Saving the star, p.11
Saving the Star, page 11
She was an actress, after all. Beck wouldn’t let herself forget that.
As Atlanta dared to lean closer, their noses brushed. The almond scent of her shampoo wrapped around Beck like a ribbon, the lavender of her soap tying the knot, and her eyes fluttered shut with the comfort. Their fingers intertwined, Atlanta’s soft and warm, Beck’s coarse and stippled in cuts. Beck couldn’t think. She couldn’t do anything but breathe Atlanta in, frozen against the sudden proximity.
Until Atlanta’s lips grazed hers, reawakening her.
Instinct turned Beck’s posture stiff, as though Atlanta’s kiss were an order roared from a stern sergeant and Beck an obedient cadet. She stepped back, swiping her clammy palms against her trousers.
Atlanta’s expression twisted into pained rejection, and it sent a vicious pang of regret through Beck.
“You’re here,” Atlanta murmured, words so breathy they made Beck ache, “because you make me feel safe.”
The house creaked and shuffled before Beck could calculate any sort of reply. A door slammed. Voices echoed. Her family was home, and Beck would have to explain what had happened to them. Wordlessly, she collected her blazer, wary of Atlanta’s scrutiny as she shrugged it on quickly.
“I need to fill your mother in. If it would put you at ease, I can stand guard by your door when I’m done.”
Even from the corner of her eye, Atlanta’s disappointment was clear. “No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary. Get some rest.”
“You too, Miss Stone.” Beck hoped the formal address would remind Atlanta of who she was to her — and who she wasn’t. What she hadn’t hoped for was the flinch Atlanta made against it before she climbed back onto the bed.
“Goodnight, Miss Harris.” Atlanta’s dismissal was dulled, empty, hollow. Beck’s chest felt bruised as she left, shutting the door carefully behind her.
She cursed herself beneath her breath with every step away from Atlanta’s room.
Chapter Twelve
Whoever the driver had been last night, he’d used an alias to rent the car. Beck had spent the better part of her morning searching through her company’s database for a David Ward who looked as Atlanta had described and had been in London that night. No luck. The woman who worked for the rentals wasn’t much help, either — other than supplying the fake name, she couldn’t tell Beck anything of his appearance or personal details. Beck had half a mind to go down there and persuade them in person, but she didn’t think it would achieve much now. The woman on the phone had said herself that they were looking for him too, what with the damage he’d caused to the car, and were having just as little luck. All Beck knew was that he had hired out the car a few hours before Beck and Atlanta had landed in LA, which meant either it was the same attacker from London who knew the Stone family’s itinerary and had followed them to LA before she and Atlanta got in from Paris, or it was mere coincidence that a new attacker had popped up on the same day. The latter didn’t sound very likely.
Which meant this guy wanted Atlanta gone. Which meant Beck had to take her job more seriously than ever.
She hadn’t heard from Atlanta since last night, so, giving up on her search and with Minerva’s permission, she headed to the family’s personal gym situated just behind the main house’s garage. Filling them in last night had been difficult. Minerva had fallen into a panic as Beck explained the situation to them, even after reassuring them that Atlanta was safe and unharmed. Anderson had been, thankfully, more level-headed, and had gone to see Atlanta later on. Weston didn’t seem all that fazed, but it was becoming obvious that he didn’t have much of a relationship with either of Minerva’s children.
Beck had lain in the dark last night, worrying she had made the wrong call, worrying about breaking professional boundaries, worrying about everything. Atlanta had gotten under her skin, and that bothered her more than anything: more than the man, or men, she was supposed to be trying to catch.
The punching bag in the middle of the gym helped. Beck drove her gloved knuckles into it over and over, numb to the aching tingle and the shallow breaths fighting to escape her lungs. Her forehead, the nape of her neck, her back, were all soaked with sweat, and still she continued, kicking and hitting with violent grunts and gasps.
“Is something working you up, Miss Harris?”
The drawl came from behind, barely audible against the blood pumping in Beck’s ears. Steadying the bag, she turned to find Atlanta leaning against the cross-walker, her arms folded and a dry smirk curled on her lips. She looked much more herself than last night, though the makeup and clean, untattered sundress probably had a little to do with it.
Beck huffed and freed her sticky hands of the boxing gloves she’d borrowed. “No more than usual, Miss Stone.”
As she adjusted her sports bra and leggings and pushed the flyaway hair from her face, she couldn’t help but notice Atlanta’s gaze lingering over her. She became suddenly aware of the rivulets of sweat trickling down her skin, and the way her stomach rippled as she wrestled for breath.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“I just wanted to check my schedule with you,” Atlanta replied. “I’m onset for a guest appearance on Lucifer tomorrow morning. And then on Wednesday night, I’ve been forced into another of Weston’s charity auctions.”
“And I suppose given last night’s incident, I can’t dissuade you from attending either of those, can I?” Beck picked up her water from the floor, nearly collapsing in the process, and gulped.
Any fear that Atlanta had let leak out of her last night was gone now. Her dark eyes were hard with determination. “I won’t stop living my life because of this.”
Considering her state after the gala last night, that surprised Beck. “Then I’ll make sure your security is upped.”
Atlanta nodded, shifting. “There was something else I wanted to ask you.”
“Oh, god, what now?” Beck couldn’t handle many more of Atlanta’s “questions.”
In response to Beck’s blunt outburst, Atlanta’s expression hardened. “I want you to teach me some self-defense techniques. If all else fails, I need to be able to protect myself.”
“I won’t fail,” Beck argued tersely, putting her hands on her bare hips in disbelief. Her overworked arms burned with that movement alone.
Atlanta rolled her eyes. “Even so, I’d like to at least learn some basics. My schedule has been freed up this afternoon. I need to get changed, and then I’ll meet you back here.”
She was already making to go. Beck raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t agree, love.”
“Did I imply you had a choice?” Atlanta’s question echoed around the gym’s stone walls with that American lilt that Beck had, at some point, learned to accept... to enjoy, even. “My mistake.”
Beck shook her head in exasperation, but by the time she had the energy to summon any sort of retort, Atlanta was gone.
Today was going to be a painstakingly long day.
“OUT OF CURIOSITY,” Beck rasped as she demonstrated the heel palm strike maneuver, “who else has access to your itineraries besides Minerva?”
Atlanta sighed at Beck’s inability to switch off, even for a moment. She was supposed to be teaching her how to protect herself, for god’s sake, but Atlanta could practically hear the cogs whirring in her brain even as she thrust out her arms. “Only my agent and personal assistant. Sometimes my publicist.”
“From now on, all correspondence will have to be encrypted. He knew where you would be last night, which means he knows too much.”
Nodding, Atlanta mimicked Beck’s movements, slicing the air with her palm.
“Good,” Beck commended. Atlanta tingled with satisfaction. It wasn’t often Beck praised her for anything. “Draw back quickly and use the first opportunity to run. You can also use this movement to strike the attacker’s ears. It won’t do as much damage, but it will stun them enough to give you more time.”
“Got it.” Atlanta bit her bottom lip in concentration.
“If you’re close or unsure about the strength behind your punch, use the elbow strike instead.” Beck demonstrated, jutting her elbows out on either side and using them as weapons. Atlanta tried not to notice the way her muscles tautened. With only her sports bra and leggings on, her toned body was more visible than ever, stomach ridged and biceps curved. She might be only average height, but she had much more strength behind her than Atlanta would ever have realized.
Witnessing it now sent heat eddying low in Atlanta’s belly, distracting her. She shook out her fingers, regaining composure before she followed Beck’s movements.
“Exactly like that.” Beck tightened her ponytail, tongue running across her plump bottom lip. “All right, the next one I want to show you involves more contact. If someone comes up behind you, they’ll probably try to catch you in a bear hug. Do you mind?”
She had wandered behind Atlanta, her arms suspended on either side of her as she awaited permission.
“Not at all,” Atlanta purred in reply, forcing down the shiver threatening to run across her spine. A moment later, Beck’s arms, firm and unbreakable, were wrapped tightly around Atlanta’s torso. Atlanta prayed Beck wouldn’t feel the way her heart sped up until it shook her very bones.
“The first thing you should do when you’re locked like this is bend forward. It’s more difficult to carry someone if their weight is shifted from the center.” Beck’s instructions whispered through Atlanta’s hair. She was so close, enveloping her in all of her warmth and support.
Atlanta did as she was told, burying her tailbone into Beck’s pelvis. The contact did nothing to extinguish the flames licking through her, sparking from her very core.
She heard Beck swallow and wondered if she felt it, too, or if Atlanta was still chasing something that only she could feel.
“Now turn into me slightly.” Beck’s voice was unwavering, unfazed. “Send your elbows back, just like the elbow strike I just taught you, only from behind.”
Atlanta did, careful not to hit Beck as she struggled out of her grip until they were face-to-face again.
“Once you’ve struck with your elbows, your best bet is to knee them in the groin — assuming, of course, the attacker is a man. If not, the stomach works just fine.”
Atlanta drove her knee up until it brushed lightly against Beck’s stomach. If she stayed this way, she could easily wrap herself around her. Instead she lowered her leg.
“At that point, I’d hunch over, and you’d be able to push me down onto the floor before making a run for it.”
“Somebody else, maybe,” Atlanta replied. “I think it would take a lot more to get you down.”
Beck hummed, a crooked smirk gracing her lips. “Maybe. Let’s try it again, a little bit faster this time.”
Atlanta gulped at the thought of being touched that way again. She braced herself as Beck hooked her arms around her, clasping just below her breasts. She couldn’t do it. She had to know, had to try. She sucked in a breath, melting into Beck until the nape of her tender neck was met with her shoulder. Their cheeks brushed, sending tingles dancing across Atlanta’s flesh until they centered between her thighs.
“What are you doing?” Beck breathed, words a husky caress that only made Atlanta want more.
She turned, cupping Beck’s jaw, and kissed her before she could talk herself out of it.
It lasted only a second. Beck pulled away, face creased in bewilderment as she kept her at arm’s length with a hand against her shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Finishing what we started last night,” Atlanta replied, voice low. “I know you felt it, too. You wanted to kiss me.”
Atlanta had replayed it again and again, memorizing every jolt of emotion that flashed in Beck’s eyes as they had inched close enough to kiss. Beck had licked her lips, perhaps subconsciously, as though preparing them for Atlanta’s. She had almost melted into her completely.
But then she had taken it all back. Called her Miss Stone. Reminded her that nothing could happen — according to her, anyway. Atlanta had never much cared for rules.
Beck’s face contorted, and Atlanta felt the change like a million splinters through her heart. “I’m not interested in being some experiment, and I certainly have no interest in risking my job for you.”
An experiment? Atlanta took a breath, smoothed her features, put on that mask that the world loved to see. “If you kept up to date on current events, you’d know I came out as openly pansexual years ago.”
Beck’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “A current event is a country declaring war or a presidential election, not Atlanta Stone’s choice in bedfellows. Jesus, how conceited are you?”
The condescension in those words shattered Atlanta’s facade. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?”
“I don’t think anything. I know. I know that you spend your life concentrating on the superficial, throwing your money around while most people can’t afford a fucking meal. I know that you think the world revolves around you. I know that you care more about color-coordinating your Instagram feed than actually doing something that matters.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Atlanta snarled, her finger jabbing the air as she took a step forward. Beck matched her by doing the same, until she could feel the anger rolling off her. “You see what you want to see. And besides, if you really thought I was that bad, why would you bother? Why not go hover around someone else? Go find some famous do-gooder who visits the children’s hospital every day and takes videos of themselves feeding homeless people on the streets.”
“Believe me, I’ll be out of here the second you stop pissing about, getting yourself into trouble because you’d rather earn a place on the front page of a trashy magazine than protect yourself from a very real threat.” Beck’s accent thickened the more heated she got, until Atlanta could barely decipher the words.
“Can’t wait.” Atlanta spat. “Why not just save yourself the hassle and let them kill me?”
“Not a bad idea.” Her nostrils flared, eyes narrowed to slits. And even now, when Atlanta hated her, hated Beck’s perception of her, she still pulsed with need for her. “In fact, I should have just left you in that fucking car last night.”
“You might as well have. You ran off without me anyway and nearly got yourself killed.”
“To help you, you idiot!” Beck exclaimed, hands slapping her sides. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Right. My knight in shining armor,” Atlanta seethed, taking another step forward so that Beck was driven back. And then Atlanta had backed her up against the mirror spanning the back wall, chest heaving with angry breaths and palms flat against the surface. Atlanta couldn’t breathe herself, their proximity dizzying as her eyes flicked between them and their reflections. How the hell had she been the one to push Beck into a corner? How had it not been the other way around?
“You’re fucking impossible.” Beck chewed on the venom in her words, but her eyes had softened as though in resignation, and she watched Atlanta with a new, calmer focus that somehow felt more suffocating than her rage.
“You’re...” Atlanta had no way to complete the sentence. Her gut was swirling with want, need, heart stuttering. “You’re...”
How could Beck not feel it? How could she not sense how badly —
Beck’s lips were on her without warning, rough and hungry and still full of fury as she kissed. Atlanta groaned into her, half in confusion and half in pleasure, as Beck’s teeth skimmed her flesh and her tongue demanded access. Atlanta granted it willingly, falling apart, unraveling, melting, thawing, until her bones weren’t enough to keep her upright. Her hips rolled against Beck’s desperately, skin against skin, thighs against thighs. They were trying to forge together, twisting like two mangled branches of the same tree until they splintered against a hurricane.
Beck fell away first, cheeks rosy and lips swollen as she traced the phantom of Atlanta’s kisses with her finger. And then her eyes widened, and Atlanta’s heart sank, because she knew — even before Beck walked away, she knew. It was written all over her. Beck thought this was a mistake.
When Beck slid away from her, Atlanta fell back and let her go. She shouldn’t have watched her leave, but she couldn’t look away.
And as Beck fled without looking back, Atlanta caught a glimpse of a jagged white line sitting just beside the rolling vertebrae of her spine.
A scar, stark against olive skin.
That rough, ruined flesh would be the last she saw of Beck for the rest of the day.
Chapter Thirteen
Beck had fucked up royally, and the only way she could think to fix it was by avoiding any conversation with Atlanta, even the next day when Sid chauffeured them to the Warner Bros. Studios together. Apparently Atlanta had the same idea, because a frosty silence crackled between them all the way there, and once they arrived, Beck stood outside her trailer while Atlanta got ready inside.
Extra security had been assigned around set today, from both the studio and the WPG. Nobody could get in or out without clearance, and they’d had another vehicle trailing them here in case the driver caught wind of their location and returned to finish the job. Atlanta had not shown a glimmer of anxiety, though she surely must have felt it after the night of the gala.
Beck did, too — only for reasons other than another potential attack.
She had kissed Atlanta. Had lost herself in her. Just for a moment, but even that was too long. She had never lost control that way before, had never done anything stupid enough to sacrifice her career — especially not for a bloody kiss with her client. Never.
