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Judge nods. “That’s what I hear.”
“Won’t a sudden surge in troop deployments look bad on the current administration?” Wrench muses.
“Probably,” Fish answers the Italian mechanic. “Either the president gets to look bad, or the Pentagon will. How about we leave it to them to sort out? Until they do, we’re up.”
The group generally agrees and breaks up to prepare for an extended deployment.
One Month Later
Chelsea
The pounding music coming from on stage throbs in my ears despite the hideously expensive tech protecting my hearing. My chest will be vibrating for days. My clit is jealous.
“Do I see you dancing over there, Yeet?” Cassanova teases through the radio.
My expression doesn’t change with my threat. “How would you like a drumstick up your ass?”
“Oh, come on. Thrash metal not your beat?”
I ignore the taunting and keep focused on the stage steps across from the band’s dressing room where I’m stationed. God, I miss gunfire. My team hasn’t left the country in six weeks. We’ve had zero military support deployments in that time. All of our work lately is domestic_boring shit. I swear, if I ever have to guard another celebrity, I’ll claw my eyes out.
It’s nearly midnight when the last riff fades, and the crowd yells its final applause. I’m more than ready to go home and strip out of these beer-splashed clothes and wash the skunky smell of weed out of my hair. I’m not that lucky, though. We can’t leave until the band is escorted safely to their tour bus. And that won’t be until they’ve finished some light snacks, a few more cases of beer, oh, and the orgy.
The band eventually appears on the stage steps, where a few groupies wait to service them. Like before the concert, the band guys don’t care if the girls are underage or not. Our contract says it’s not my business, but thankfully the manager is on hand to keep things legal though still morally objectionable.
The first two metal heads to reach the dressing room door escort the horde inside. I do not know or care what place they hold in the band, only that they get on their bus safely at the end of the night. Hopefully, that’ll be sooner than later, but I won’t hold my breath.
When the last two hop off the stairs, one rushes inside the dressing room, following the giggles. The last one crosses the hall slowly, approaching the manager and me. Correction, the douchebag in leather pants is completely ignoring the manager.
“You’re a tasty bit, aren’t you?” the guy says in his smarmy British accent.
The tattoos, I don’t mind, but the slick, black hair, pale skin, and ultra slim build do nothing for me. “Are you talking to me?” I ask.
Through my earpiece, I hear, “Oh shit.”
The shirtless performer places a hand on the wall next to my head_his first mistake. I get a whiff of his sweat-soaked body and retreat two inches until my back meets the block wall. The manager steps forward to run interference, but I don’t need his help. “Hey, Bon Jovi, I think you’re confusing me with the night’s entertainment, which I’m not. Now step back.”
“Ooh. I like tough bitches,” he breathes in my face.
Now, for his second mistake. The asshole reaches for my breast. Point two seconds later, he’s on his knees with his wrist bent and pinned between his shoulder blades. “Don’t you know not to touch without an invitation?”
“I’ll have your job for this. You’ll never work in entertainment again,” the guy seethes.
I bend to his ear and whisper, “You can’t threaten me with a good time, asshole.”
Bash’s slightly amused voice sounds on my right, not through the radio. “There a problem here?”
“Call your boyfriend, huh? Not so tough after all.”
The rocker smirks until I pull upward on his arm, making the pig squeal. The manager cringes but doesn’t intervene. He’s more interested in trying to get the man he calls Rush to shut his mouth.
Bash stoops in front of him and sneers. “Not her boyfriend. I’m here to save you from her. She’s a hell of a lot scarier than I am.”
Bash stands and snickers at the murder he must see in my eyes. “Let him go.”
I release Rush’s hand and give him a little friendly shove, accidentally sending his face into the block wall. Oops. Rush jumps up from the floor, holding a bloody nose. For the briefest moment, he looks like he wants to say something about it, but a quick scan of all the nearby faces changes his mind.
With a huff, Rush skirts around me, enters the dressing room, and slams the door. Bash and I both turn toward the manager, expecting to catch hell for me putting my hands on one of his stars.
