Page 75 of Naughty Dreams
It wasn’t his bodyguard’s voice. It was something deeper, and DJ heard it, because he flinched, unable to handle anything like that right now. Roy cursed himself, even as he didn’t take it back.
“I wish I’d been on that plane with them, but I’m not going to follow them. I don’t deal with shit that way.”
“Okay.” Roy made himself walk to the door, knowing he had to trust the kid that far.
“Roy?”
“Yeah.” He paused, looked back.
“Have the hotel staff pack up everything and ship it. I’m not worrying about any of it.”
“Okay. Just sleep, Dory.”
“Don’t call me that right now, okay? I don’t…I don’t want to belong to anyone right now. Feel anything.”
When DJ burrowed even further under the covers, his face disappearing, Roy returned to stand over him. He didn’t touch him, though the urge was overpowering.
Roy wasn’t going to argue the point. He was just going to prove that, on this one single thing, it didn’t matter what DJ wanted. It mattered what he needed.
And he definitely needed to belong to Roy right now.
DJ’s home was outside Asheville, North Carolina, not far from where he’d grown up. Roy dispatched G and her team to do thesecurity assessment. Since he’d been hired while the band was on tour, his focus had been on securing DJ at those locations and on the road.
He would have preferred to do the home assessment himself, but nothing was taking him from DJ’s side.
The fan sites were overflowing with messages of sympathy, love and support. Much of it, far more than Roy would have expected, was sincere. Survival’s music meant something to them, to their lives.
Moss stayed in frequent contact with Roy, since DJ had trashed his phone, didn’t want it replaced, and wasn’t taking any calls. Or visitors. He stayed in his room, doing the burrowing thing in the bed. On Roy’s frequent checks on him, the TV was on the same old movie channel. The noise drowned out anything outside the door, or the constant helicopters passing by, hoping to catch a glimpse. The curtains were kept securely closed.
Roy ordered him room service and got DJ to pick indifferently at it, but after only a few mouthfuls, he turned away and tuned out again.
For now, Roy would let him get away with it.
Moss had flown from Charlotte to Denver to deal with things there, but he’d also arranged for a charter to take DJ home tomorrow, a two o’clock departure time that fit with Roy’s preparation time and the availability and vetting of the plane.
G called from Asheville to confirm DJ’s home security system was top notch. There were some challenges to secure the grounds, but she was on it. Roy told her to sweep for bugs twice a day. Since he’d informed both Warren and G of the phone call, she didn’t question it.
While the stalker’s claim of responsibility for the crash could prove to be a lie, Roy wasn’t taking any chances. A man who had the resources and ability to blow up a private plane departing a secure air strip could figure out how to bug a private residence.
When Moss arrived from Denver, he called Roy to tell him he was on his way. He needed to talk to DJ about some things that couldn’t wait. The manager sounded exhausted.
Since it was close to shift change time, Warren came up with Moss. Right now, end of shift meant Roy crashing in the suite’s other bedroom for a few hours. G had packed up Roy’s things from his hotel room and brought them here.
Instead of his carefully chosen hip rock manager clothes, Moss wore faded jeans and a wrinkled shirt. His eyes were bloodshot, and the lines of his face deepened at the effort of containing his emotions when he walked into the last space he’d shared with the band members.
Roy gave him time to find his composure, pouring him a drink and bringing it to him.
“I guess you know it’s a mine field down there.” Moss cleared his throat. “I’m pretty experienced, but I was glad to have Warren for an escort. Reporters are camped out in the all-night coffee shops, on the sidewalks, in their vans. They’ve kept a police presence in the area, but all the security teams—yours, Henry’s and the hotel’s—are doing a top-notch job. They mademeproduce ID.”
Roy knew all of that, but let Moss talk. The exercise of reviewing details helped to steady him.
“This is the age of movie magic and cosplay,” Warren told him. “A dedicated fan can do a scary good job of looking like one of the inner circle. So we’re like the liquor store. Everyone gets carded, even the guy with gray hair and wrinkles.” He jerked a thumb at his silver mane. “See this? It's a silver dye job and one of my army of girlfriends is a makeup artist. I’m really only thirty.”
Moss managed a weak smile and dropped into a chair. When he rubbed a hand over his face, Roy noted a slight tremor to it. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Marjorie’s called me a few times. I told her DJ had ditched his phone. She’s shattered, and yet somehow, she’s holding it together better than the rest of us, I think. She knows her boy. She said he’ll need a little time before he’ll reach out to her, but she’ll be there when he does. She gave me a message to give to him.”
Moss sighed. “I don’t… You know the bands who died in plane crashes? I never appreciated what their managers went through. I mean…”
