2. Monroe
2
MONROE
ONE YEAR LATER
“ I told you what I want. If you can’t get him, it’s not happening. End of discussion. It’s my fucking life on the line! Don’t you get it?”
I plant my hands on the conference table before leaning forward. The record label executives click their tongues, crisp suits crinkling as they shift to face each other.
The one on Zoom, joining us from Dubai, leans forward. “Monroe, sweetie, we are trying our best to get him. There doesn’t seem to be a number to motivate him. If we could’ve gotten him by now, we would have. I think it’s time you really think about your future in the entertainment industry. There are plenty of other highly trained bodyguards capable of protecting you onstage. What happened in Texas will never be repeated if?—”
I cut him off, exhaling slowly. “I don’t fucking care about your excuses or reasoning anymore. The detail you had on me then failed— epically failed. I nearly paid for the blunder with my life . It won’t happen again, hence my insistence on hiring my own security. I want Cash Redford, or I’m not doing a world tour. End of story. ”
If there’s one thing I got from my trailer-park mama, it’s a stubborn streak a mile wide.
The executives don’t often meet with the talent directly, but upon the formal notice that I wouldn’t be going on the world tour, which was fully booked and scheduled, they deigned to meet with me. Losing a billion-dollar tour seems to be a hefty motivator for them to show up. They still treat me like a stubborn teenager whenever they do, despite the fact that I’m their biggest talent and I’m twenty-three years old.
Pricks.
My life means nothing to them, save for the chunk of change they’d forfeit if I backed out. I’m doing them a favor by even agreeing to this meeting. It’s a courtesy to their pocketbooks that the money-hungry fuckers don’t deserve.
“Darling, we will try for him again. I will personally go down to meet with him if I have to. Don’t stress about it anymore, dear. You will have the best security any star has ever had! We’ve already tripled the usual manpower outside the venues, your hotels, the unmarked cars?—”
I tune out Dalton Willis, the CEO of Sun Records, rolling my eyes as he drills on. When he finally shuts up, I stand.
“Make it happen, or I bail. I can’t make my position on the matter any clearer.”
I spin on my heel and storm from the room, Ember and Katherine right behind me. My assistant and publicist, respectively, have both become my friends, and I know they support me in this. Fidel, my manager, stays behind—I’m sure to attempt to smooth things over by talking about numbers with them. Remind them of the money. That’s how to calm the execs down.
I love my fans, and I desperately want to show up for them for this tour. But even they aren’t worth risking my life for, knowing there are a few crazies who inevitably linger in the crowd.
Cash Redford is the only man alive I trust to protect me.
The real question is, why doesn’t he want to? I need to figure out what motivates a man like that.
It’s a rare occurrence that I find myself unable to persuade someone with unlimited zeros on a check.
My trainer, Marty, kicks my ass in my home gym. Sweat drips down my chest as I finish up another set of burpees.
“Ten minutes in the sauna,” he instructs, tossing me a water bottle.
I chug down half of it before entering the sauna, grabbing a hand towel on the way in. Marty joins me, sitting on the opposite end. He’s about my height—five foot four—with a tight, toned body. He coaches jiu jitsu to kids, and I love when he incorporates it into my training regimen. He turned sixty last year, but doesn’t look a day over forty-five. He moves like he’s barely in his thirties. He told me once that the secret to eternal youth is cucumber-carrot juice, so I choke it down every morning.
“How’s prep going for the tour? You’ll be gone for six months, right? I have a workout plan in the works for you.”
I shake my head, downing more water. “I’m not going. The record label can’t get their shit together. I don’t feel safe.”
Marty nods. He’s familiar with the incident in Texas and the attempt on my life. He’s been my trainer for four years now. I share a lot with him, but he’s also overheard many conversations. I pay my therapist out the ass, but I probably work through my issues more consistently with Marty.
“The man from Texas still won’t take the job? What’s his deal?”
I shrug. “Maybe he has a wife or girlfriend who’s not okay with him leaving for so long? I have no idea.”
He scoffs. “Surely, the record label could’ve found that out. Aren’t they doing their due diligence? How much do those dickheads make off of you?”
I rest back against the wood, scrolling through my latest Instagram comments about the upcoming shows. “I make them a disgusting amount of money, but they’d lose it all if I bailed. They don’t care about my life. They care about lining their fat pockets.”
Marty grunts as he stands, using a towel to soak up the sweat on his forehead. “Well, sounds to me like you need to take matters into your own hands.”
I consider his words as he exits the sauna. My fingers hover above my phone screen for a few moments before I start tapping away on it. A search for Cash Redford doesn’t reveal anything on Instagram. All I know about him is that he lives in a small town in Texas and that he’s a muscled six-foot-four ex-military cowboy with a killer jawline and a lethal right hook—who also happens to respect and protect women he doesn’t even know.
Exactly what I need right now.
My phone lights up with my boyfriend’s name. I swipe to answer it with a heavy sigh.
“Hello?” I don’t bother hiding the irritation in my voice.
“Hey, gorgeous. What are you up to this Saturday?”
Zade Byron won Sexiest Man Alive last year, and this year, he’s starring in the next Bond film as the lead, James Bond. Zade Byron is, of course, not his real name, and he gets more boring the longer I know him. Contrary to popular belief, Monroe Blue is actually my given name, but my mother was high off her ass at a party when came up with it.
“I will be very busy wallowing in self-pity after getting the wrinkly pink skin of my asshole lasered until it’s a smooth buttercream texture. All the coolest celebrities are doing it now. Wanna join?”
Zade has never laughed at a single one of my jokes. I’m pretty sure he’s actively annoyed by them.
“There’s a party I need a hot date for. I think the theme is how much skin can you show this early in the year .”
I roll my eyes as I rise to a stand, realizing I’ve probably been sitting in here for way too long, sweating. I step out of the sauna and get more pleasure from the burst of cool air than Zade has ever given me in the bedroom. I pull the hair tie out of my sweaty hair as I make my way to my bathroom to take a much-needed shower .
“Where?” I ask.
“It’s at Katy Bardot’s house in the Hills. Pack a swimsuit. I’ll pick you up around seven. Love you, sexy.”
He hangs up the phone. I toss it on my bed before stripping out of my workout clothes. At one point, I remember being giddy when Zade Byron wanted to take me out. It has only been four months, but he is truly taxing to spend time with.
Is it me? Am I the problem?
I’ve only ever gone out with celebrities, movie stars, comedians, and—the worst of them all—musicians, like me. I’ve been in love once, and aside from Clint, the sex with all of them has mostly been subpar—at best . Zade and I have been intimate a handful of times due to our incredibly busy schedules and typically being in different states, countries, or sometimes continents for work. The most recent instance was actually last week after he flew home from a photo shoot with Vogue in London for the next installment of the Bond remakes. I didn’t finish, and he talked about his film set for two hours straight in bed. He kept mentioning his costar, who is a tall, gorgeous, thin brunette and poised and proper with an English accent—the exact opposite of me in every possible way. She comes from a very posh English family who he can’t wait to meet at the premiere. His adoring tone made me wonder if he was obsessed with her.
He’s probably cheating.
I can’t seem to rustle up enough emotion to care, but I will be pissed if he slept with her and slept with me after. Informed consent is not a joke.
The party is packed with A-listers. Zade wasn’t kidding about the theme. My neon-pink leather minidress with a deep V-neck offers more coverage than half of the other guests’ outfits.
I’m three dirty martinis deep when my phone vibrates in my hand. I look down to see Ember’s name pop up.
Ember
Willis’s assistant just called. They agreed to double his offer, but they want you to present it to him. I think they mean with your boobs out.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Fuck. That.
Since when do I take orders?
I look around for Zade and spot his slicked-back man bun. He’s over by the DJ booth, animatedly chatting with one of his former costars. She’s tall and slim with long blonde hair up in a smooth, high ponytail.
I make my way over to him. My security detail for the night trails behind me. There’s only one of them here, and I don’t know his name yet because he’s newer. Even in a sea of other stars, sometimes, there can be crazies. After what happened in Texas, I don’t take any chances.
“Zade.” I tap his arm.
He turns to me. His eyes are distant and glassy. He’s clearly drunk, probably high too .
“Hey, lovely. You remember Monat? She was my costar in The Pilot’s Daughter .” He smiles, rubbing his hand up her side.
I watch the movement of his hand on her bare skin before my eyes meet hers. “Hi, Monat. Nice to see you again.”
I turn to my boyfriend. “I’m going home.”
I spin on my heel, not giving him time to respond. He calls after me, but I keep walking. Breaking up with him needs to be more calculated than when he’s drunk and I’m tipsy at a party. Everyone has a camera these days, and even other celebrities aren’t above capturing a juicy breakup moment to go viral and earn a bump in cultural relevance.
The decision to end things with him is suddenly so clear to me. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to get here. I’ll need to consult my publicist, Katherine, for the best way to go about it.
“Can you call Harold?” I ask my bodyguard.
He nods, dialing my driver. I rode here with Zade in his Lamborghini, but Harold always comes when I call. I pay him accordingly for the service. The bodyguard gives Harold our location as he and I walk out the front door of the mansion. There are a few sports cars idling outside, and it’s way too cold to be out here in the dress I’m wearing. I don’t care. I’m afraid of what kind of scene I’ll make if I see Zade feeling up another actress.
I inspect my new bodyguard as he hangs up the phone. He’s about six foot two and muscular. He looks young, around twenty-five. He stands up straight, looking around the expansive front garden and the line of sports cars parked in the long, circular driveway. His black suit fits him nicely .
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Brooks,” he says, eyes flicking to mine briefly before resuming his inspection of the area.
I exhale, pulling out my phone. “What convinced you to take a job like this, Brooks?”
He looks confused by my question, a small frown on his mouth. “Um, I’m not sure what you mean, miss.”
“Like, why did you want to be a bodyguard? You have to travel a lot, the hours suck, and it’s dangerous. Why are you doing it?” I nearly stumble and fall in my tall heels.
He reaches out a hand to steady me, gripping my elbow. “I was honorably discharged from the Army, but I wasn’t ready to settle into some office job with my dad’s company. My goal is the Secret Service, but I need experience for that.”
“You don’t have bodyguard experience?”
He shakes his head.
That’s reassuring.
The front door opens and the sound of the party floats out toward us. I glance inside, seeing Zade lean down to whisper into the woman’s ear. His hand is cupping her ass. Embarrassment flushes my chest. Without hesitation, I pull out my phone and text him.
Monroe
Let’s stop pretending this is real. You do you, and we can put on a show for the cameras when needed.
A black SUV pulls up to the front steps. The windows are heavily tinted, but I know Harold is in the driver’s seat. Brooks ushers me toward the back door, opening it up for me. I slide into the back seat, and he gets in the front passenger one. Harold pulls away from the house.
“Hey, Harold.”
“Good evening, Miss Blue. How are you?”
I lie back against the leather seat with a heavy sigh. “I’m all right. Ready to be home.”
“We’ll be there in no time, miss.”
I chew the inside of my lip, my thoughts spinning out of control. Convincing someone like Cash Redford to be my bodyguard shouldn’t be this stressful. He’s a small-town rancher. This is an opportunity for him.
He doesn’t see it that way.
I need to figure out what motivates someone like him.
I tap on my phone with my acrylic-tipped fingers, dialing Ember’s number.
“Hello?”
“Ember, I need you to schedule my jet for a flight to Texas.”
My phone buzzes. I pull it away from my face to see the incoming text.
Zade
Works for me.