Page 3 of Reverb
“I don’t fucking need anyone protecting me.” More grit there, and a rumble that was sexy and tantalizing.
Ray had warned David that the firebrand bass player who’d leveled her attacker with one punch wasn’t taking kindly to the idea of a security detail. At least not forher.
From all the press he’d seen of the band, Sullivan was no-nonsense and sharp. Reminded him of several of the women he’d known in the army. Strong. Independent. Fierce. Yeah, a woman like that would not take kindly to having her back watched by someone she didn’t know. On the other hand, that was exactly his job.
Twisted Wishes needed Mish Sullivan—and the rest of the band—safe.
He pulled open the door to the third floor, keeping the noise to a minimum. Part of securing the band was learning how they interacted with each other. All signs pointed to them being a united front. They’d weathered quite a lot in their short and meteoric rise to stardom, including Ray nearly dying by the hand of their former manager.
What a shit show that must have been, and all the more reason for Sullivan and the band not to trust an outsider. However, public fronts and what happened behind closed doors could be vastly different, even if Ray’d said they were like one big family.
Families fought. Like now, apparently. David slipped down the hall, too aware that he was an interloper.
“It’s the whole band,” Ray said. “Not just you.”
“Yeah, right. ’Cause you have Zav, and Dom has Adrian, so who’re you sticking this dude with, huh?” Silence, then a sigh from Mish. “Kiddo, I know you’re trying to do the right thing.”
David continued toward the open studio door, the scent of concrete, brick, and moisture lingering in the hall on this humid, late spring day. New York was soupy as fuck. Would only get worse in the summer.
“Then let me do the right thing.” Ray’s voice was pained. “You haven’t read the stuff Adrian has.”
“You haven’t let me.”
David had read them, though. Most of the mail, comments, and replies Twisted Wishes got on their various social media accounts were benign. Excited and appreciative fans, especially queer ones. Notes to specific band members that were gushing or of the “I love you!” variety, but harmless in nature. Lovely and endearing stuff. Twisted Wishes had a stellar fanbase, one that they seemed to enjoy and interact well with.
But there were the few pieces thatweren’tlike that. Those were about Mish and seemed to be from one sender, going by syntax and style. Details about her hair and skin, and what he wanted from her. A date. To talk. A kiss on the cheek. To hold her hand. Run his hands up those legs of hers. Creepy, creepy stuff.
Even if there hadn’t been the attack a couple of weeks ago, the band sure as shit needed to be taking this seriously. Especially considering the guy who had gone after Mish wasn’t the one who’d sent those messages. That guy was in jail and couldn’t have sent the latest batch, though David was certain Internet Dude had some connection to that event.
Mish Sullivan had an obsessive fan, and he wasdangerous.
“You shouldn’t have to see that shit.” Ray’s voice sounded pained.
“I don’t need you or Adrian protecting me. You’ve both got enough on your plate.”
And that was David’s cue to step into the doorway and rap his knuckles on the frame.
Five heads turned to stare at him, and David got his first personal look at the core of Twisted Wishes. Ray Van Zeller he’d met during his interview, and he knew Zavier Demos, Mish Sullivan, and Dominic Bradley—known as Domino Grinder—from the music videos, publicity, and news stories. The other guy had to be Adrian Doran, Dominic’s lover and their social media guru.
Ray looked relieved. “You found the place.”
David gave a shrug. “GPS is a wonderful thing.” Ray’d given him the address, but he’d also checked the fan spaces online and found the same location, which explained the gaggle of people outside, all with cell phones and some with cameras. David had walked around the building and found a door that’d been propped open by workers doing a reno job on the second floor. No one had bothered him when he’d made his way up the fire stairs, despite this being a secure building.
He wasn’t about to lead with that, though, so he smiled at the band members and their media guru.
Ray turned to the rest of the group. “This is David Altet. He’s the guy I hired to be our security.”
There were murmurs of hellos as David made his way into the room, all except from Mish. She was glaring at Ray. When that same gaze was leveled at David, she crossed her arms, defensive and wary.
He didn’t blame her. Couldn’t. He understood the desire, the absolute need to be who you were. And Mish Sullivan was a woman who was equal parts protector and individual. No doubt she’d chew David out if he gave any of her bandmates flak.
“I suggested to Ray that meeting you all before the tour would be a better plan than showing up at your first gig, barking orders.” He found an old stool that had a few paint splashes on it, and propped his ass on the edge. “Though I don’t bark all that often.”
“Well, that’s good, since I don’t take orders.” Mish shoved a hand into her red curls and peered at Ray. “Please don’t tell me this is the guy I’m gonna have to take care of.”
David couldn’t help the quirk in his lips, which of course Mish caught. She raised an eyebrow at Ray, then focused on David. All six foot one inch of fire, strength, and beauty strode right up, and those sweet hazel eyes, tinged green in the light of the studio, bore down on David. “You’re tiny.”
David cocked his head and looked up. “I’m five-nine.”
