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Ryker
This is the last place I want to be.
I should be on the road with the guys, drinking alcohol and getting laid by whoever piqued my interest. Instead, I’m inching my way closer and closer to my secluded home in Arizona while my bandmates head to the next destination of our tour – which I should be a part of, by the way. The large stone house comes into view as I round a tight corner, but I glare at the petite form standing on my porch in the distance.
Who the hell is this, and how did they even get here?
There’s a gate at the end of the driveway that is heavily watched, only certain people are allowed on the property and this woman is definitely not someone I know. As I get closer, I watch as her red hair blows across her face at the slight gust of wind and she swats it away with a frown. She’s looking down at her phone, too worried about it to hear me come to a stop in front of the house and that means I’ve got an advantage on her.
My door doesn’t so much as creak when I push it open, so I make sure to shut it softly as I climb out of the Audi – my way of not gaining her attention. She’s tapping her foot nervously along the wooden beams of the porch, looking in each direction except behind her, and I find myself rolling my eyes. She could’ve been killed by now if I were a murderer.
“Can I help you?” I grind out.
She yelps, then spins around with a delicate hand pressed over her heart as she tries to control her rapid breathing. “Son of a bitch, was it necessary to sneak up on me?”
I glare at her and cross my arms in front of me, then cock my head to the side. “My apologies, but I don’t appreciate fans getting onto my property. Just tell me how you got in here so I can have my guys fix the problem.” That’s the only explanation for her being on my porch right now – there’s a hole somewhere on the property line, and she managed to squeeze through it.
She shakes her head, then extends a hand to me after wiping the sweat along her ripped jeans. “No, I’m not here as a fan. I’m Wren Grace, wellness coach at Mindful Solutions Wellness Retreat Center, and you’re Ryker James, correct?”
Most people I meet know me as the lead guitarist for Raising Havoc, so it’s weird that she has to double-check who I am.
It’s not lost on me that she mentioned she’s a wellness coach – which is only a fancier version of a therapist.
I nod curtly, already annoyed that she’s standing in front of me, and she smiles, her hand still hanging in the air as she waits for me to shake it – which I oblige, only so that she’ll put it down and leave me alone.
“If you could excuse me, I’m going to get my security detail to escort you off my property.”
“You shouldn’t do that,” she says, and her hands go up in the air when I narrow my eyes on her, the look forcing her to surrender.
“Look, Ryker, I’ve been sent here to get you through this tough time, and it’s important to me that my clients get the help they deserve.”
You’ve got to be shitting me.
I know things got out of hand at our last tour stop, but did everyone really think I needed a shrink to fix it?
Before I can send her away, an image of the tour date in question flutters across my vision and blurs Wren’s form in front of me.
When Brent finishes the last song, hands high in the air as he smiles at the crowd lined up at his feet, I take a deep breath and throw up a wave before blowing everyone in attendance a kiss – the ladies seem to love this, and it’s become my signature move during the tour.
Evan is the first one to start his trek off the stage, then me behind him, followed by Donny, and in the back is Brent – the crowd adores him, so he always gives the front row extra attention after a concert because he’s gone soft since getting together with Julia.
When I step backstage there’s a blur of movement to my right, but I don’t react in time before someone manages to claw all over Evan’s arms in an attempt to get closer to him. I dart my gaze around the room, searching and praying that a security guard will come over to handle it, but the only people back here are the four of us.
“Hey,” I grind out, fists clenched at my side. “Are you supposed to be back here still?”
For our safety, Mack normally has all the backstage pass holders go to a separate section while we get our bearings from the show before doing the meet and greets. Evan takes a cautious step back and eyes the eager fan in confusion, his head cocked to the side. “Can you please go where the rest of the meet and greet holders are?”
I roll my eyes. Leave it to him not to be rude when someone steps in his personal space – that’s Evan for you. Instead of letting Evan handle the situation, like I likely should, I angle myself closer to one of my best friends and glare at the fan standing in front of him who looks about ready to pounce for the second time. “You heard him, man, get the hell out of here.”
That’s when the fan lunged forward, again, and everything went black after that. It was when I had the fan on the ground, my arm cutting off his airway, that I finally came back to the present, and Mack was pulling me off the guy. His lip was cut, blood dripping slowly down his chin, and he had this crazed look in his eyes that mimicked the anger in mine.
Mack took me to the tour bus, shoved me onto a couch inside, and that’s when he told me that I needed to take a break from the band.
“Are you kidding me? Evan was getting assaulted right in front of me, and I’m the problem?”
“That’s not a job you’re supposed to handle. That’s what we have security for during the tour.”
