Page 3 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
Clearly, Rand Garrison isn’t a talker.
“Anything else I should know?”
“No.”
Rand watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. He’s probably the most attractive man I’ve ever met—and that’s saying something—but I have no proof he has anything beyond professional interest in me. Between the people I meet in this business and the internet, I get propositioned a lot. I’m rarely tempted. Now that I might be…he’s not. Just my luck.
It doesn’t matter. After today, I’ll never see this guy again. I just need to perform for the next couple of hours and get on with my life.
“I’m sorry you got stuck babysitting a pop princess today. I’m sure you have more dangerous things to worry about.”
Around us, people finish the last-minute details for their floats and their accompanying performances. Rand turns watchful. Tense. He looks at everything and everyone with suspicion. “I don’t.” He pauses. “You’re not what I expected.”
Something in the way he says it makes me wonder what he means, but before I can ask, his attention shifts back to scanning the thickening crowd.
He’s on the job, and he takes work seriously. I get it. I’m still nervous before the start of every gig, too… But he acts as if every minute could be life or death. Then again, in his world it might.
“I appreciate you putting up with me in the crowd and this heat.”
He doesn’t reply until we reach the float. Then he fits his hands around my waist, his palms spanning almost the entire width of my torso, and lifts me onto the float like I weigh nothing. For a moment I’m suspended in his grip, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. My hands instinctively flatten against his chest for balance, and the muscle beneath his shirt is granite-hard.
“You making it to the end in one piece is thanks enough.”
Suddenly, he’s beside me on the float, a red, white, and blue spectacular celebrating America’s past and future with a pair of flags and a stage between them. Once he hands me up to the platform, I’m surrounded by a troupe of dancers in patriotic costumes.
Rand positions himself behind them, doing his best to blend into the background, but he still stands out.
This dress leaves no room for my phone, and I can’t wear a watch with this getup, but from the crowd and the flurry of activity, I surmise it’s nearly time.
Frowning, I glance around for the microphone prop that’s supposed to be waiting. Finally I spot it, then take the familiar shape in hand.
A middle-aged woman dashes by and looks up at me, clipboard in one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other. “Thanks for joining us today, Ms. Larsen. It’s an honor. Are you ready?”
“Thanks for inviting me. I am.”
“Don’t forget, when you cross that intersection there”—she points—“your music will begin. You’ll sing for that block and part of the next, then your music will drop off. All you have to do after that is smile and wave until your float rounds the last corner.”
I haven’t done a ton of parades, but I’ve played arenas all over the world. This should be a piece of cake. “I understand.”
The woman stops looking harried long enough to smile at me. “Really, thanks for doing this. Our parade is always popular, but you coming back to your hometown today with us has probably tripled our spectators. We’re so excited!”
“I’m happy to be here.” The good food, the community atmosphere, and the friendly people all remind me why I miss Texas.
The organizer moves on, and the humid air stands absolutely still as I wait, wishing I could get my long hair off my shoulders and claw off at least half the makeup the stylist put on me less than an hour ago.
It seems like forever before the parade begins and the floats in front of me lurch forward, crawling down the parade route. Then mine follows suit, dragging across the black asphalt. The heat is oppressive, shimmering off the road in waves under the pounding sun.
I look down at Rand, standing silent and stoic, feet apart, hands at his sides. Coiled tension pings off of him. There’s nothing restful about the man.
It’s almost as if he’s expecting trouble.
But I can’t ask why because the crowd is too loud and we’re quickly approaching the intersection that will mark the beginning of my music piped through the overhead speakers. So I quell my worry, grip the microphone, smile for the folks lining the parade route, and get ready to look like I’m giving the performance of my life.
Everything is great as the float creeps through the intersection. The intro to my latest single cues up. My stomach tenses; it always does before a performance. Then I’m dancing my way through the opening bars of the song and enjoying the crowd’s enthusiasm.
I’m halfway to the bridge when I notice Rand’s posture change. His shoulders go rigid, and he takes a step closer, his head turning toward something in the crowd I can’t see. I tense when his hand moves to his waist—where I assume he keeps a weapon. For a split second, his eyes lock with mine. There’s a warning in his black eyes, urgent and sharp.
Then gunshots erupt and all hell breaks loose.
