Triple-Duty Bodyguards : A Reverse Harem Romance

Half an hour later, Kenta and I are sprawled on the sofa in comfy clothes, bent over a pile of papers. The coffee table in front of us is laden with plates of vegan sushi and steaming cups of miso. Glen left to sort out new security details with the hotel manager, and Julie’s gone back to her suite down the hall. I haven’t heard anything out of Matt, so I assume he’s still asleep.

It’s just me and Kenta.

This hotel has a balcony, and even though I’m not allowed to sit on it—sniper risk, apparently—the view through the glass doors is amazing. A storm is rolling in, and the sky is deepening to an intense purple as dark clouds tense over Hollywood Hills. The strange light is stroking down the side of Kenta’s angular face, kissing his skin a lilac-silver colour.

I study him as he bends over his notes, his dark hair falling loose around his face. I like the way he moves. All of his movements and gestures are fluid and firm. Graceful. Even his handwriting is neat and pretty. I watch his strong fingers on the pen, and a pang of leftover want echoes through me. I remember pressing him against the wall last night. I remember his hot mouth under mine. I imagine those strong fingers inside of me.

“Briar?” He asks, and I jolt back to reality. He smiles gently, like he knows exactly what I was thinking about. “I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll try to be quick.”

“Sorry.” I clear my throat, shifting position. Our arms press together, and I can tell by the slow stiffening of his muscles that he notices, although he doesn’t say anything.

He points to the diagram he’s drawn on his notepad. “Stalkers like X, who engage in these obsessive romantic fantasies with strangers, are usually pretty powerless by society’s standards,” he explains, jotting a note. “They’re usually not rich, not particularly attractive, not physically strong. They have poor social skills, and little to no family or friends. They’re often unemployed, or working low-paid jobs.”

I don’t see why that means I should let them harass me, but I keep my mouth shut and let him speak.

“To combat this feeling of powerlessness,” he continues, “they build a fantasy in their heads. It gives them a sense of control and importance, in a world that generally considers them unimportant. X has clearly imagined a world in which the two of you are in love.”

“But he’s wrong. So I should set him straight.”

Kenta shakes his head. “If he were an average person, I would fully support your right to reject him. But stalkers of his type are usually unstable. They don’t handle rejection well.” He reaches under the pile of papers and pulls out a book, handing it to me. I read the title. When Love Becomes Obsession: a Clinical and Behavioural Study of Celebrity Stalking. The cover image shows the silhouette of a man hiding in the shadows, holding a gun. “Matt didn’t want me to give you this,” Kenta says. “Said it would just make you paranoid. But I think you’d appreciate knowing what you’re dealing with.”

“Definitely.”

He nods. “Check chapter thirteen. There’s a phenomenon that psychologists call the ‘devaluation of the object of obsession.’ Essentially, X is obsessed with you. Because he centres his entire fake reality on the idea that you are going to love him, when you reject him, you tear his whole world apart. You destroy any feeling of control or power that he imagines he has. On the carpet tonight, you announced to the whole world that he’s been wrong this entire time; he’s not strong, or lovable, or important.”

“He’s not,” I mutter, flipping through the pages.

Kenta nods. “When a romantically obsessed stalker gets rejected, their obsession doesn’t just go away. It often flips. In his mind, you swing from being an idealised angel to the opposite. A demon.”

“I become devalued?” I guess.

“Exactly. The problem is, you’re still in the magazines. You’re still making money. You’re still on carpets. That could be infuriating to him, if he decides that you don’t deserve any of that praise. You’ve been devalued in his head, so he might want to devalue you in the eyes of everybody else, as well. Potentially by hurting you. Or destroying you entirely.”

I look up at him. “You think he might kill me.”

His face is calm. “We have to consider the possibility. John Lennon, Selena, Christina Grimmie—it happens, a lot more often than people really appreciate. For every celebrity that does get killed, there are thousands of failed attempts. Thousands.”

I nod. I know. Half of the A-listers I know have their assistants carry military-grade bandages with them wherever they go. I swallow, turning back to the book’s front cover. The dark male silhouette seems to stare out at me.

Kenta puts a hand on mine. “I’m not trying to scare you,” he says gently.

“I should be scared though, right? That’s what he wants.” Setting the book down, I pull out my phone and shoot off a text to Julie.

B: Post the apology.

She responds immediately.

J: Done

I sigh and drop my phone, picking up my chopsticks. “Apology sent. Do you really think it’ll change anything?”

Kenta shrugs. “It certainly can’t hurt. The more damage control we can do, the better.”

“It’s so bullshit,” I mutter. “I have to write an entire fake apology just to spare one creep’s feelings. I hate this.” I try to pick up a piece of avocado sushi, but my chopsticks fumble, and half the rice falls out. I shove the remaining scrap of avocado in my mouth before I can drop that, too. “How did you get into this psychology stuff? Did you learn it in the army?”

He shakes his head. “University. I got my undergrad degree in psychology at twenty, but I hated studying behind a desk all day. As soon as I finished my last exam, I went and enrolled.” He takes a sip of his drink, watching me. “I got some psychological training in the force, and when I left, I got my MSc. Knowing how people’s minds work helps a lot in our field of work.”

“You’d be a good therapist. I’d pay to tell you my problems.” I reach for the clump of fallen rice on my plate, but it just slips back between my chopsticks again. I scowl, stabbing at it. Kenta doesn’t respond. I notice him smiling down at my hands. “What?”

“Nothing.” He ducks his head. “You have absolutely no idea how to use those, do you?”

“I’ve been trying at least twice a week for about fifteen years,” I say mournfully.

His smile gets wider. “Here.” He leans over me, taking my hand and carefully repositioning my fingers. As his loose hair brushes the side of my face, I get a deep breathful of his cologne, and warmth fills me. I lean into him, pressing into his side, and his dark eyes flick up to mine. Neither of us says anything for a few seconds. Slowly, he lets go of my fingers and leans back.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“For letting me be angry. And explaining this to me like I’m a regular person, and not an idiot. And…” I look down at the chopsticks. “I don’t know. Acting like I’m just as capable as you are.”

Confusion touches his face. “What do you mean? Of course you are.”

I shake my head. “Matt thinks I’m stupid. And Glen… I know he’s just doing his job, but you’d think I was made of glass, the way he watches over me.”

He grimaces. “Yes, well. They both tend to take a bit of a caveman approach to close protection jobs. They like to take control of the client to protect them.”

“But not you?”

His eyes meet mine, suddenly serious. “You’re smart, Briar. You know this industry better than any of us, and you’re very good at navigating it. You’re not a damsel in distress, and you’re clearly capable of defending yourself. At least verbally.” His mouth twists wryly.

“You think I’m smart?”

His brow furrows. “Of course. You’re an immensely successful actress, a product designer, you own multiple businesses, you’ve founded charities, and you’re what, twenty-eight?”

“Most people think I’m a bimbo because I dye my hair blonde and like to get my nails done.”

His eyebrow quirks. “I’ve never really noticed a correlation between someone’s intelligence, and how often they get a manicure. Hell, I’m not even sure how much you need us. You’ve been protecting yourself for years, haven’t you?”

My mouth goes dry. I suddenly feel completely naked. Like for the first time in a very long time, someone is finally seeing through my bullshit. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “The outfits, and the attitude. Flipping off paparazzi and refusing to smile in pictures. Picking fights. The ‘celebrity diva’ branding is really clever. Instead of worrying about public favour, you can just look out for yourself, right? You made a bad reputation part of your appeal. Everyone loves a villain.”

I swallow thickly. My heart is beating in my ears. “When you’re trying to make hundreds of millions of people like you,” I say eventually, “they control you. They control the way you speak, and act, and think. I couldn’t do it anymore. It almost killed me.”

His eyes trail across my face, like he’s searching for something.

There’s a sudden clap of thunder, and I jump as fat raindrops start to spatter against the window pane. I guess the storm finally reached us. “Jesus.” I press a hand over my thudding heart. “That scared the shit out of me.”

Kenta doesn’t look away from me. “You’re okay,” he says quietly, touching a hand under my cheek. Everything in my body stills. Slowly, he leans forward and touches his lips to mine, just as white lightning flickers through the room.

It’s the softest kiss I’ve ever had. Barely a brush of skin on skin. For some reason, that just makes it hotter. I want more. I sway into him gently, but he pulls back, staying just out of my reach. “Stay still,” he says quietly.

I don’t move. I just sit there, my pulse hammering, waiting. Last night, I got to be in charge, and I liked that a lot… but now, I want to see what he wants.

What he wants is to be gentle.

He reaches up and gently touches his finger to my collarbone. Tingles flow through my skin, and my eyes flutter shut. I can feel him everywhere; his warm arm brushing against mine, the soft cotton of his t-shirt rubbing my chest through my clothes. His mouth touches mine again, and I taste the hot sweetness of the whiskey he’s been drinking. He presses a little kiss to my cupid’s bow, then another just under my bottom lip, tracing my mouth with his. I sigh as lust slowly rolls through me.

“I like this,” I murmur, as he carefully nudges my lips apart with his. I feel his smile against my mouth.

“Thought you liked it hard,” he murmurs, stroking a hand down my arm. I feel electricity prickle through me as all the fine hairs on my skin stand on end. “You seemed quite insistent about it last night.”

“I like you,” I say. “More than I expected.” He makes a soft noise, his mouth becoming more demanding. I feel urgency building in my belly, but I ignore it, letting him keep the kiss slow and heavy. He touches the side of my face, tilting my cheek slightly, and then softly bites my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. I gasp, leaning into him.

A scream shatters through the room. My eyes widen. I pull away, staring at the guys’ bedroom door. It sounds like someone’s being murdered inside.

Matt.