Triple-Duty Bodyguards : A Reverse Harem Romance

I frown. “Is he—”

“Just let him go,” Kenta instructs, “and slowly lean back. It’ll kill him if he accidentally hurts you.”

“He won’t hurt me.”

“It’s very unlikely, yes. But he’s having a flashback, so you can never be certain.”

A flashback. The word shocks through my gut, and guilt seeps into me. Did I cause this? I try to pull my hand back, but Matt catches my wrist, squeezing me tightly. He’s still not looking at me, staring hard at something over my head.

“Matt,” Kenta sounds cautious. “Let her go.”

Matt’s fingers loosen around my wrist. Slowly, I turn my hand in his grip, twisting my fingers through his until our palms press together. I don’t remember the last time I held hands with someone, but it feels surprisingly natural as I rub my thumb over the back of his hand. He closes his eyes, trembling slightly. Even though all of his muscles are locked, I can feel the energy roaring inside of him. It’s taking a lot out of him to stay still like this.

“It’s okay,” I tell him quietly. “You’re okay.”

Slowly, he opens his eyes again, glancing around the car. His broad shoulders slump.

Kenta bends and pulls a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge, handing it to him. He stares at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“It’s cold,” Kenta says.

“Right,” Matt mutters. “Thanks.” He takes the bottle, pressing it to the side of his throat, then his cheek. “Let go of me, Briar.”

I do, tugging my sweat-slick fingers out of his just as we pull up outside the hotel. There’s a group of paparazzi waiting outside.

“Shit,” Kenta swears. “How the Hell did they find out where you’re staying?!”

“I guess it was only a matter of time,” Glen says glumly.

Kenta turns to Matt. “Should we move out?”

“I don’t know,” Matt says, staring at the men blankly.

“Should I—”

Matt runs a hand through his hair, tugging agitatedly. “I don’t know! I don’t fucking know what to do!”

Kenta nods. “We’ll go in,” he decides.

He and Glen flank me as we cross the pavement, stepping through the flashing lights and the obnoxious shouting.

“YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL TONIGHT, BRIAR!”

“BRIAR, ANY MORE WORDS FOR YOUR STALKER?”

“BRIAR, WHY DID YOU LEAVE THE PRESS EVENT SO SUDDENLY?”

I keep my mouth firmly shut as we step inside the hotel’s glass doors and head towards the lift. Kenta uses our special keycard to unlock the block on our floor, and then we all stand in awkward silence as the lift shoots upward. I huddle into myself. The elevator car seems too small for all of us, as if there’s not enough air in here for everyone. Matt stands in his own corner, his face a tight, blank mask. His posture is ramrod straight, like a soldier’s.

The doors open, and we pad down the thickly carpeted corridor and into our suite. When we’re finally safe inside, I take a deep breath, turning to look at Matt. He’s leaning heavily against the wall, unloading his gun. There’s sweat on his forehead.

“I’m—” I trail off. I don’t know how to end that sentence. I’m not sorry, exactly. I won’t apologise for standing up for myself when I’m being harassed. But I’m sorry about whatever happened to him that gave him that awful haunted look in his eyes. I’m sorry if I triggered those memories back up, somehow.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he grates out, his voice rough. “I never should have told you about the picture.” His face twists. “Should’ve known you’d blow up.”

Any sympathy I might have been feeling for him melts away. I narrow my eyes. “Cute, Matt.”

“Go get some sleep,” Kenta advises him. “I’ll explain what’s happening to her.” Matt hesitates, and he sighs. “You’re jetlagged. Go to bed. We’ve got everything handled. She’ll make the apology.”

No, I bloody well will not, but I think now probably isn’t the right time to mention it. Matt nods jerkily and heads into the guys’ shared bedroom.

With him gone, it feels like all of the fight seeps out of me. I run a hand over my face. “I don’t understand why everyone’s so mad,” I mumble.

Kenta nods. “I know you don’t. It’s our fault. We assumed you’d just… let us take care of your statements. But of course, you’ll want to speak your own mind, too.” He looks exhausted.

“Well, yeah. I am a real human person. I speak sometimes.”

There’s a knock on the door. Glen grabs his pistol and checks through the judas, then opens the door a few inches to let Julie inside the room.

My shoulders slump. Great. This day is just getting better and better.

I turn and head to the fridge, yanking it open and studying the beverage selection the hotel left for us. I should probably have a vodka water, or something equally diet-friendly and depressing, but right now, I just can’t be bothered. I grab a bottle of beer.

Julie comes up behind me and slams the fridge shut. “What the Hell were you doing out there?” She hisses.

I shrug, popping the bottle cap off with my teeth and ignoring Julie’s horrified look. I’m not sure if she’s more worried about the carbs or my veneers. “He deserved it. If he wants to send me pictures of his Twinkie, he should be prepared for me to review it. Not my fault it’s a one-star.” I take a deep swig of beer and slump down onto the end of the sofa.

“You told your fans to eff off!” She screeches, practically hysterical.

I roll my eyes. So that’s what she’s annoyed about. I’ve broken the number-one rule for female celebrities: always, always act grateful. It doesn’t matter if your fans are assaulting you in the street, or climbing into your property, or wanking in your bed—you’re expected to grit your teeth and tell them how much you love and appreciate them. I’m sick of it. I don’t love my fans; I don’t know any of them. I like them fine, I’m glad that they enjoy my movies, and I’m happy to sign autographs or whatever, but that doesn’t make me a piece of public property. I still get to have boundaries. I’m still a human being, who should be allowed to tell sexual harassers to piss off.

Julie huffs, coming to stand directly in front of me. She shoves her phone in my face.

“I’ve written your apology. Approve it.”

I stare at the screen. “You want me to tweet out a notes app apology? You know that everyone makes fun of these, right?”

She scowls. “I’m not screwing around, Briar. The studio isn’t happy, the dress designer isn’t happy, and neither is your security team. Just approve it, so I can post it, and we can move on with our lives.”

I feel a stab of guilt at the studio remark. I don’t give a shit about what the guys think, but people have worked so hard on the film. I don’t want to make the opening weekend all about me. I scan through the apology.

I know many of you saw my outburst at the Players press event earlier this evening. I apologise for my choice of words; I was jetlagged and overtired. I love all my supporters, and believe that everybody deserves kindness, empathy, and a second chance. I would like to politely ask that fans respect my privacy, and hope that you will all come out to see Players on opening weekend. Thank you for your understanding. Love you all.

“This is bullshit,” I say flatly. “Everyone who sees it will know that it’s bullshit.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She thrusts the phone in my face again. “Approve it.”

“Approve it, sweetheart,” Kenta says. “You really do need to apologise.”

I shake my head, anger rising up in me. “No! No! I meant everything that I said! If I apologise, it’ll just encourage him!”

Julie sniffs. “I understand that you’re angry, but really. You’re almost thirty. Would it kill you to act with a little class?”

I close my eyes, taking another deep drag of beer. I’m seething.

I’ve been in this industry since I was a kid. I learned that if you don’t want to be taken advantage of, you have to advocate for yourself. Your PR team won’t help. Your security won’t help. Your director, or manager, or agent won’t help. They all have their own agendas. They’re all looking at you like a product they want to sell. The only person who can ever really look after me is myself. So yes, I kick up a fuss when someone screws me over. I think every girl should.

“I’m getting really pissed off,” I warn her. “I’m not. Making. The statement. Don’t ask again.”

“Please, lass,” Glen says quietly.

I whirl on him. “Don’t lass me. You let your teammate pick me up and manhandle me away from an interview I was giving, just because he didn’t like what I was saying. Do you have any idea how disrespectful that is? I was trying to stand up for myself, and GI Joe thought I was, what, being too hard on the guy who’s been ruining my life for the past few weeks? Who’s been terrifying me and threatening me, who broke into my house? Everyone always wants me to shut up and smile. That’s all anyone has ever wanted from me, since I was thirteen years old. And none of you have any idea how it feels to, to always—” I trail off, my throat tightening with tears. Shit. I shake my head. “Forget it,” I mutter, slumping back against the sofa cushions. “The answer’s no.”

There’s a brief silence.

Kenta steps forward and sits on the couch next to me, running a hand through his hair. He’s pulled it loose from its usual bun, and it’s falling around his face. It looks really hot. Which just makes me madder.

“I think we’re approaching this wrong,” he says gently. “Briar, why do you think Matt pulled you from that interview?”

“Because he thought I was making a scene,” I mutter. “I wasn’t being classy.”

“No. That’s not it at all.” He studies me for a moment. “I think we need to talk a bit about the psychology of stalking.”

I swig down some more beer. “Told you. I’m already seeing a therapist.”

“Not of being stalked. Of stalking. Stalkers like X tend to exhibit very specific psychological traits.”

I close my eyes. I hate this shit. I hate it. “Look, I don’t care if he’s a tortured soul, or depressed, or whatever, okay? I don’t care if he’s socially anxious, or an orphan, or his parents divorced when he was a kid. All of that stuff is shitty, but none of that justifies his behaviour.” I pick at the label on my beer bottle. “I’m sure he is mentally ill. But I’m not his psychologist, or his mum, I’m his victim. And asking a victim to empathise with someone who is hurting them is fucked up. I’m allowed to be pissed at him.”

He lets out a low groan. “Christ, Briar. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” He reaches out and puts a hand on mine. I blink at the unexpected contact. His palm is cool and smooth. “I know you’re angry,” he says. “And you have a right to be. And if you want to go to the gym, work off some steam, and then come back and have this conversation, that’s fine, too. But trust me, I am not about to blame you for anything that X is doing to you.” His brown eyes hold mine, completely sincere.

I believe him, I realise. I really do. Ever since I was sixteen years old, I’ve had people blaming me for shit I had no control over.

But I don’t think this man will. Not at all.

I take a deep breath through my nose. “No gym. Let’s eat. Then you can tell me how bad I screwed up.”