8. Monroe
8
MONROE
T he opening night of my first world tour is meant to be a showstopping event. Some parts will be filmed and shared in clips on social media in an effort to show all my fans and future concert attendees what they have to look forward to.
The two songs I’m going to open with are my biggest hits. I wrote them both, but one of them is a solo and the other a duet. I fought Fidel and Sun Records on this, but they eventually won and convinced me to perform the duet with my ex, Clint Clyde.
He walks toward me with his bright, winning smile and outstretched arms. His guitar is swung over his muscled back.
“There’s that beautiful girl. Damn, you always were a knockout in red.” He leans in, pecking my cheek.
I’m wearing loose, low-rise boyfriend jeans and a fitted red baby tee, revealing a sliver of my stomach. I lean back, and Cash’s stoic frame catches the corner of my vision. His expression is unreadable as he stands a few feet away, never leaving more than six feet of space between us. He’s been nothing but professional, even since I flashed him on my patio and he got a full-frontal view of me butt-ass naked. His Southern gentleman roots must go deep because he barely even looked. My cheeks heat every time I think about it.
Clint is six foot one with long blonde hair and a thick beard. He’s grown it out even more since the last time I saw him. I prefer a closer trim, but the ladies love unkempt Clint. Many of my fans want to see us back together. They’ve created dozens of fan accounts dedicated to our love story, sharing every single photo and video clip ever taken of us with the hashtag #BlueandClyde.
I was madly in love with Clint—until he became so obsessed with himself and his rising fame that he started neglecting me and eventually cheated on me with one of his many adoring fans, probably more than one. When I found out, I didn’t scream at him or make a scene. I simply blocked his number and never looked back. I never gave him a chance to explain or apologize. The lyrics for the breakup album came to me as easy as water flowing down a mountain.
We hadn’t spoken in over two years until tour rehearsals started, but even in the studio, I refused to engage in any small talk with him. This is strictly business. I don’t do second chances with cheaters or liars, even for PR purposes, much to my publicist’s dismay. Katherine’s always trying to strike a balance between keeping me relevant and appeasing my fans.
Shit, I still need to tell her I broke it off with Zade.
“Good to be back on this stage with you, sweetheart.” Clint winks at me, pulling his guitar off his back as we prepare for sound check.
I form a half smile. “Just doing it for the fans, Clint.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. I wait for the pang of heartbreak, for a shrivel of those old, powerful feelings to overtake me, but nothing happens. My gut doesn’t clench at his smile, and my heart doesn’t pound at his proximity.
He broke my heart and truly shattered me. I didn’t start dating again until a year later. Seeing him and working with him again has made me realize that I am truly over it, although I lost a part of myself when I stopped loving him. His betrayal inspired an entire breakup album that ended up shooting me up to mega-celebrity status and ultimately kick-started this world tour.
In a way, I have Clint to thank for where I am today, which is why I agreed when Sun Records insisted on him performing the second song. It will follow the one I wrote while crying on my bathroom floor after finding out he’d fucked someone else.
It’s melodramatic, it’s raw, and it’s going to make the fans go wild, which is the main reason I agreed. Publicly, I’m dating Zade, even though he was photographed with his costar while shit-faced at a club a few nights ago and no one knows I called things off with him. He’s still keeping it quiet, for now.
Katherine claims my somewhat-toxic love life is part of my appeal. It’s relatable, and it makes me look more desirable. She’s advised I stay with Zade because of the way it keeps my name on the front page, but I’ve always secretly despised the charade. Because of the potential fallout at the start of my tour, I wasn’t planning on ending things with him until a few months in.
Oops…
I make a mental note to call her later.
“Check one, two, three,” I speak into my microphone.
My voice echoes over the sound system, filling the stadium, where seventy-five thousand fans will gather tomorrow night.
We work through the song three times.
Clint has always known how to put on a performance. During the bridge, he curls his hand around my waist, singing into the curve of my neck. It would bother most people to have to do this with their ex, but when I’m onstage, I let my subconscious take over. I float outside my body, watching myself perform with no emotional attachments. After performing a show, I never go anywhere. I need time to curl up into a ball and sink back into myself. The real Monroe isn’t the same person as the one I am when I’m in front of a crowd.
“When you hit that high note, I think you should look up into my eyes to really send it home,” Clint says.
Fidel nods from the first row. “I agree. You’re singing it like it’s a single, but it’s a duet. It’s a love story. You need to engage with him the way he is with you.”
I nod, reaching for my bottle of water. “Okay. Let’s revisit it tomorrow.”
I have to rehearse the rest of the set today, familiarizing myself with the stage. When it’s finally over, I’m exhausted. The first show is always the most stressful. I’ve done everything I can to prepare, but it’s still nerve-racking when those stage lights come on for the first time. The energy of an empty stadium doesn’t hold a candle to what it feels like to be in a jam-packed one.
Once we make the short five-minute drive to the hotel, Cash closely shields my body from the waiting crowd of fans loitering outside the entrance. His heat at my back gives me a sense of calm as we get on the elevator with Fidel, Ember, and Franky—my tour manager. They’re chatting about ordering dinner and running through tomorrow’s routine once more. They get off on their floor while Cash and I continue up.
I need to rest and try to turn my brain off. The elevator opens to my suite. I roll my neck, trying to stretch out the tension that built there. As we walk, I pull the ponytail holder out of my short blonde hair and scratch my head, feeling the headache in the crown of my head ease almost instantly. Cash begins sweeping the area, which he insists on doing even though I’m sure the hotel is safe. The other bodyguards don’t bother.
As I approach the bed, my eyes catch something on the comforter. My body stills when I see a scrap of black lace—one of my thongs. My fingers inch out to grab it, but pause before I make contact. Four polaroid pictures are spread out over the bed with one word written on the bottom of each one.
My throat constricts as the photos register in my brain. I’ve never seen them before. They’re not pap photos. There’s one of me on the back porch of my house in my pink robe, one through my home gym windows, one at my favorite pastry shop in LA, and one from just a few hours ago, of me rehearsing for the show.
A strangled sob tears through my throat as I stumble back. My hackles rise as I gasp for breath, and nausea builds in the back of my throat.
I hear movement behind me. I don’t have time to turn before warm, callus fingers grasp my elbow.
“Don’t move.” The command in Cash’s voice is both terrifying and calming in my ear.
I remain frozen, unable to instruct my limbs to shift. He approaches the bed, leaning down to inspect it. I turn away, refusing to watch.
“What do they say?” I ask in a hoarse whisper.
He doesn’t answer immediately. I shut my eyes, feeling the tears start to pool.
His voice is clear and even as he reads it.
My perfect little kitten.
I let out a sob, clutching my throat. My legs grow weak. I see Cash take his phone out to snap a picture of the bed before he turns around right when my vision blurs and my body collapses.
My pounding head is the first thing I notice when I wake up. The second thing is the scent of cedar and leather. I inhale, wondering where the delicious smell is coming from.
Then, I remember.
Up close and personal creepy pictures on your bed.
Obvious, terrifying threat on your life.
I suck in a ragged breath before opening my eyes. A faded memory from my childhood leaks into my mind. I had a fluffy little pet kitten when I was around eight. Her name was Lemon. I loved her so, so much. She was a stray who wandered up to our back porch. I poured her the last of the milk, and my mom yelled at me because it was all we had left for the week. A month later, Lemon got run over by my mom’s boyfriend. A sob escapes me as a tear streams out of the corner of my eye.
I suddenly ache for my mom. Our relationship is complicated, at best. She prefers to keep her life separate from mine. She’s never liked battling her daughter for attention. Our relationship has only crumbled more as my career has soared and I’ve gained more fame and notoriety.
Maybe it’s time I got a pet. Maybe I need the companionship.
I travel so much that I’ve never gotten one, but I’m realizing now that it’s more than that. Maybe there’s some trauma I’ve buried deep down that’s made me fearful of owning and loving an animal again. Eventually, they’d leave me too. A deep, gaping hole of loneliness nearly swallows me.
The lamp beside the bed is on. I look around, recognizing the hotel decor, but not the room.
The bodyguard’s room .
I slowly sit up, spying the cowboy boots on the floor and the Stetson on the TV console.
Voices outside of the room begin to rise. I swing my legs over the side of the bed just as the door opens slowly.
Cash is standing there, a storm raging in his green eyes. His gaze flickers for a moment as his jaw tics. He’s wearing the same soft-looking black T-shirt and black Wrangler jeans he had on earlier today.
Even he’s only here protecting me because I bribed him with an obscene amount of money.
His eyes sweep over me before he speaks. “You didn’t fall. I was able to catch you. You’ve only been out for about ten minutes.”
I blink at him, my limbs feeling heavy. Before I open my mouth to speak, Ember and Fidel rush into the room, frantic and wide-eyed.
Ember’s high-pitched voice races to speak. “The hotel staff claims they have no security footage to even review. The elevator cameras somehow malfunctioned.” She pauses and lowers her voice before adding, “They’re changing out all the bedding right now. Are you okay?”
Fidel’s face is grim, his mouth in a thin line. His phone is pressed to his ear. My stomach churns with nausea, and I catch my eyes roaming Cash’s face. He’s unreadable, but his eyes never leave Fidel’s face.
I swallow over the lump in my throat. “So, it could’ve been anyone?” My voice is hoarse as I focus my eyes on my manager.
Fidel nods. “We’ve determined that increasing security tomorrow night is non negotiable. But you have the final say in whether or not we involve the local police.”
I suddenly feel like a small child. I have no idea what to say or do, and I just want to curl up into a ball and let someone else make these calls for me. I inhale a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I count to three and slowly blow it out. Canceling tomorrow’s show isn’t an option. I know that, even if my stalker has clearly followed me halfway across the world.
I finally open my mouth to answer, but Cash beats me to it.
“The first thing we need to do is secure Miss Blue. This location has been compromised.”
He’s a man of few words, and he gets his point across as bluntly as possible.
Thank God someone is making a decision besides me.
Fidel hesitates, looking around at the plush suite. My words are caught in my throat. I don’t want to move locations any more than he does, but …
How can I possibly sleep here now?
I intertwine my fingers, my skin feeling tight.
Fidel wrings his hands. “We could request another room. I’m sure there’s another suite.”
My limbs start shaking, vibrating against my sides.
He continues, “It’s clear this room was compromised, but if no one knew which room she moved to, then?—”
“No.” Cash is calm. His feet are spread apart, jaw set. “She’s not safe here.”
Fidel looks at me, blinking, as if he’s expecting me to side with him, to tell Cash to get in line, that he isn’t paid to make decisions here.
Franky walks into the room, his gray head of hair looking unkempt. “Are you okay, dear? How awful.”
Franky is the general tour manager and handles all the staff on the tour. He’s a retired stand-up comedian and an Army veteran. While Fidel was the one who discovered my talent when I was thirteen and is somewhat of a father figure, Franky joined on when I released my first single two years later. He’s more grandfatherly and less ambitious than Fidel.
I slowly nod, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. I lift my chin, attempting to put on a mask of strength and confidence.
This isn’t my first time having a stalker. This isn’t even the first time my life has been threatened. This is, however, the first time the threat has been so personal. I shudder at the thought of him watching me all those times, maybe more.
Fidel starts speaking to whoever is on the phone. “Yes, sir, she’s okay. We’re considering next steps.” His voice fades as he exits the room.
I try to stand, testing out my feet on the carpet. My legs are shaky, but I manage to walk over to the window, pushing open the drapes. Rain is pelting the windows in a steady beat. I close my eyes before slowly turning to face the group. Cash has stepped up behind me, concern etched deeply between his emerald eyes. His jaw tics with barely restrained anger.
“Miss Blue, security is what you’re paying me for. I know I can’t convince you to cancel the show, but this was a clear, direct threat. Let me do my job and keep you safe. This person has access to the venue.”
I stare into his eyes, chewing on my lower lip before I relent with a slight nod. He turns around and exits the room without another word. I follow him out, seeing that the rest of my security detail has been notified, and four of the other bodyguards are in the room with stoic faces. Danny, my head of security, is glaring at Cash.
“Miss Blue will be relocated to another location. From now on, she will have two bodyguards at all times, four when she’s performing,” Cash states.
Fidel sighs, overwhelmed with the task at hand of having to move me. There’s no easy way to go about it.
Danny lifts his chin. “We’re fully capable of protecting her here. This hotel has experience with high-profile clients. They know how to handle the fans and press. A last-minute check-in to a hotel with a celebrity of her status isn’t nearly as easy as you’re making it sound.” He turns to me. “Miss Blue, let us do our jobs. We’re the experienced ones.”
Cash remains silent, standing his ground. The tension in the room is palpable, and my head is pounding.
“I’m not going to keep hashing this out. Personally, I can’t imagine sleeping here knowing he got in.” I drag in a breath, trying to talk myself out of having a meltdown. “If I can’t sleep, I can’t perform. Let’s move.”