My Bodyguard

Chapter Two

Rowan’s POV

I saw her three songs early: Claire Reyes, black jumpsuit, no backup dancers, standup bass and nerves she turned into charm. Good instincts, better reflexes. She scanned the room between verses like someone taught her once and she never unlearned it. I was leaning by the fire door, half in shadow, because Vesco’s name had come up two towns over and I didn’t like the timing.

The first shot hit a bottle on the bar, not her. That meant a warning or bad aim. Either way, nobody plans a message in a room this small without checking sightlines. I moved before the second crack.

Ten feet in four strides, turn my left side home, get low. She stumbled into the mic stand; I caught her hip and waist, brought her into my coat line, felt the tremor in her ribs that wasn’t fear — adrenaline makes singers sound loud before it makes them sound scared. Glass fell beside us. I guided her downstage, not up, because the shooter liked angles and the trumpeter was already on the floor.

“Know what this is about?” I asked.

“No.”

“Someone does,” I said, and I watched the wings, not her. She smelled like heat and stage powder; I smelled the gun first. Third burst chewed the lip to my right. We needed the back.

I got us moving before she could argue, hand at her spine the way I’ve touched clients who knew the drill and ones who didn’t. She had the wild look of a person who fights hard and hadn’t decided yet whether I counted as trouble or shelter. I’d take either as long as she kept walking.

Backstage was a tunnel of old gaff tape and heavy air. I radioed Marty: back door, thirty seconds, car ready. Claire’s bag caught a case handle; I sliced the strap and kept her with me. She said she needed things. She needed air.

The shooter or shooters were pushing the crowd. I could hear it — screams bunching, then slackening. They weren’t pros. Pros would’ve picked the greenroom choke or the alley. Amateurs like noise.

We made the yard; rain had started, soft enough not to matter. I put my jacket around her shoulders because I needed her hands free and her head clear. People in this job die from small distractions. She looked up at me then, checking if I was real. My eyebrow had opened somewhere — the sting was new. I filed it and kept scanning.

In the car I checked her face, throat, hands, black jumpsuit for blooming red. Nothing. She said she didn’t know who wanted her dead; I believed her. Vesco sends amateurs when he wants someone to think he’s not serious. I don’t know why Claire Reyes rates a message. I don’t have to know yet.

I walked the perimeter while she sat breathing in the passenger seat. Let her think she was steady. Let her practice her note under her breath. Singers do that. I memorized exits: the gate, the kitchen door, the fire ladder, the way rain made asphalt reflect neon so I could see shapes coming. If Vesco wanted Claire afraid, he’d succeeded. If he wanted her dead, he’d try again by morning.

I got in, locked us, pulled away slow so the tires didn’t sing. In the rearview, I watched her touch her cheek and come away clean. “You good?” I asked.

She nodded. Her knuckles were pale on her knees; her voice wasn’t. That’s when I knew whatever this was, she’d stand it. I don’t know why that relieved me. I don’t let myself care yet. But I filed that, too.