Page 3 of Bad For A Weekend

“I feel guilty for making everyone worry so much. I don’t think my dad will ever be the same.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“I guess.” I shrug, even though blaming myself is all I’ve been doing. I got complacent and didn’t make my safety a priority, knowing damn well that Dad gets threats daily. He’s a movie star, so it’s to be expected. I just never thought anything bad would happen.

“I’m glad you’re finally home. My mom and dad wouldn’t let me visit at the hospital. They said I needed to give you space.”

“It’s probably for the best. Dad had guards outside my door, and they weren’t letting anyone in.”

After spending one night at the hospital, I was discharged. That was yesterday, and since then, Dad has barely left my side. He even slept in a chair in my room. I griped about it, but secretly, I was glad. This whole thing has spooked me.

I won’t admit that, though. It’ll only upset Dad more.

“The paparazzi are having a field day.” His full lips turn down.

I sigh. “I figured.”

He lowers his voice to mimic a news reporter. “Daughter of actor Corey Giles, abducted by crazed fan.”

I roll my eyes. “We don’t even know who that guy was or why he did it. According to the detective, he’s not saying anything.”

“The paparazzi don’t give a shit about facts these days. They pull the same thing whenever something happens with my parents.”

Ziggy’s mom and dad are in a rock band called Criminal. His mom, Bette, is the singer, and his dad, Charlie, is the guitarist. Last year, their very public divorce put them in the headlines. Speculations about the band breaking up ran rampant, even though the separation was amicable, and neither would dream of leaving Criminal.

My phone chimes, and I glance at the screen. “I’m being summoned to the living room.”

“Should I stay here?” Ziggy asks, resuming his spinning.

“No. Come with. He won’t yell if you’re there.” I stand awkwardly with the help of my crutches and stop his dizzying motion with a hand to the back of the chair.

He tosses the crutches and crouches with his back to me, encouraging me to hop on. “Let’s do this.”

“You’re crazy.”

We joke and laugh our way down the stairs, through the foyer and a formal sitting room we never use, past the kitchen and dining room, and eventually end up in the large living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook our lush landscaping and pool.

Our Hollywood Hills home has a Tuscan vibe with exposed brick and wooden beams in nearly every room. The floors are all dark, wide-plank wood, except for textured-stone tiles in the bathrooms. The decor consists mostly of iron and leather with small floral touches. It’s masculine but warm. Most importantly, it’s home. The only one I’ve ever known.

“Baylor.” Dad interrupts Ziggy’s impression of our math teacher.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” My gaze shifts from my bestie’s profile to the living room where Dad is standing. But he’s not alone. There’s another man with him.

My smile fades as I take in the stranger. Dad is six feet tall, and this guy has him by at least three inches. His light brown hair is short on the sides, longer on top, and brushed back and away from his handsome face. He has a thick scruff along his jaw, not long enough to be considered a beard but not short enough to be clean-shaven, either. He’s dressed in a designer suit that’s all black, from his button-down shirt to his slacks and coat.

How veryMen in Blackof him.

But I can’t deny his appeal. Everything about him screams strong protector. The kind of guy you’d run toward if shit was hitting the fan because instinctually, you know he’d keep you from harm. Then again, he’s so fine, I’d want to run into his arms even if things weren’t going sideways.

He’s older than me, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about all the fun I could get up to with him.

“I want to introduce you to your new bodyguard.” Dad gestures to his side. “Baylor, this is Owen.”

Dad has mentioned multiple times over the past couple of days about bringing in personal protection, though I’m still unsure how I feel about it. Having someone watching my every move feels invasive. What if I hate him? What if he hates me? So much could go wrong.

But then again, if we’d done this before, I wouldn’t have holes in my memory that haunt me day and night. Not knowing if that creep touched me or stared at me while I lay unconscious was enough to drive me crazy. He could’ve done anything, and I wouldn’t have been able to fight or fend him off. A shiver runs up my spine with that.

Owen’s intelligent brown eyes take me in, not showing an ounce of insecurity, as he steps forward and confidently thrusts out his hand. I stare at it, noting how large it is. Sparse patches of brown hair are above each of his base knuckles, and white scars decorate his skin. They’re sexy hands.

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