Page 71 of Naughty Dreams
Roy was in the room, helping DJ up, turning him away from the TV. He made a throat slicing move toward Cole and the television went dark.
“Call Moss. What…who…”
“I just spoke to him.”
The pain in Roy’s face, the grim knowledge, told DJ there wasn’t any hope.
Even his formidable bodyguard couldn’t stop the burst of rage and strength that propelled DJ to the corner. He leaped up and grabbed the TV, pulling it off the mount in one wrenching move that crashed both of them to the floor. But he was already up, and hurling the TV to the ground, determined to destroy it. If he could destroy it, it was wrong. It was a lie. One of Tal’s nightmares.
The spiders weren’t there.
The TV hit the shambles of the drum kit, all of it becoming garbage. He didn’t care about his hands as he tore apart metal and plastic.
He roared and raged at Roy as he pulled DJ away from the wreckage and forced him back.
Others came into the room, but Roy snapped at them to get out, at Cole to close the curtain to the sound booth. Giving DJ this time alone, his pain unwitnessed by anyone but the man charged to protect him from harm. And in this case, to hold him together so the pain within didn’t tear him apart like he’d done to the TV.
No. It had to be wrong. It has to be.
Somewhere, DJ could hear the laughter of the demons who thrived on this shit. But Roy shut them down. He wrapped himself around DJ. Murmured to him in that rush of ocean surf thunder that drowned everything out.
When DJ collapsed to the floor, Roy surrounded and held him. Protecting his broken heart and soul the way he did DJ’s life. That steady core, the uncompromising strength, couldn’t change the pain. But it did give DJ something to hold on to.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Roy put out a call for all hands on deck. On the way back to the hotel, Warren sent him a link from a news outlet that told him it had been a good decision.
“The crash had no survivors. DJ James is confirmed as the only member of Survival not on the plane. The singer, songwriter and guitarist for the popular band is currently staying at The Royale. While he is not yet available for comment, his manager, Grant Moss, spoke to us by phone. He has indicated a statement will be made after more details are known. Until that time, he asks that everyone respect DJ’s privacy during this difficult time.
The standard sympathy-dripping appeal the media fuckers would expend no effort to honor.
While it would have been a miracle for DJ’s location to stay under wraps, it didn’t stop Roy from spewing a creative stream of oaths in his head. Warren called right after sending the text.
“They’re camped at every entrance, boss,” Warren said tersely. “Do you want to reroute and put him somewhere else?”
Fucking hell.Roy glanced at DJ. He was slumped against the limo door, staring sightlessly out the window. He’d shoved away any attempts to deal with the cuts on his hands, making it clearhe’d become a rabid animal if the issue was pushed. Though they’d been shallow, they needed cleaning. The cut on his knee was the worst, but even it had clotted, leaving a blood stain on his jeans.
The Royale hotel had been chosen because of its exceptional security reputation, not just for celebrities, but also for Congressional members and visiting foreign leaders. Roy and his teams were familiar with the layout and knew their jobs there. So it was the optimal space for a shitty situation. DJ wasn’t currently in a state to handle a relocation.
They’d have to run the gauntlet of press and tragedy-junkies to get inside, but once they did, they’d have the sanctuary DJ needed.
Roy relayed that decision, then focused on what it would take. “Usual formation. I’ll take point, you and G’s teams flank us. Henry’s people know what to do as well. Is Guy on board?” he asked, referring to the hotel manager.
“His people are monitoring the entry points, stairwells and elevators. Not a hair out of place and following our direction while giving us useful home ground input. Not the first time he’s dealt with a crisis like this, and it shows. He’s worth every bit of the money they’re paying him.”
“Good. See you in eighteen minutes.”
Roy clicked off. He had his foot stretched out, the side of it against DJ’s. The kid hadn’t acknowledged it, but he hadn’t moved his foot away, either.
He opened the first aid kit he’d retrieved from the rear following SUV and moved to sit beside DJ. He didn’t ask, just grasped his hand and started working on the cuts with the antiseptic wipe.
DJ didn’t stiffen or fight him this time. He’d checked out. With trauma, the brain shut things down because the heart and body couldn’t deal with the reality in front of them. The brainknew what it was doing, but it wouldn’t have the upper hand indefinitely, so Roy worked fast.
After the cleaning was done, he taped a few flesh-colored band-aids on the worst ones. The kid had started shivering. On the way to the studio, DJ had been wearing his modified Roy shirt over the Rush T-shirt, but had left it in the limo. Now Roy threaded DJ’s arms through the sleeves and pulled it back up over his shoulders.
DJ had also brought wraparound sunglasses and the fedora he’d taken from the storage room in Dallas. He’d had Moss send them payment for it.
Roy touched his shoulder, a gentle alert, before he put the hat on his head and the sunglasses on his face. He wasn’t giving the press the sick gift of pasting DJ’s ravaged expression, his private expression of grief, all over every media outlet.
