First Time Cowboy Bodyguard (Lone Star Security #5)

Prologue

MIA

Bright white lights flood the studio, and suddenly I feel smaller. On stage, there’s space to move—the dark of night, places to roam. But here, I’m an ant under a magnifying glass.

My eyes dart to my mom and my manager, Edwin Crowe, just offstage. His gaze flicks to my hands. Heat crawls up his neck. I’m still holding the bag. The makeup artist was supposed to take it.

“We’re here with Mia Love, America’s favorite child pop star,” the anchor’s voice cuts through the thick thoughts swirling like alphabet soup in my head.

I clutch the bag tighter, hoping it’s below the camera’s sweep. Edwin’s face simmers. Mom placates.

“And well, tell us what you’re up to,” the woman says, pausing mid-sentence—gingersnap-red hair, makeup perfectly predictable. Her eyes drop to the bag in my lap.

“Oh, these?” I giggle, lifting a small crocheted turtle. “They keep me busy on long road trips.”

“That’s right,” she says too emphatically. “You’re in the middle of your current tour. Can you tell our audience more about it?”

Edwin’s voice sears through my memory: Put those stupid animals of yours down and focus.

He thinks they make me look too childish. Mom says I should listen to him. He’s my manager, my ticket to fame.

But what they don’t know? The little animals make me feel sane—connected to the only person I miss. My grandma.

“Mia?” the anchor prompts, eyes catching mine.

“Oh,” I chuckle, shaking my head. “My Grammy taught me how to crochet little forest critters.” I lift a red fox. “This is Elmer. He sleeps with me at night. Protects me.”

The anchor laughs a beat too long. “You can take the girl out of childhood,” she says lightly, “but you can’t take the childhood out of her.”

I cock my head, unsure of what she means. My fingers fidget, brushing soft yarn.

“What I was asking about,” she continues, “is your tour.”

I shrug. Sleep. Eat. Perform. Travel. I shift on the stool.

Edwin’s eyes shoot daggers. Mom shakes her head, a warning etched on her face. I try again, thinking harder this time. Remembering what we practiced before I stepped onto the Good Morning USA soundstage.

“It’s the Sweet Thirteen Tour,” I say. “Because I’m thirteen.”

My foot taps the rung of the stool, hollow and nervous, until my manager’s glower stills me.

Think, Mia, think.

“There are fireworks and loud music,” I add brightly. “I sing all my fan favorites. It’s a blast!”

The anchor’s expression tightens, cinnamon freckles stark.

I shiver. Did I say something wrong?

“And school?” she asks. “Friendships?”

Everyone asks this. No one wants the truth.

My gaze drops to the animals in my lap—Oscar, Millie, Cindy. Sometimes, they’re the only friends I have.

But nobody wants a sob story.

“I have a tutor,” I recite. “And lots of friends.”

My manager. My bodyguard. The roadies. My mom.

I flash my famous smile—the one I perfected before I finished losing my baby teeth.

“Well,” the anchor says, “it sounds like you stay busy.”

“I do.” I lift my chin.

“Do you have a favorite song to perform?”

I pause—just long enough to tease. Just like my acting coach taught me.

“Anything off my latest album Hello, Sunflower.”

“Well timed,” the anchor says curtly. “As we take a commercial break, here’s the title track by Miss Mia Love.”

The cameras cut away. My shoulders drop.

The anchor goes cold as a makeup artist brushes over her plastic smile.

Edwin and Mom rush me. Dad left so long ago I have trouble remembering his face.

Before I can react, Edwin snatches the crocheted animals. Hands them to my mom with a derisive snort. “Keep your kid under control, Mom.”

She stuffs them in her purse, eyes darting between Edwin and me.

“These silly things again. I should throw them away,” she whispers, face ambivalent.

She never takes my side. She always takes his.

“No.” The word comes out too loud. The studio shifts—every head turning. “Please.”

“Mia,” Mom raises an eyebrow. “You’re here to make and sell music. Nothing else.”

She lingers, caught between me and Edwin, who paces a distance away, screaming into his cell phone.

“We have to keep him happy, Mia,” Mom adds, frowning. Just for a while longer. Just until we have enough money to stand on our own two feet.

“Why did Dad have to leave?” I whine, a single tear cascading down my cheek.

She tut-tuts with her tongue, wiping it away. “Don’t make the makeup artist come back over here,” she scolds.

I bite my bottom lip until I taste blood, twisting my hands in my lap.

When the lights flare again, and the cameras roll, I become her.

Mia Love.

America’s favorite child pop star.

A brand.

Not a girl.