Page 155 of Naughty Dreams
Smoke was filling the hallway. Terror shot through DJ, for the band, the roadies, the fans.
Security would get them out. They would. And while they did, his stalker would spirit him away to that basement Roy had promised he intended for DJ.
His know-it-all bodyguard just had to be right, didn’t he?
But if he had to end up in a basement so hundreds of people didn’t die, he could live with that. And if he got the chance to end this fucker for Steve, Lonnie, Pete and Tal, all the better.
His hazy brain also reminded him the hourglass only had to have enough sand to give Roy and whatever resources he could command—which were reassuringly considerable—time to find him.
“Help,” DJ said, coughing. “Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.”
The man opened a maintenance closet, stepped in and locked the door behind them. As he put DJ on the ground and squatted next to him, DJ did his most credible panic slash asthma attack ever, hacking from the smoke that was swirling through the hallways.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Just breathe, Dorian.”
DJ blinked at him blearily. “You risked your life to get me out of there. Thanks. And thanks for helping get people onto the stage.”
He hadn’t done that for any reason other than having access to DJ, but that didn’t matter to the people he’d helped.
Stalker Guy stared at him. His face was blurry. DJ strained to bring it in focus. Would he buy that DJ hadn’t figured it out, that the drug had made him forget the guy had kicked him in the stomach? DJ making it more difficult to get down the hall could be a disorientation thing, not active resistance. “Hell, my head feels like it’s about to fall off. When they say smoke can kill you, they mean it. We need to get out of here.”
“Yeah,” the man said. His voice was bland, no accent. Not high, but not deep. Forgettable. “I know the way. Lean on me, Dorian. I’ll get you to an exit.”
“Okay.” DJ bent over, wheezing, and felt the guy’s touch on his back. He put out his own hand to clasp the stalker’s helpingone, and received an encouraging look, one laced with deep gratitude.
He was helping Dorian James.SavingDorian James.
Feed the guy’s illusions.It had been one of Roy’s most emphatic instructions if he got DJ alone. That, and,do everything you cannotto be taken to a different location.
Not leaving the building wasn’t an option if it was on fire, but DJ would figure it out when he got to the street. Except he had a bad feeling the drug was going to make him pass out before long. Once that happened, he wouldn’t be able to track where he was being taken.
He needed to do something to counter his impaired coordination. The solution wasn’t something he looked forward to doing, but DJ took account of his surroundings. When he reached for a nearby shelf, presumably to help his balance, he staggered, letting one foot go out from under him. A sharp edge from machinery stored on the shelf sliced across his palm. He cried out at the pain, but triumph came with the flood of adrenaline. Good as an epi pen, at least for a few moments.
“What did you do?” The man snatched it. “Christ, Dorian. You need someone to watch over you every minute.”
“That’s what they tell me.” DJ put his sleepy sweetness into the half smile that Roy said made him almost irresistible.
Who was Roy kidding? It made him completely irresistible.
His stalker, aka rescuer aka nutjob, was a decent-looking guy in his forties, the attractive quality mainly because of the physique. Some acne scarring made him look tougher. Blue eyes, brown hair, cut short. He had on a roadie ballcap. That and the coveralls made him look like a maintenance man, but also gave him pockets to hide the things he needed. Like whatever the hell drug he’d injected into DJ’s system.
He was wearing thick-soled rubber shoes.
He’d found a utility sink and pulled DJ over to it, putting his hand under the flow of water. There were several possible options here, but DJ, fuzzy as he was, discarded them. He couldn’t beat the guy toe-to-toe. His best advantage was him thinking DJ didn’t know who he was.
“Gotta…write it down.” DJ fumbled at his jeans pocket. “Lyric, in my head.”
“What? Now?”
“What better time to write…song, than in an emergency?” DJ laughed and shoved at the guy. “We’re partners, man. Partners in the chaos. What’s name. What is your name?” He had to work to enunciate. “What the hell is wrong with me? Must be the smoke. Or something I smoked, before the show.” He laughed again. “Name…dude.”
“Paul.”
“Nice…meet you. I think I’m going to pass out.”
“You might. But it doesn’t last very long.”
“What…the effect of the smoke?”
