll be a pain in the ass to guard.

This job is going to cost me my job. What an actual mindfuck.

Emily was a handful last night at her own movie premier. And that was her public face. How much worse will her private behavior be?

Demanding. Pretentious. Out of touch with reality. She's an attention seeker of the worst kind: Negative. I think negative attention is the fuel she lives on. Most of Hollywood survives on kale and vegan smoothies. Emily survives on the souls of those she taunts. Do I want to be on her radar? The next victim of her negative attention seeking campaign that ends with my face on the cover of Star Tracker again, only this time with a headline that reads:

Bodyguard caught with his pants around his ankles

Because that's what happened to the last guy. 

No fucking thank you.

Approaching my house after the five mile circuit, I check the time on my watch. Looks like my loathing of Emily Montano did some good after all. I finished my daily routine in record time. I roll my neck and gulp the last few ounces of water from my Camelbak while pulling my house keys out of my pocket. The door to the other side of the duplex pops open. Clinton leans out to catch me.

"Head over in ten," he orders, glancing at my sweaty body clad only in running shorts and shoes. "After a shower."

"Got it, boss."

Clinton rolls his eyes. He hates it when I call him boss. But he better get used to it because my brain refuses to think of him as anything else.

With no time to spare, I hop in the shower and zip through my routine. I live by routines. It relieves the mental energy of decision making and leaves that energy for more important tasks like keeping my clients safe.

I'm dried and dressed a few minutes later, sooner than the ten minutes I was given, so I head next door early. Arriving early is another rule I live by. Being early means I have more time to assess the location, more time to determine which measures I'll take to ensure safety. Although this location is more than secure.

Clinton owns the duplex, using one side as his security firm's main office while he rents out the other to me. He used to live in what is now his work space. His fiancee was the former renter of mine. Their relationship is a long fucking story, one I only saw glimpses of while on tour with Brianna and Citizen One. But I got a great place to rent at a good deal because of it. And my thirty second commute to work is the best part.

Except for today.

I'd rather eat nails than have this meeting, but I trudge into the office without a grumble. Miraculous based on my mood.

"Well, that was quick," Clinton says with a half glance my way. His head is bent over a stack of papers as he signs one after the other. "Grab a pen. The first stack doesn't need a notary. But the second does, so I've got a mobile guy showing up at the studio later this afternoon. We'll finish then."

I freeze halfway to the table. "A notary?"

Clinton grunts an affirmative.

"Does that mean I'm signing an NDA?" I must not do a good job of hiding the shock in my voice based on the way Clinton's eyes slide up to glare at me.

"Why are you surprised? This is standard operating procedure when guarding a name." He continues to glare silently.

I sigh and slump the rest of the way to his desk, plopping into the chair beside him and grabbing the blue pen next to the documents. I sign as I confess my worst fears. The guy is a walking brick wall. Pair that with his menacing stare and anyone with a will to live would crack.

"It's not surprising. And it's not my first rodeo with a celebrity like Emily. I don't want to be put in a situation where I can't explain the truth to the press when my name is dragged through the mud."

I stab the pen as I sign the third and fourth page of protection detail plans. "Emily has a knack for wrecking other people's reputations because she could give a shit about hers."

Clinton leans back in his chair, arms crossed. I look up to see a wrinkle between his eyes, an indicator that he's thinking through my words.

He nods then leans back over his desk.

"I'll have our lawyer add a clause."

"A clause? What kind?"

"One that stipulates the NDA will be voided if you're dragged under the bus of some scandal."

"You can do that?"

"Jackie, the lawyer, can. I'll give her a call and have her add it before we meet with Anita at the studio."

'Anita' being Emily's mom and the most famous Hollywood legend there is. The studio being Siren Song Sound production owned by Brianna Royce. Clinton, as Brianna's head of security, has a client meeting space set up in the studio rather than here in his less-than-luxurious duplex in the Hollywood suburbs.

"If you say so." I grudgingly finish signing the docs before tossing the pen back onto his desk. "Anything else you want to discuss before we meet with her Highness?"

"Which one?" Clinton smirks.

"Exactly."

He shakes his head. "I need to hear what Ms. Brooks demands before we develop the protocol for this one. I have a feeling her list will be extensive."

I groan. "Why me?"

I regret the lament as soon as it's out of my mouth. "Dang it. Can we strike that from the records? I'll shut up now."

"Listen," Clinton leans forward, eyes trained on me. "This one will test your patience. I get it. I'm a dad of a pre-teen and right now everything is drama. But you're a professional. You can't let her brand of celebrity antics get to you."

I blow out a breath, dropping my head in literal shame. "Understood, boss. You can count on me."

"Trust me, I know I can. Otherwise you wouldn't be the one I put on this job. You've proved your focus and dedication ten times over. I'm a lucky son-of-a-bitch to have you on my team. But don't call me boss."

I glance up to see him leveling a light hearted glare on me. I start to smile but he cuts that off with his next words.

"Now put on your best suit so we can head to the studio to meet with Her Highness, the elder. I don't want to give her a reason to complain about our lack of dress code."

I grumble all the way back to my side of the duplex. And while pulling on my dark gray suit. I smack myself around to shut up and have a professional attitude while looping my blue tie into a knot. I'm not like this. I've never felt so unhinged about an assignment before.

But something about this one is sticking in my gut. I literally feel like I ate gas station sushi when I think about being tied to Emily Montano.

And not in the hot way.

Although I've never been tied up with a girl so who knows, it could be the opposite of hot. Especially if it was with Emily. No matter how I fantasized about her when I was younger.

She's been on screen since she was just a kid. I grew up watching her on T.V. playing the precocious and too-sassy-for her-own-good daughter of a single mom just trying to make it in the big city. Every kid my age loved her. When she graduated to the big screen playing the mean girl in the high school love triangle, I was disappointed because who wants to have the hots for the mean girl? But it was her hotness that kept me watching, telling myself it was a role she played and I could still like the girl behind the part.

It wasn't until I met her in real life, and realized she was the personification of all the roles she played, that my childhood crush on her was dismantled. She acted just like all of her obnoxious characters. Which gave evidence to facts about Emily I haven't let myself forget:

1. She's playing herself because she has no true talent

2. All of her fame is due to her DNA. The epitome of a nepo-baby.

I need to shove that knowledge aside because it's just that type of mindset which could lead to trouble. I can't be off my game because she pushes my buttons.

With determination to keep myself in check, I head outside to meet Clinton at his car. He's suited up in dark blue, a fancy look for a guy who is usually all in black and comes off more like a cop than a sophisticated business owner catering to the A-list Hollywood crowd.

"You clean up nice," I joke as I get in.

"I can be suave," he says, pulling out of the driveway. "Just ask Colleen." He smiles at the mention of his fiancee. He's a fool in love, but I'd never say that to his face.

Behind his back? All day long.

We get to the studio without too much of a delay. Traffic in this town is spastic and unpredictable. A fender bender can stop traffic for an hour from the lookie loos alone. Our prompt arrival, however, means it's that much sooner to the moment of doom.

We wave to the building security team as we head up the back elevator, reserved for the top few floors. Perks of being employed by a celebrity. Brianna's studio takes up the entire tenth floor, the only office at the top of the building.

Clinton leads the way through the glass doors and breezes past the fussy faced receptionist. Rachel, the self-designated guard dog of the business, grabs my arm as I pass.

"Thanks a lot," she grumbles through clenched teeth.

"Uh, what did I do?" I gently unhook her fingers from their death grip on my jacket sleeve but she latches right back on. She's going to wrinkle my suit before Her Highness can hold court.

"You left me alone in the building to deal with her." She says 'her' as if it's a curse.

"That's your job, to deal with the clients when they arrive."

"I draw the line at self-important socio-paths."

I look dead in her eyes. "Pot, meet kettle."

"I'm not self-important."

"But the socio-path part rings a bell?"

Rachel crosses her arms, effectively releasing me to continue on my path toward the meeting.

"Take it up with Clinton if you need a babysitter next time."

I don't wait for the glare or the harsh rebuttal. Instead I round the corner, past the open area seating that provides the studio with a lounge feel, complete with soft, leather couches and low lights. The Hollywood sign in the not-so-distant hills is centered in the floor to ceiling windows, everything in the room situated for maximum viewing of the landmark.

It's a reminder of the dreams everyone has when they come to Hollywood, a symbol of the aspirations of not only fame but the pursuit of happiness.

The magic of the scene on display is short-lived as I enter the meeting space, a formal boardroom setup with an equally clear view of the sign. Because not only is Anita Brooks already present, as Rachel indicated, with a glare as her pointed 4 inch black patent leather Loubouton bounces impatiently. But she isn't alone.

Emily Montano is with her. Fuck my life.

"Hey, hot stuff." She smirks as she looks me up and down salaciously. "Guess we'll be shacking up for the foreseeable future."

Yeah. I'm so fucking screwed.



It's here! I'm buzzing with excitement over these two and the interactions they'll have. Zack and Bree didn't fully experience the delight of co-habitation the way Javier and Emily will...I can't wait!!!

I hope you're as excited about this one as I am and I'm really working to make this the best book of the series!

If you need to talk about these characters, or any books I've written, OR any other books you've read, consider joining my reader group on Facebook! The Friday Feels group is just kicking off so you have the opportunity to be a ground floor, founding member. I'd love to connect with you there and talk all things books, on Fridays or any day of the week 🥰❤️ Check the link in my bio or search Cynthia Ann's Friday feels 💕

Javier is an alt 90's rock god. It helps him pound the pavement on his runs. Just saying. Expect this vibe throughout.

https://youtu.be/T0_zzCLLRvE



AND GO READ BOOK 1 IN KU!!

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