Page 3 of Protected By The Ranger
Now,it’s Monday morning andI’m hiding out at my brother’s house, on the run from a stalker.
I left LA so fast that I didn’t even go home to pack. Just grabbed my bag from the dressing room after the show and drove straight through the night, fueled by adrenaline and a spiking fear I’d never experienced. All I knew was that I had to leave, so I did.
My phone buzzes, and my stomach clenches before I look. My agent’s name flashes on the screen, and I know I need to talk to her. I didn’t tell her I was leaving.
A different kind of tension builds in me as I answer her call. “Hey, Marissa.”
“Izzy, thank God. Where the hell are you?” Marissa’s voice is sharp with barely contained panic. “You missed the interviewwith Rolling Stone, and Atlantic Records has been calling nonstop about the signing you. Plus, there’s the Vegas residency on offer.”
I sink onto Hayden’s bed, which has the same quilt our grandmother made for him when he was a kid. “I had to leave town. Family emergency.”
“Family emergency?” Her voice rises an octave. “Izzy, you’re on the cusp of breaking out and taking your career to the next level. You have momentum that artists would kill for, and you disappear? Do you understand what this could do to your career?”
I cringe because she’s right. I’ve worked ten years to get to this point—performing in dive bars and coffee shops, writing songs in my car because I couldn’t afford studio time, choosing between groceries and guitar strings more times than I care to remember. Being onThe Breakoutlaunched my career, and I know I should be there, working harder than ever before.
“I know, but—”
“But nothing. This industry has the attention span of a goldfish. If you’re not constantly in front of people, they forget you exist.” Marissa’s breathing is audible over the phone, and I know she’s trying to control her temper. “I need to know when you’ll be back. Three days? A week? I’m running out of excuses here.”
I close my eyes, trying to find words that will make her understand without revealing how scared I am. “I can’t give you a timeline yet.”
The silence stretches so long that I wonder if the call dropped.
When Marissa speaks again, her voice is dangerously quiet. “Izzy, I’ve been in this business for fifteen years. I’ve seen careers die overnight because artists thought they could step away when things got hard. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not. I didn’t come to my brother’s because I’m scared of hard work. You know I put in the time and never complain about it.”
“Then tell me what’s going on. And don’t say family emergency.”
“Someone’s been following me,” I finally admit. “Stalking me. It got serious enough that I had to leave.”
Another silence, then Marissa’s voice returns, sharper but more focused. “How serious? How come this is the first I’m hearing about it? Have you contacted the police?”
“What are they going to do? Tell me to be careful?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “He hasn’t technically broken any laws. Yet.”
“Shit. Okay, this is manageable. We’ll hire security, beef up protection at venues. You can’t let some psycho derail everything you’ve worked for.”
She makes it sound so simple, like fear is simply another obstacle to overcome with the right strategy. Maybe that’s how she sees it. Maybe that’s how I need to see it, too, if I want to hold on to what success I’ve had so far.
“I need a few days to figure things out,” I tell her. “I’m working on security arrangements. My brother has asked a friend who is ex-Army to help me out while I’m here.”
“I can cover you for a week. Maybe two, Izzy. That’s it. After that, we start losing opportunities we can’t get back.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone and fighting the urge to throw it across the room. Two weeks to fix the stalker situation or potentially lose everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve. Could labels and magazines really drop me if they have to wait a few weeks to hear from me? I knew music was a tough business, but…ugh.
My mind goes back to Jake. When he looked at me as Hayden introduced us, there was recognition in his eyes. Not the “oh right, I’ve seen you on TV” kind of recognition, but something that made my core turn molten and almost made me forget why I came to stay with my brother.
The crunch of gravel in the driveway draws me to the window. Jake’s truck pulls up, and I watch him climb out with the kind of quiet power that tells me he’s as muscular under his clothes as I’ve been fantasizing about. He’s changed into dark jeans and a gray Henley that clings to his chest in ways that make me fantasize in ways I really shouldn’t about my brother’s best friend.
After Jake drops a worn duffelin the spare bedroom, he suggests sitting on the porch so he can get up to speed with what’s been happening.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting a fresh beer from him and taking a long drink. This is my second beer, but my hands are still shaky.
“Tell me about this guy,” Jake says without preamble. “From the beginning.”
His voice has a rough edge and an authority that makes me sit up straight and obey without hesitation.
“At first I thought it was just fan mail,” I begin. “You know, the usual compliments about my voice, saying how pretty I am, requests for autographs, that kind of thing. Pretty standard when you’ve been on TV.”
