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Like a nearly seven-foot-tall former soldier with a rap sheet there’s no way she knows about and lots of connections that I would want nothing to do with.
“About what?”
Add in the silent communication via the death glares from piercing eyes that made even me pause, and now I can’t wait until the two of them are in the same room together. It’s going to be fireworks all over.
The thought alone makes the black eyes worth it.
Landing with anumpf,I dust my hands off on my pants and answer my client with a noncommittal shrug as I let my eyes roam over the place.
Racks line the walls, some of the shelves filled with pallets or cases like the ones around us. It’s mostly empty though, wide open space for storage, but the dropped electric is set up for exactly what Fin’s doing—practice.
Another perk to being a rockstar, invited to the biggest festival held to date, by some of the biggest names in rock—you get access to shit like their very own practice studio while you’re here.
And I get a front-row seat, again, to witness the magic that is As Above. The sorcery that occurs when Fin is deep in songwriting.
And I’m so glad I took this job.
“That’s all you’re going to say.”
“Yup.” Snickering when I’m met with another death glare for what feels like the hundredth time today, Fin growls and curls around his guitar.
The sound that comes from his frustration burst forth from the amplifiers and pulls my already grinning lips up.
What can I say? Pain and lust make good music.
“I knew I shouldn’t have sent you.”
“Moi?” Hand to my chest and wide-eyed, I draw in a sharp breath. “I was the perfect man for the job, Clooney.”
“God, I hate you.” Shaking his head, Fin bites at his lip and picks at the strings.
“No, you don’t.”
He grunts and scribbles something on the page open next to his thigh and plays a strand of cords put together in a heavy pulse he cuts off too soon with a growl of frustration that echoes off the empty walls.
Pacing, he yanks the strap over his shoulder and holds the instrument by the neck as his boots thump over the cement beneath us.
“Maybe you just need some … inspiration.”
“Shut up, Peach.”
“I mean.” I shrug off the words and lift my hand to stare at my nails. “You haven’t gotten laid in like a week.”
“I said shutup.” He points at me menacingly but whips his head back toward the hole he’s trying to wear into the flooring.
“I’m just sayin’, Clooney.” I keep my snicker low when he shakes his head and growls. “She’s dicking with your mojo.”
I swear I don’t have a death wish. I really don’t.
But when Fin’s sharpened blues wing back to me with a darkness I’ve not seen in him before, I begin to rethink my taunting methods that would normally bring levity to the tension in my client.
The man stalks to me with a deep scowl and a ticking jaw set into a ropy neck that doesn’t normally look that fucking defined and I’ll admit my asshole puckers.
I’m his bodyguard.
Yet when it comes to that chick—who is pretty cool—his demons let loose enough to make me question his necessity for someone like me.
I’d hate to have to put him on his ass because his head is too far up it to see the truth.
