Page 52 of Naughty Dreams
Roy complied, and DJ filled in the music around it, edgy and sensual, with a touch of hunger. “See, harmony? It’s magic. Connection is what makes music work. Like when I’m playing the guitar. The pickups take what my fingers do to the strings, and feed it through the cable to the amp.”
As it became more complicated, Roy watched DJ’s expression intensify, bringing forth what was in his head, channeling it through his long fingers.
He’d always wanted to protect his client. Feeling this kind of ache in his chest along with it, as if there was a whole new consequence for failure, was new.
He’d think about that later. Not during something like this.
When DJ brought the song to a close, he nudged Roy with an elbow. “You’ve participated in Survival’s next big hit.”
“Do I get a royalty share for my two-minute contribution?”
“I think you’ve contributed more than that.” DJ gave him a sweeping look. “Wait until you hear the lyrics.”
Was this interlude appropriate? There’d been no bodily fluid exchange. Not even a kiss.
“If you like watching the creation process, you should ride with us in the bus,” DJ said unexpectedly.
“My job is to secure your environment and remain part of the wallpaper. Not sit and listen to you play.”
“You can be wallpaper in the bus. I’ll reserve you the back seat so you can watch everything in your super sexy and serious bodyguard way.”
When Roy didn’t respond, DJ gave him a mock scowl. “They debunked the rumor that the rockstar lifestyle and attitude is contagious. Though if I’m wrong, and you feel overcome by it, we probably have a spare pair of ripped jeans and an I Heart Survival T-shirt tucked in storage.”
His gaze passed over Roy’s shoulders. “It might be male stripper tight. We can pierce your ear. Pete did his own.”
“If you don’t stop, I will fold you up like a straw and stuffyouin storage.”
But DJ was as persistent as a kid in a toy store with his eye on the prize. “We’re picking up that reporter and her cameraman for a three-hour ride along. You know they might be sleeper rockstar assassins.”
Roy put an end to the teasing. “Dory, is there a professional reason for me to be on that bus?”
“One of your guys always rides with us.”
“Yes. While I ride in the vehicle in front or behind.”
“Any reason you can’t be the one in the bus?”
Roy stared him down. DJ lifted a shoulder. “No,” he said quietly. “No professional reason at all. But I can tell you love the music. I bet you don’t get much chance in your job to really immerse yourself in it. The bus is a controlled environment. I have serious hots for you, Roy, I don’t deny it, but the reason I asked is I also want to consider you a friend. Is that against the rules?”
“No,” Roy said after a moment. “But it’s a hell of a dodge of the issue.”
“You like watching me play the guitar. Don’t you?”
Roy could have dismissed the comment. Instead, only honesty came from his lips. “Your focus…it’s distracting.”
DJ’s eyes glittered at all the nuances behind those two words, and the teasing disappeared from his face. “Ride with us, Roy. Please.”
When the tour bus hit the road, Roy was on it. As DJ had so craftily pointed out, Roy required one security team member to be present in the vehicle.
The reporter and her camera man had been vetted; very little chance they were rockstar assassins. However, having them on an extended ride along was unusual, since the band likedhaving time to defuse or compose. After hearing the angle, Roy understood why the band had okayed it.
Leann White was doing a human-interest piece on celebrities who’d been in the foster system. She was a mother herself, of a seven-year-old boy. Her approach was respectful, easing toward more sensitive questions.
“You’ve said your earlier foster homes weren’t always the best. Are you okay expanding on that?”
“I lived on the street for about a year when I was ten,” Pete told her. He was up in a bunk, feet dangling down as he worked on his fantasy football choices. “I had an agreement with my foster parents that I’d show up if they had a DHHS visit, so it would look like they were earning their check. They’d make me waffles with strawberries and whipped cream to sweeten the deal.”
He nodded at DJ. “Let him tell you about his shoulder thing. Dislocates at the drop of a hat, so he has to be careful on stage. It popped out at that rock festival we did recently, after the stage dismount on ‘Smoke It.’”
