Operation 3 Stage Eight #2
People shifted around him instinctively, making space for his size.
Xander remembered the fury in Cassidy’s voice the night of the attack as he tore into the security team for fucking up. His literal words before he fired all sixteen of them.
Now he was calm, controlled…confident.
Xander eased closer to Cassidy, putting something solid and unmovable between him and everything else.
“You don’t have to look around,” Cassidy said quietly. “I see everything.”
Xander let out a small, embarrassed chuckle.
They reached his trailer, but he didn’t walk up the stairs.
Cassidy briefly placed his big hand at the small of his back and inched him to the side. He stepped past him and entered first.
He moved quickly, leaving no corner unchecked before he came back out.
“You’re good,” he said. The metal stairs groaned under his weight until Cassidy was standing back in front of him.
Xander wanted to plead with Cassidy to stay by his door—near him was the safest he’d felt in days—but HOS’s company handled security for the entire stage. Cassidy wasn’t his personal guard.
Besides, Xander was sure he had rounds to make or staff to check in with. Standing vigil at his door was far below his pay grade.
“Take your time,” he rumbled. “I’ll be right here.” Cassidy probably meant for his words to come out soft, but his bass-filled, gravelly voice was too commanding to pull off a whisper.
Xander gazed up into serious, dark brown eyes and said a quiet thank you before he went inside his trailer.
Finally able to release his worry and fear for a few minutes, he dropped onto the couch as exhaustion hit him hard.
His eyes burned. Being afraid all the time was draining.
A sharp knock on his door twenty minutes later startled him so violently he slid off the couch and hit the floor.
The door flung open.
“Why are you on the floor?” Marco—his stylist—asked, frowning.
“I um…uh, “he stammered, trying to think of an excuse. “I dropped my pen. I think it rolled under the couch.”
Marco laughed. “It must be a very special pen. Well, I came to tell you to hurry up and get dressed. I put a fit together for you, and Carla said to move your ass. The crowd is getting restless.”
Marco left, and Xander wanted to throw something.
He got up, burning with anger, as he went to his small closet and began jerking the clothes off the hanger.
He preferred to put on a comfortable sweat suit, Nikes, and a ball cap, and sneak out of the back door. Except no one was listening to him or seemed to care about what he wanted. As if attempted murder was just a part of his job description he had to contend with.
Outside was dark now.
The crowd had grown. Rainbow flags and posters were waving high. Phones were raised, the flashing brighter than a swarm of paparazzi.
And just like that, the few precious minutes of safety inside his empty trailer were ripped away.
His pulse surged hard enough to make his vision blur for a second.
Carla stood nearby with her head bent over her phone, brow creased at whatever she was reading, oblivious to the fact that she was shoving her terrified client into a crowd of strangers.
His tiny entourage hovered close, but Jesse had gone.
In her place stood five men who practically screamed bodyguards—broad shoulders, thick chest, bulging biceps restricted inside dark suits, white collars crisp at their throats, coiled earpieces, and sunglasses despite it being fucking nighttime.
They looked polished and professional, but not reassuring.
His gaze swept past every face in growing panic, searching for one.
Cassidy said he’d be right there.
Did he leave these guys instead?
The thought hollowed his stomach...until he saw him.
A few yards away, Cassidy stood in the shadows between two trailers, blending so seamlessly into the darkness Xander missed him at first glance.
He wasn’t posing or hovering close like the others. He simply existed there, watchful and alert, a wall between him and the mass of people pressing against the barricades.
Relief hit so suddenly it almost weakened his knees.
Xander smiled, or tried to, as he walked towards the crowd.
Voices crashed over him from every direction. Loud and emotional, desperate to be heard over one another.
People shouted that they loved him, were praying for him, that they were sorry for what happened.
He moved down the blockade with a forced smile, holding the sharpie in his trembling hands.
They all wanted selfies. Some pushed posters and glossy photos of him into his hands. Others just wanted to touch him for half a second, curling their fingers around his wrist or shoulders, sighing against the clammy skin over his throat.
Every couple of minutes he glanced around for Cassidy. He never had to search long. He’d seen him give curt nods to security before they’d intervene and peel an overeager fan away.
Three days ago, Xander would’ve interacted with his fans longer. He would’ve smiled for real, hugged people back, thanked them properly. He knew most of them meant well. But tonight, every shout sounded too loud, every sudden movement made adrenaline spike like an electric shock.
His smile ached from how forced it was, and the longer he stood there under the flashes and commotion, the more the crowd stopped looking like supporters and started blending into restless, unpredictable blurs of threats.
By the time the black chauffeured SUV rolled up beside the curb, he was damp from sweat and dizzy with overexertion.
He climbed into the backseat faster than his dignity should’ve allowed, the heavy door shutting behind him as if sealing him inside a vault.
A light tap sounded against the driver-side window before Xander could even catch his breath.
His heart jumped, until he saw the black-clad torso.
Cassidy motioned for the driver to lower the glass.
The dark window eased down with a soft hum, and Cassidy bent slightly with one arm braced on the roof of the SUV.
The night breeze wafted inside carrying the scent of Cassidy with it. It was the end of the day and Xander could still smell faint traces of his masculine soap under his unique nighttime scent.
God.
“You did good,” Cassidy said.
Xander opened his eyes slowly.
“Despite how you’re feeling, you gave each one of them your attention.” Cassidy was staring him in his eyes. “That says something about you.”
The praise touched a part of him it shouldn’t have.
Cassidy tilted his head slightly. “You all right?”
Xander blinked up at him.
Everyone around him saw Xander Vale, the Academy Award-winning, hardest working actor in Hollywood. Being in his orbit equaled opportunity.
But Cassidy looked at him as if he saw Lane Cross. The man who was barely holding himself together and wanted nothing from him but to make sure he was okay.
With his words trapped in his throat, he could only manage a small nod.
Cassidy reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a simple black card.
“My cell’s on the back,” he said, extending it in his direction. “If you need anything…anything, call me.”
Xander’s hand trembled as he reached for it.
Their fingers brushed.
Cassidy’s fingertips were rough and warm despite the cool air, and the contact sent a shiver through Xander that had nothing to do with fear.
“Th-thank you,” he whispered.
Cassidy watched him for a few long seconds, luring him into a trance with those rich brown eyes. A deep, steady gaze that always carried such serious focus.
But the harder Xander looked, he could see a hint of sadness in them too. Something quiet and well-hidden.
Xander felt himself getting lost before Cassidy shifted his attention.
The softness vanished from his expression as he glared at the new security detail climbing into the SUV.
“You have your orders,” he said sharply.
The command in his voice cracked like a steel door locking shut.
Xander didn’t want those guys protecting him.
The words were right on the edge of his tongue.
Come with me. Stay. Please stay.
But he knew how unreasonable that sounded, and the impossibility.
Instead of begging, he leaned back against the leather seat, tugged his ball cap lower over his brow, and tucked his chin toward his chest as the tinted window slid back into place between them.