Chapter 11
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 clear he’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 brain knew 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.
DJ’s hand came up and fumbled at the glasses, as if he was trying to figure out what they were, but before he could remove them, Roy’s hand was on his, gripping and easing it back down to his lap.
“We’ve got to get past the press and your fans to get to your hotel room. All right?”
When he got nothing, Roy sharpened his tone. “Dory, I’m talking to you. Answer me.”
A flicker in the haze. Dory stared at Roy with desperate, dull pain. But his jaw tightened, a ghost hint of his stubborn will, and he nodded.
Roy gripped his shoulder. “Just follow my lead.”
Though he seemed to be looking at him from some place deeper than the reach of an oil drill, DJ nodded again. The limo pulled up to the curb and—
Thump!
The vehicle rocked as a screaming and crying girl wearing a concert shirt flung herself against it. She had long brown hair and big blue eyes, streaming with tears.
DJ jumped, then looked like he was about to be sick.
Though it shouldn’t have happened, at least the girl was peeled off the car in a flash.
Roy could see over a dozen members of his team, plus an equal number of band security, tightening ranks under Warren’s snarling direction.
Roy also saw three police cars pulling up, lights going, officers emerging to help.
He didn’t know who’d approved the dispatch, but their precinct was getting a massive fruit basket.
While Henry’s people knew how to be intimidating enough under all normal and most abnormal circumstances, adding the police presence would help. In theory. If it didn’t, the police had non-lethal weapons like Tasers and pepper spray, as did Roy and his team.
DJ was trembling harder. It wrenched Roy’s heart to see it.
DJ was more than his client. He was also Roy’s submissive, but to get this done without faltering, Roy put aside the personal and reached for his experience and training.
He'd switched to his radio, now that he was in range, and Warren’s voice was in his ear. “Sorry, boss. We got it contained. No more of that bullshit.”
“Understood. Ready for us?”
“Yeah. PD’s in lockstep with us.”
Roy emerged from the car. The deafening cries and flashbulbs, the phones raised to capture the moment, were things he tuned out as he scanned the area for real threats. He trusted Warren, but his own instincts made the final check.
Roy reached in and took DJ’s arm, drawing him out.
When DJ wobbled on his feet, he slid an arm around him, keeping his other hand in his, and headed toward the front door.
There might be media speculation on the intimate pose, but Roy’s expression was neutral and professional, so the more obvious interpretation was his client was too overwhelmed to walk without aid.
Not unexpected, and not untrue.
Guy manned the entrance with his brawniest doormen.
Even the hotel manager’s unflappable demeanor showed a hint of stress at the degree of crazy crowded on his front step.
Reporters shouting over the screaming, crying fans, the barricades trembling at the push of people against it.
Henry’s security team had locked arms in front of those sections, and the police were moving in to reinforce.
Roy and his people knew just how out of control fans and paparazzi could get, and city police routinely confronted people who lost their shit. Trusting all of them to do their jobs, he kept his eye on that door.
DJ had his head down, but he put one foot in front of the other. Roy hoped he was deep in his head again, far beyond hearing the stupid shit coming out of reporters’ mouths.
How do you feel? Was that really a fucking question?
Why weren’t you on the plane with them?
Do you think this has to do with your stalker?
Fucking hell. Roy didn’t want that idea planted in DJ’s head, especially not right now. It was too early to speculate; it was just as likely to have been a random air disaster.
No matter what Roy’s gut said.
A lava-level heat wave of rage erupted through DJ’s tense muscles, and he turned a hellfire look on the reporter. He wasn’t completely tuned out.
Moss had refused to confirm that DJ had a stalker, but the rumors were out there, and the hiring of additional professional security hadn’t gone unnoticed. The reporter was fishing.
And about to be fed his teeth. The only question was how much Roy would hold DJ back, and how many teeth the reporter would sacrifice to DJ’s fist and the power of his arm. The kid only looked scrawny.
Heading off that far-too-appealing option, Roy moved DJ forward, wishing he could feed the lot of them into a woodchipper. How would they feel if they’d just lost their family? Apparently, the going rate of a press badge was the wearer’s soul.
Close to the door, he saw Rae, one of the reporters who’d been scheduled to be at the Atlanta Mission event. She had tears on her face. Real ones. “I’m so sorry, DJ,” she said.
DJ’s eyes landed on her. Though he likely hadn’t heard her through all the other noise, her sincerity penetrated. The shudder that went through DJ was a pulling back, reining in the explosion wanting to happen. He even managed to give her a nod before they reached the door and left it all behind.
She’d remembered what a human being was supposed to be in a situation like this. It was probably why she was only one of three reporters Moss and DJ had approved for the charity exclusive.
Guy flanked DJ with the doormen, and they escorted Roy and DJ to the freight elevator.
While there were curious, sympathetic looks toward DJ and whispers from the few guests in the lobby, they kept their distance.
Two more sober-faced hotel security monitored the passenger elevators, confirming any boarders would be approved staff or guests.
The doors closed and the elevator began to rise, trundling along in that way most freight elevators did. Quilted gray blankets hung on the walls protected the metal sides from dents and scrapes of cleaning carts and furniture transfers.
DJ turned, pressing his forehead against a quilted blanket. “It’s not real,” he whispered. “I don’t want it to be real.”
“I know.”