Page 6 of Naughty Dreams
DJ’s expression became stone. “You can have your opinion, but keep it to yourself around him.”
“Agreed, unless he increases the risk to you.”
“Anything else?”
“If I see anything go upyournose, in your arm, et cetera, I'm done. I don't care if this stalker puts you in his basement until you rot. Users are called that because that's what they are. Users.”
For several beats, the only noise was the hum of the overhead lights. Moss visibly restrained himself from the buffering DJ had rejected.
“You’ve lost someone because of that,” DJ said. “Client or family?”
“Not a client, though I have handled one or two who proved to me their addiction made my services a waste of time. That’s the only part of that story that’s your business. Just remember I’m a bodyguard, not a babysitter. I’m not here to save you from yourself.”
Roy shifted gears. “Final thing. Sometimes you might want to discuss the decisions I make. You’re the client; that’s your right. But in the event there’s no time to have a discussion, you’ll need to follow my lead. It’s not personal. You’re trusting the skills, not the man.”
“Since the character of the man defines how he uses his skills, it’s hard to separate the two.”
Something powerful was turning a wheel behind DJ’s eyes. He was actively part of the conversation, but some part of him was…elsewhere.
“Are you writing music right now?” Roy asked.
DJ blinked, surprised, then lifted a shoulder. “Sorry, it happens a lot. I still heard you.”
“Good. Unless you have further questions, we’ll sign the contract. Then I’ll get my people up to speed and in place. The plan is to stay here a few days after the show?”
When DJ looked his way, Moss took over. “Yes. Steve’s girlfriend Lonnie lives here. He’s trying to convince her to join us for the rest of the tour, and he wants to spend some time with her and parents.”
Lonnie’s picture in his files flashed through Roy’s head. Striped stockings, short dress, straight hair and pretty blue eyes. Olive Oyl skinny, not an eating disorder.
At DJ’s nod, Moss pushed over a copy of the contract. The kid read it carefully. He and Moss had a good relationship, but DJ didn’t trust blindly. Another good sign.
DJ signed and stood up. “I was fucking with you on the Kevin Costner shit,” he said, his brown eyes serious. “Your credentials told me you know this world, but I wanted to see face to face how you handle the mind fucks in this business.”
“How I do my job will tell you that,” Roy said.
“Yeah. And if I’m wrong, I’m dead and it doesn’t matter.”
“If anyone is going to end up dead trying to get to you, it’s going to be him or me,” Roy said. “Otherwise, I’m shit at my job.”
“If you end up dead,” DJ observed, “it seems to me you’re still shit at your job. You didn’t see it coming in time to save both our asses. I’ll make you a promise. Keep both of us alive, and I’ll give you a five-star rating.”
“You’d give me a crap rating if I die protecting you?”
“Hell, yeah.” DJ’s smile was a mysterious, endearing little smirk, like Eddie Van Halen on the 1983 “Jump” music video. “One star. I’ll call you a total fuck-up at your funeral. But I will come to it. And pay for a nice flower arrangement. What’s your favorite?”
“Dandelions,” Roy said.
“A persistent and stubborn weed.” DJ extended his hand. “I’ll remember that.”
His grip was firm and yet relaxed in Roy’s. A message that DJ had the strength to surrender, if he trusted someone enough. Roy suppressed the desire to slide his thumb over the calluses from his guitar playing.
Damn, DJ was right. Hewasirresistible.
Roy released his hand. “I’ll bring my team leaders by to meet you before the concert. We’ll talk to all your regulars in small groups, letting them know our process. We officially start theclock on your protection in forty-eight hours, and it will be in place 24/7 until the threat is removed.”
“So you’ve decided I’m worth protecting.”
Moss didn’t register the lazy warmth in DJ’s golden voice. But it drew Roy’s attention like a neon sign. Kid was still fucking with him.
