Code red, p.7
Code Red, page 7
But it wasn’t just that.
Maybe I was cynical. Maybe I was biased. Maybe I saw Maddox work until he dropped all too often. I saw him stress. I saw him carry the burden of the whole band—and therefore the whole company—when no one else did. The reputation, the responsibility, the reason.
Maddox was the golden boy. Everything he wrote, everything he sang, everything he said turned to gold. Maddox bore the weight of Platinum Entertainment’s expectations.
But at what cost?
So yeah, maybe I felt a little overprotective. And maybe Ambrose calling him “our boy” rankled me more than it should because Maddox wasn’t his boy.
Maddox was mine.
I was there with him, there for him, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for years. My entire life revolved around him.
I understood him. Like very few people did.
We had something. A professional relationship, yes. But underneath that, there was friendship and empathy. And until very recently, I would have said what we had was a very platonic, very close professional rapport.
Until recently.
Until the hand-holding and the lingering looks, and the suggestive lip-licking and sultry smiles. The innuendos, his hands on my thigh, the way he said he wouldn’t stop me if I kissed him . . .
That was all new. There had been a change in the last six months, and even now, knowing it would likely cost me my job, I just couldn’t seem to stop myself.
So while Ambrose gave his epic spiel of encouragement, I watched Maddox. He was fully dressed now, his earpiece was fitted. His make-up and hair were perfection, and those pants . . . the way they fit him, hugged him in all the right places. Christ.
When I looked back up to his face, he was watching me, smiling. Actually, it was more of a smirk that told me he’d caught me checking him out.
I met his gaze and held it until Jeremy nudged him to get his attention. They did that thing they did at the beginning of every concert, where they stood in a circle, right hands in the center. “First concert of the tour,” Jeremy said. “Let’s give ’em their money’s worth.”
“Atrous,” they all crowed in unison.
“Let’s do this!”
We all clapped as they walked out, the stage director ushering them along. And it was only then that the whole room let out a collective sigh. Our job was done. The next two and a half hours were up to them.
We had a few moments to grab something quick to eat and begin packing up, and we knew the second the boys had walked out on stage because the whole stadium rumbled with applause and cheering.
We watched them on the live feed. We would meet them under the stage when they came off for a set break and outfit change, but for the first few songs, we got a front-row view.
They danced their asses off. They sang their hearts out. Choreography was perfect, the vocals were too. The veins in their necks stood out when they sang, and their sweat soaked hair and drenched shirts just added to their sex appeal.
The entire audience sang with them, cheered, danced, and screamed.
The huge screens to the sides of the stage showed close ups, the lights and laser shows were on point. They had the crowd sing with them, they involved them, they spoke to them, made them laugh. Twenty-six songs, three outfit changes, and an energy that was out of this world.
They held the audience of eighty-something thousand people in the palms of their hands.
It was a privilege to watch.
When they came off the stage for the last time that night, the five of them dragging, sweating, panting, they all but collapsed onto the couches. They barely had the fuel in their tanks to high five each other.
I didn’t even mind the film crew catching this side of them. Let the fans see what each performance took out of them.
But then the wardrobe crew moved in, pulling shirts off, leaving the five of them shirtless and very sweaty. They toweled off and we fed them more energy gels and water, and I did everything in my willpower to not stare at shirtless-Maddox, or his muscular body, or his damn sleeve of tattoos . . .
And the film crew filmed that too.
When it came time to peel off those stage pants, I walked over to the film crew and put my clipboard in front of the camera. One of them looked ready to say something, but I cut her off. “If Ambrose has a problem with this, tell him to come find me.”
That earned me a few smirks from the boys, but Maddox had his pants undone, fly open, still shirtless, so I made myself busy packing up shit that needed packing with my back turned. Sure, I’d seen them all undressed over the years—never fully naked, thank god—but this was different.
Now I wanted to look.
And that wasn’t good. Maybe the lines could blur in the car or in a hotel room, but this was work. He’d done his job, now he needed me to do mine.
So I fetched him his bag and cleaned up all his mess, helping Amber and Ryan with anything that needed to be done. And before too long, we were in the van and heading back to the hotel.
Maddox slid into his seat, tired but happy.
“You guys killed it tonight,” I said.
“It was good,” he agreed. “Hit all my notes. Didn’t fuck up any dance steps.”
“You hungry?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Dinner’s been ordered for all of you back at the hotel.”
“Mm, dinner and a shower. Sounds great.” He was quiet for a bit. I tried not to think of him in the shower, and I was grateful it was dark in the van. The passing streetlights were like a strobe effect, pulsing in time with my heart. “You can join me if you want.”
“You boys always eat together after a concert—”
“I wasn’t talking about dinner.”
My gaze shot to his. He was sitting low in his seat, his legs spread wide, his hand resting on his belly, sliding lower . . .
Fucking hell.
“Maddox,” I warned.
He laughed, as if he was just joking. But he wasn’t, and we both knew it. He sat up straight, then leaned a little closer to me. “I saw you checking me out earlier,” he whispered like it was all just some game.
I looked away because I sure as hell couldn’t look at him when I lied. “No I wasn’t.”
He laughed again. “Oh, Roscoe.” When it was clear I wasn’t going to say anything, he changed topics. “So, what did Ambrose say about the sexiest bodyguard media frenzy?”
God, I’d almost forgotten about that.
“He wasn’t too concerned,” I replied. “Yet.”
“I thought it was funny. I mean, I get why you didn’t. When you said it made me a bigger target . . . Well, I didn’t think of it like that.”
I sighed. “You don’t need anything to shine another spotlight on you, especially from me. I’m supposed to make your life easier, not harder.”
“Hey.”
I looked at him then.
“You do make my life easier. You make it bearable, Roscoe,” he said gently. “They’re just gonna write whatever they want, regardless of the truth or who they hurt in the process. You can’t control it. You just have to let it go. Ignore it.”
Wait up. “I make your life bearable?”
His jaw bulged and he looked out the window, narrowing his gaze at the passing city. “Yeah.”
Christ.
“Maddox,” I whispered.
It took him a second to look at me. When he did, his guard was up again. His eyes were black steel. I said nothing, just held out my hand, palm up.
He looked at it for a long second before he slid his hand into mine. We didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive to the hotel, but his grip on my hand was a fraction too firm, as if he was scared I was going to let go.
Or just scared. I wasn’t sure. So I held on just as tight.
My phone beeped at 11:37 pm with a message from Maddox.
Can you come here please?
I was ready for bed. Everyone had gone to their rooms after a late meal. Concert nights were always late, but I’d had enough time to shower and change into my pajamas. We had to be up early in the morning . . .
I knocked on his door, and after a few seconds, it swung inwards. He stood there in some sleep shorts and an old T-shirt, his head down like he was embarrassed. I walked in, enough steps for him to close the door. “What’s up?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured. “I’m so tired. Can you . . . can you stay for a bit?”
There was no playfulness now. There was no heat, no smirk.
Just sadness.
It made my heart ache. “Sure.”
He lifted his gaze then, and he made a face when he saw the shirt I was wearing. “Really? Bruins? You’re a Boston Bruins fan?”
“Shut up. You want me to stay or not?”
He gave me a tired smile and trudged over to the bed, climbed in, and pulled the blankets up. “I like the air conditioning on and lots of blankets,” he mumbled and folded his arm up under the pillow. He patted the other side of the bed. “’S comfier than the chairs.”
Fuck. Was I just supposed to occupy the same bed as him? To what? Sleep? How long was I supposed to stay for?
I sat on the farthest edge I could without falling off, sitting against the headboard, and shoved the pillow at my lower back. The TV was on, the volume barely audible. Some old western was playing, and I chuckled at the thought of him choosing this. But after watching five minutes of it, of the horse riding, the old saloon bars, the costumes, and the low-slung gun holsters and the corny lines, I had to admit, it was kinda cool.
“Never picked you for a John Wayne fan,” I murmured.
But Maddox never replied. When I looked, he was fast asleep.
Chapter Six
Maddox could barely look at me at breakfast time. Was he pissed off at me? Embarrassed? I had no clue. But we had an interview and a photo shoot before lunch, which meant a fair amount of alone time in the car to talk.
And I didn’t waste a second. As soon as the van door was shut and we had some semblance of privacy, save our driver and Steve in the front, I tapped his boot with mine. “Maddox, talk to me.”
There was no way I was letting something like miscommunication get between us. Not now. Shit was complicated enough without childish games.
He shot me a puzzled look. “About what?”
“About what’s bothering you. You haven’t said three words to me this morning.”
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
I raised an eyebrow and waited . . . but not for long.
He scowled at me, then he turned to face the window. “You were gone this morning.”
“Of course I was. I went back to my room at one o’clock,” I said so only he could hear. “I’d left my phone in my room. And you weren’t exactly clear on how long I should have stayed. You were sound asleep.”
His annoyance became a frown. “I hate it.”
“Hate what?”
“Not sleeping. I’m so tired but my mind goes all the time,” he whispered. “It’s better when I’m not alone.”
“If you need something to help you sleep,” I began, though I was pretty sure what his reaction was going to—
“No.” He shook his head. “No drugs.”
“It doesn’t have to be drugs, Maddox. There are plenty of things on the market now that are natural or non-addictive. Or we can try meditation, or acupuncture, or massage, or anything. I don’t know. There are a lot of alternative—”
“I don’t want no wellness guru, hippy-loving crackpot—”
“Well, that’s a broad generalization, possibly prejudiced—”
“I don’t want anyone to know, Roscoe,” he snapped.
Aaaand there it was.
“Just you,” he added softly. He let out a shaky breath. “I trust you. And I hate that even you know. I hate feeling like a little kid or like I need adult supervision.”
“You hate feeling vulnerable,” I stated, and from the way his eyes shot to mine, I knew I was right. “I don’t blame you,” I added casually. “No one likes to feel that way. But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you told me. If you need me to sit there and watch two John Wayne movies back-to-back, then I will.”
That almost earned me a smile. “You watched two?”
I nodded. “They were actually pretty good. In a bad western kind of way.”
The corner of his lip curled upward for a fleeting moment before it was gone. “Thank you. I thought this morning you’d think it was weird, and if I didn’t look at you, I wouldn’t see you not looking at me.”
Oh, Maddox. “It’s not weird.”
“Can you not tell the others?” He winced. “I know I’m asking you to keep secrets and probably to lie at some point. But, Roscoe . . .” He chewed on his bottom lip and picked at the cuticle on his thumb. No more words were forthcoming.
“But Roscoe, what?”
“But I need you,” he whispered. He took in a sharp breath. “In my corner. I need you to be on my side. I feel . . . I dunno, things have been weird and I don’t know how I feel most days, but you make it . . . normal. Better. I dunno.” He shrugged, his cheeks tinted pink. “I think it’s because you’ve always been there. You’ve always been in the background and I know you’ll be there. I trust you, and I can’t say that about many people.”
He grimaced as he inhaled, as though he was mad at himself for saying too much. He fidgeted his hands, opening and closing his fists, and when he met my gaze, his eyes were . . . fierce or scared. Or a mix of both?
“I am on your side,” I said.
“I don’t want the others to know. The guys, I mean. I don’t want them to worry. And not Amber and Ryan either. Because then I’d have to ask them to keep secrets, and that’s not fair. And then it’s all too complicated.”
“The guys won’t mind, Maddox. They’d want to know if something’s bothering you.”
“They’ve got enough going on. We all do. And they don’t need to be worrying about me on top of their own shit.”
“You’re not in this alone, Maddox. Jeremy adores you. They all do.”
“Jeremy . . .” His eyes met mine again before he looked back out the window. “Jeremy’s my best friend, and I love him.”
There was a but coming.
“I love all of them.”
“But?”
He scrubbed his hands over his face and groaned. “Christ, Roscoe.”
“But what?”
“But they’re in the band. And I need someone who’s not in the band. Someone who I can talk to and someone who’ll just be with me for me. Someone who’s comfortable in the silence and who doesn’t expect anything from me.”
It dawned then. “Me.”
He nodded. “You.”
Goddammit.
“I won’t tell anyone. And honestly, I don’t mind hanging out.” I shrugged. “I get lonely too sometimes, so some company is nice.”
He studied me for a long moment and eventually half a smile won out. “Nice? Spending time with me is nice?”
“Oh, fuck off,” I whispered. “You don’t get to play the ‘but I’m Maddox Kershaw’ card after telling me you like me because I treat you like a normal person.”
He grinned. “That’s a first. Have you ever told me to fuck off before? I don’t think you have.”
“Not out loud.”
He laughed, and my god, it was a beautiful sound. “And I never said I like you because you treat me like a normal person.”
“You kinda did.”
“Pretty sure I’d remember. No, I like you because you’re the hottest bodyguard in the world right now.”
I groaned. “Christ. Is that still a thing?”
“Yep. Haven’t you seen Twitter this morning?”
“No. I was kinda busy getting everything ready.”
He took out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “Well, things that were trending . . . our concert, my ass in those pants at our concert. Luke and Blake posted a shirtless selfie together in the dressing room. That was number one for a while. Made the Bluke fans happy. Oh, and here, look . . .” He turned the screen around to show me a photograph of me at the guitar store, and then he grinned as he read off some tweets. “Roscoe can guard my body any time. How do I sign up for him to manage me? How much heat do you think he’s packing?” He shook his head. “Want me to read you the R-rated ones?”
“No. No, I don’t.” I ignored all mentions of me. “Do the fans know that Luke and Blake are the two straightest men in the band?”
Maddox’s smile widened. “That’s what makes it hot. I mean, they could have us.” He waved his hand between us. “Two sexiest men on the planet—according to this tweet, anyway—who are both very gay. And we’re always together. It really wouldn’t be a huge leap to assume we fuck.”
Jesus Christ.
Was it hot in the van?
He chuckled. “What do you think our couple name would be? Maddox and Roscoe . . . Mmm.” He made a thinking face. “Doxcoe? Madscoe? Moscoe? They sound stupid.”
“All couple names sound stupid,” I said. “And why is your name first?”
Did I really just ask that?
He grinned, the kind of smile that stopped hearts all over the world. “Because I said it did.”
“Oh, the ‘but I’m Maddox Kershaw’ thing again.”
“It really is a double-edged sword.”
I found myself smiling at him. This was him, this was the Maddox of old. Carefree, guard down, happy, funny, witty. Just Maddox.
“You know,” he said, a wicked gleam in his eye. “We could break the internet. Right now.”
“Break the internet?”
“Yep. One selfie.” He grinned. “Of us.”
“Oh no.” I shook my head. “That’s a bad idea.”
He opened the camera on his phone. “It’s a great idea.”
“It’s possibly the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
Then, surprising the shit out of me, he climbed over and sat on my lap. He held his phone up at some magic selfie angle. “Smile.”
“Maddox, this is a bad idea. And you should be in your own seat with your seatbelt on.”
With his free hand, he took my arm and brought it around his waist. “You can be my seatbelt.”
