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-Kira Carter-Wells-
“How does accompanying Dylan Drake to the star-studded charity event of the decade grab you?”
Me? I shake my head wondering if my ear holes are full of wax and I’ve somehow misheard the question. Not that anyone has ever misheard Howard Falchard giving an order. He’s my boss at All Stars Security, and ex-military. I’m not sure to which of the armed forces he belonged, my guess is Royal Air Force based entirely on my stereotypical perceptions and his moustache. Whichever it is, he’s still crystal clear when it comes to directives. And make no mistake, an order is what he’s giving me.
Do I want to escort the rakish bastard who has the nation in his thrall every Sunday night as he steams up the post-watershed schedule with his performance as Blake Clarence Oldrich to a black tie event?
That would be a resounding no. I most definitely, absolutely don’t. Having already had my heart broken by him, I’m not masochistic enough to want a repeat. On the other hand, if I want to keep my place on the team, then slipping into a slinky number and latching onto Dylan’s arm for the evening is the only option.
“Is there a problem?” Howard glares at me as if I’ve been decapitated, moustache skewed from its rigid conformity by his scowl. I’m sure he’d be only too happy to find an excuse to relieve me of both my head and position. The man doesn’t like me. I’m not sure he likes anyone. He’s been seeking an opportunity to get rid of me since my first day here. It’s currently day forty-four.
“No—no problem.” I offer him what I hope is a reassuring grin, but might look more like a scowl judging by the pretty severe glower he serves back. “If you’re sure I’m the right person for the job.”
“If you weren’t, Ms. Carter-Wells, I wouldn’t have chosen you.” He looks me up and down, and the faintest twitch of a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. Perhaps he has a sense of humour after all. “Actually, I couldn’t have designed anyone more perfect to take Prince Charming to the ball.”
“Thank you,” I say, uncertain that he’s actually paying me a compliment. I get the distinct feeling this assignment has been given to me entirely based on my looks and not my abilities.
Falchard hands over a brown Manilla envelope. “Read over the briefing details carefully. You collect Mr. Drake from his hotel suite at eight prompt. Your driver for the night will be Derek Johns. He’ll be waiting for you in the underground garage. You go from there straight to the venue along the pre-selected route. No detours. No pickups. Once you’re there, you stick to Drake like chewing gum until I instruct you otherwise. I don’t want you more than a metre away from him at any time.”
“Understood. Have there been actual threats, sir?”
“Several according to his management team. The severity of which have escalated recently, so vigilance is imperative. We’ll be monitoring the public spaces in the venue.” He hands me an earpiece. “It’s one directional communication only. We’ll be able to issue instruction during your journey to the venue. You can leave the set behind in the car. It’s important that you’re recognised to be his date for the night and not his assigned security once he’s under scrutiny. Johns will stay with the car throughout the event, so if we need to pull Drake out fast, we can.”
Johns, a blond bad-ass with a reputation for breaking limbs shoots me a lunatic grin, and offers me his hand to shake. “Put your glad rags on, Kira, and let’s get ready to shake.” He walks with me as I head over to reception to collect the outfit that’s on loan for the evening. “Don’t look so hangdog about it. The shittiest part will be getting him from the car into the venue. Once you’re inside, it’ll be piss easy keeping tabs on him. The guy’s not exactly known for being circumspect.”
“Why’s the entry the tricky part?”
“It’s a red carpet.” He nods sagely, and rubs at his bicep where there’s a crescent-shaped scar that’s silvered with age. “It’s a bit like running the gauntlet, only with nutters with zoom lenses vying for a piece of you, or leastways a piece of Drake. There’s bound to be a hoard of onlookers too. Most of them will be happy with a smile and an autograph, but some like to get more hands on, so keep him away from the barriers. There’ll be a police presence, but if he approaches the public, they won’t stop him, and don’t rely on them as back up. Also, be prepared for the homophobic wankers association turning up. This gig’s in aid of a leading LGBTQ, er, and whatever the hell the other letters are they’ve tagged on recently, charity, of which Drake’s the chief patron. There’s precedence for things turning nasty.”
“Are the threats likely to have come from one of them?”
He shrugs. “Could be. Could equally be a disgruntled lover, a former employer, an over enthusiastic fan, or some psychopath with time to spare. That’s why you’re going to have to keep your wits about you.”
“So I’m tee-total.”
He shakes his head at me, while his massive smile eats up most of his face. “I never took you for a tippler, Kira. In any case, company policy states there’s no boozing on the job.” He holds up a pair of four…five inch stilettoes waiting for me alongside a designer dress that probably costs as much as the yearly rent payments on my apartment. “Probably a good thing. Wouldn’t want you to go turning your ankle or anything.”
“For real,” I say of the shoes. Someone’s been watching too many Bond movies if they believe anyone can provide a decent security detail while tottering on top of spikes. Anything comes Dylan’s way, there’s going to be wasted seconds while I kick the damn things off.
“We’ve other men on site, so you shouldn’t have to handle anything alone, and the shoes are essential if you’re going to be believable as his date.”
I shoot Falchard a glare. He’s on the other side of the room, with his back to me, otherwise I wouldn’t risk it.
Date—I’m posing as Dylan Drake’s date.
I’d laugh if the situation wasn’t so ludicrous. Like anyone is ever going to believe I’m Dylan Drake’s fucking date.
Johns is still mocking me with his shit-eating grin as I snatch up the clothing and retreat to the lady’s locker room to change. It’s going to be one hell of a craptastic night. The pounding in my skull is an all too reliable predictor.
Once zipped into the slinky number, I take a moment to circle my thumbs over my temples. All right, I can do this. I’m a big girl, and big girls take things in their stride. I can keep Drake safe. I’m trained to do exactly this; my personal feelings about the guy don’t have to play a part in the proceedings. It’s not as if my gripes with him are something he or anyone else are aware of. Dylan and I have never actually met. The man doesn’t know a single goddamned thing about me. I can’t for a moment claim the opposite is true.
I know everything there is to know about Dylan Drake. For three glorious years, I lived and breathed that man. He was perfection made flesh, and part of my future reality I was convinced would occur. To say he’s responsible for most of the orgasms I’ve experienced is only laying credit where it’s rightly due. Besotted doesn’t come close to describing how I felt about that man, until he destroyed everything with two horrid little words.
Nausea threatens to climb my throat. I nix the sensation with a couple of indigestion pills, and then paint on a flawless complexion.
Whatever the truth, I have to make-believe that Drake is just like any other client. I have to forget that our lives are already intimately entwined. Pretend that I’m unfamiliar with his movies, the TV shows, and stage plays. Make like I never owned—still own—a Dylan Drake colouring book that I mindfully coloured. It resides, hidden, at the bottom of my underwear drawer along with the transcripts of more fan fiction about him than any grown woman should readily admit to having read, let alone written.
Tonight, I have to act like he never broke my heart.
How did Dylan Drake cease to be my hero and get relegated to an imaginary mouldering trunk in a spider-filled attic? Was it that I simply grew up and moved on?
Nothing so ordinary…
The cloying taste of mulched up cornflakes and curdled milk mingles with the peppermint of the recently crunched pills in my mouth. Early September, the start of the autumn season on TV. There he was on Breakfast AM, smiling away delightedly about his new role in raunchy historical drama Oldrich Hall and out it slipped, the confession that killed my hots for him in one fell blow.
All that time we’d spend together and we’d never stood a chance, even if circumstances, as they have now, happened to throw us together.
Dylan Drake is gay, and the string of high profile broken hearts he’s left behind between then and now has confirmed that fact many, many times over.
He’s not the man of my dreams.
He can’t be, because he only fucks other men.
He’s fucked a lot of other men.
Like really, a heck of a lot of them.
Excuse me for wanting a man who’s actually going to want to fuck me.
It’s a minor thing for some people, but an import one to me. If I’m going to put the effort into a relationship, then I bloody well want some adoration coming my way. I never want to be just good enough, or, god forbid, an afterthought.
His “I’m gay” announcement meant I got instantly friend zoned.
Or it would’ve meant that if we’d been actual friends to begin with. Which we weren’t. Having never met and all that… Basically, I was just a crazy stalker lady.
Well, now someone has it in for him, and I’m supposed to keep him safe.
Falchard probably ought to put me on his watch list, as I may as well be protecting Dylan from myself.
Physically and mentally I pat myself down, checking for concealed weaponry, while I pick amongst the shattered dreams of yesteryear looking for signs that I’m hiding something.
I don’t think I’m hiding anything.
That’s almost as worrying. It means the crazy is out there on the surface where everyone can see it.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I mentally pull on Kevlar panties. The twinkly bit of nothing masquerading as a dress precludes the wearing of actual undies. Mental armour is more important, I chant mantra-like. I can do this. It’s just one night. Less, really. The dinner only lasts a few short hours.
Falchard shoots me a bristly smile as I head through the lobby to rendezvous with Johns in the car park. “You look radiant, exactly the way an A-lister’s plus one should.”
“Except I’m the wrong gender.” I wonder if he realises that.
A gruff chuckle escapes his lips. “The purpose of the mission is to keep him out of trouble, not to hand deliver him temptation.”
“And assigning him one of the guys from the team would have been that?” I ask innocently, despite the gnawing feeling in my guts that tells me I’ve been set up. Rumour is Drake enjoys the challenge of seducing supposedly straight men.
“Hm.” Great! I landed this assignment because Falchard knows Drake’s not going to attempt to do the nasty with me.
“As I said earlier, you were the best choice for the job.”
Fact: I hate my boss.
I also hate the very notion of gender identity right at this moment.
How in God’s name is anyone supposed to kickass in these shoes?
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