Page 72 of The Bombshell and the Bodyguard
“But your encore...”
Lila’s voice drifted away as the guard and I reached the bottom of the steps. He held my upper arm for support as I walked as quickly as possible in the high-heeled boots I’d worn for the show.
Behind the stage there was no waiting ambulance, only throngs of music lovers moving through the dark space from one stage to the next.
The guard pulled me into the swarm of people, walking quickly.
“Where are you taking me? Where’s Wilder?”
Had they already transported him to the hospital? Was this man supposed to give me a ride there?
His grip on my arm tightened. “Just a little further, Jessica.”
“Wait.” I stopped walking, digging my sharp heels into the ground as a cold finger of dread trailed down my back.
Jessica?
It wasn’timpossiblethat the concert staff might know my real name. But there was something familiar about the guard.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at him due to the darkness but something about his voice…
“There’s a police truck right over there. Can’t they give me a ride?” I asked as panic over Wilder’s well-being shifted into fear for my own safety.
“They’re watching the VIP area. Do you want to see your handsome boyfriend or not?” The man sneered. “He might be dying.”
Something was definitely wrong. I’d seen this man somewhere before.
Casting a glance back toward the rear of the stage I’d just left, I spotted a tall figure running from one side to the other, headed for the stairs.
“Is that... that’sWilder,” I gasped. Having spent a shameful amount of time watching him—in person and on TV when he played football—I recognized the way he moved.
I whirled back to face the blond security guard, who now had my arm in a painful steel grip as he dragged me along with him.
“Who are you? What’s going on here?”
He didn’t answer but attempted to get a hand over my mouth. “Let’s put this dust mask on you okay? Don’t want you to ruin those golden pipes of yours.”
I bit the man’s hand then twisted my neck to shout behind me. “Wilder!” I screamed. “I’m here. Wilder! Help me!”
This time the guard did manage to clamp a hand over my mouth, muffling my shouts. But our struggle had drawn the attention of some of the people around us.
“Hey is that Jade?” a girl said.
The guard pulled my face against his shoulder. “Out of the way please. Concert security. Please clear a path or you’re the next pothead who’s going down. You ready for a pat-down?”
His threatening tone worked. The clearly inebriated—or otherwise impaired—music lovers backed away. One of them though, a super-thin, shirtless guy with shaggy dark hair and glassy eyes stared at me.
“I could swear that’s Jade. She looks just like her.” He raised his voice. “Hey, I think this guy’s arresting Jade.”
I heard some exclamations of surprise but couldn’t see the crowd’s reaction because my captor had picked up his pace and was now fully dragging me toward the perimeter of the festival grounds, where rows of vehicles were parked.
If I allowed him to get me into one of those, I had no doubt I’d never be seen again. I’d never see Wilder again.
Drawing my knee up, I turned and struck out with one of my heels. The sharp point of it made contact with the man’s lower leg, and he yelped in pain as his grip loosened. I let my body go slack, dropping to the ground and breaking his hold entirely.
A large male body launched over me and crashed into the security guard, taking him down in a violent bone-crunching tackle.
The yelp turned into an agonized scream. It was cut off by the sound of several rapid-succession blows.
