Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) (24 page)

Lola woke to
sun in her eyes, and the feeling of home. Her bed, her room, her sun. She did a slow stretch. Every part of her ached, but in the best way possible. Ransom never let a little thing like sleep get in the way of sex. After dinner, he’d given her an assfucking to remember, and then taken her twice more in the darkness of night. Raw, sleepy sex, close, urgent, and beautifully erotic. She couldn’t sleep afterward. She’d clung to him, alternately drowsing and crying until he’d pushed inside her again.

Ransom.

She sat up and looked around. He’d straightened his side of the bed as if he’d never slept there. She felt a queasy moment of panic, but she knew he wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and get dressed. She frowned at her messy pink hair in the mirror.

Pink hair? Maybe it was time to grow up. Maybe if she acted more grown up, Ransom wouldn’t make such a big deal about their age difference. Plenty of people found love, people who were twenty, thirty, even forty years apart, although the last was kind of icky. Seventeen years was nothing.

Not really.

Well.

Don’t cry again, Lola. You’ve already cried enough.

She squared her shoulders, ran her fingers through the worst of her tangles, and went downstairs. She found Ransom at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee. He was in his suit, ready to go.

“Want some coffee?” he asked.

She shook her head, and then thought she should have said yes, because he might have waited longer to say goodbye. She could see goodbye written all over him, in his posture, in his expression, in the way he put down his cup.

She sighed. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know, but you can’t hold me here. You’re not strong enough. I’d eventually escape.”

“I’m not joking. Tell me again why we won’t work. Why we can’t work. If we love each other—”

“You’re too young to know what love is.”

His words shut her down.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
There was no getting around it.

“I don’t care about the age thing,” she said. “You know I don’t care. I wouldn’t care if you were fifty. Sixty.”

“I will be fifty and sixty, way before you. You need someone young, with decades of remaining virility.”

She went to him and snuggled against his body. “I need
you
, Ransom. If you’re leaving me because you have to work, if it’s about money—”

“Lola.”

“No, listen, I have plenty of money for us both. You wouldn’t have to work. You could just travel with me, and keep me safe and happy.” She slid her hands down to grab his delectable ass. “And sexually satisfied,” she added in sultry invitation. “It would be perfect.”

He frowned at her. “To be your kept man?”

“Yes, exactly.”

His frown deepened into a grimace. “I’m done fucking for money, baby. I can’t.”

“That’s not how it would be. I wouldn’t be paying you for sex. We’d be in love. Don’t you love me?” She huddled against him, trying to make him respond. He had to understand that he couldn’t leave. She couldn’t bear to live without him. “I love you, Ransom. I need you.”

He made her draw back and meet his gaze even though she didn’t want to. “You’re too young to know what love is,” he said a second time, in his stern bodyguard voice.

She pushed away from him. “Fuck you. You’re a fucking asshole. Why won’t you even consider it? Would it be so awful to stay with me? You care about me.”

“Yes, I care about you.”

“You like me. You love me, I know you do! You said last night that you needed me. So stay. Just stay with me,” she pleaded.

“And what? Live as your cabana boy in your big, gated house?”

“No, we’d be in a relationship. I love you. I need you in my life.”

“You want me to quit Ironclad and be in a relationship with you? So all the tabloids can dig up shit about how I used to be a porn star?”

“That won’t happen.”

“I made a ton of fucking films,” he said. “It’ll come out. That gigolo in Paris recognized me. Someone’s going to recognize me eventually, and what then? Headline news:
Lady Paradise’s Lover Has Secret Triple-X Past
.”

“It doesn’t matter! Everyone has a sex tape now. Who cares? Did you even hear the part where I said I loved you? Do you think I would care what anyone said about your past?”

He stood from the barstool and banged his fist against his chest. “I care. I don’t want to be that aging porn star riding the young ingénue’s coattails. I don’t want all that shit coming back.”

“I don’t care what you want.” She stamped her foot, out of control with passion and sadness. “I want what
I
want.”

“Yes, because you’re a stubborn, impulsive kid who doesn’t think things through, and you should stay that way as long as you can. Being a grown up sucks, but one of us has to do it.” He seemed to deflate, to blow himself out. The kitchen fell silent, his last words echoing off the walls.

He held out a hand to her. It was steady, while she was trembling all over. “Come here and kiss me,” he said.

“No, because it’ll be a goodbye kiss. I don’t want that.”

He lowered his hand and she swallowed, fighting tears.

“What do I have to do to make you stay? Please, Ransom…”

He shook his head, and the tears finally came. She stumbled toward him as he opened his arms and gathered her close. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against her ear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. One day you’ll understand why I’m doing this to you.”

“I won’t.” She ground her face against his chest, against his damn red tie. “I’ll never understand.”

“You will, and then I hope you’ll forgive me. You deserve someone young and fun, like you. I’m a grouchy old bodyguard. I’m always traveling.”

“I’m always traveling too. We could make it work.”

He drew away from her, and grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter to dab away her tears. “How about this? Let’s stay in touch. Let’s be friends who care about each other, who talk every once in a while.”

She took the tissue from him in irritation. Friends? Long distance friends who talked every once in a while? Long distance meant she couldn’t have his arms around her whenever she wanted. It meant she couldn’t have his kisses and his rough lovemaking, and his stern faces, and his stubble.

“That’s not what I want,” she said.

He ignored her, taking a card from his wallet and writing on the back. “This is my email address, okay? It’s my work account, I check it every day. Write me whenever you feel lonely, and I promise I’ll write back.”

She glanced at the card, not taking it. “I’m not going to write you emails. Why would I? I don’t think you care about me at all.”

He finally dropped the card on the counter. “I’ll write to you then.”

Another long silence, tense with misery. She reverted to the diva, because the diva couldn’t be hurt as much as the real girl. “All I ever liked about you was the sex. Can we do sexting?” she asked.

“No.”

Neither the diva nor the real girl could withstand his steady, forbearing gaze. “I didn’t mean that about the sex,” she said, tearing up again.

“I know. Come here and kiss me. I mean it.”

He held out his hand, and she knew it would be the last time, the last offer. The last kiss. She went to him even though she dreaded it, and offered her mouth to be ravaged by his own agony and regret. He said she’d understand one day. She hoped that was true, because she was so angry right now. She let him have her anger, along with all the pain.

By the time they drew apart, her lips felt bruised. Her heart felt bruised. “Don’t say goodbye. Please don’t say goodbye.”

“Okay, I won’t.” He walked past her toward the door, where his suitcase and overnight bag leaned against each other. “The car will be here in five minutes. I’ll wait outside.”

“No.” She wrung her hands. “You don’t have to wait outside.”

“Help me carry something?”

She took the overnight bag while he hauled out the larger suitcase. They went down her sidewalk to the iron gate, while he filled her in on businesslike, official things.

“Ironclad negotiated with your record label to do your security, for gigs and promotional purposes. You also have a pretty generous allowance for personal security hours, so use them. Liam’s already sent your file to a handful of local agents on staff.” He looked at her as he propped his luggage against the gatepost. “Are you listening to me?”

She wasn’t really. She felt too sad. “Another bodyguard?” she asked.

“Yes, there’s a team that works with L.A. celebrities. All the agents are good. There’ll be one or two on call for you at any time, should you want to go out. Ironclad will coordinate everything.”

He opened the gate as a black sedan pulled up to the curb, and carried out his bags. She looked at him through the iron bars. “I’m never going out again.”

He gave her a tired smile. She’d never seen him look that tired, not until this moment. “If you don’t want to go out, then record one of those songs for me. Or write me an email. I’ll watch for it.”

She didn’t reply, just gritted her teeth together so she wouldn’t cry in front of the driver. She’d had plenty of bodyguards before, and would have more in the future. You weren’t supposed to cry over them. She promised herself she’d never cry over one again.

“So…” she said, once the driver slammed the trunk shut.

“So,” he said, touching her fingers through the bars. “Be good.”

He pulled the gate all the way shut so the latch clicked. She was safe inside, and he was leaving. He waved and folded his tall frame into the passenger seat. The door closed and she couldn’t see him anymore, because the windows were shaded. Was he looking at her? Did he still look tired? Did he look sad?

If he loved her, why was he going away?

She’d never understand this, no matter how old she got, no matter what he said to the contrary. Not in a million years. She let go of the gate and ran into the house, and up to her bedroom. She threw herself into the pillows. She could still smell a hint of his masculine cologne.

She threw the pillows off the bed, hating him for being an idiot. Then she collected them up again, buried her face in the scent of his memory, and cried for everything she’d just lost.

Dear Lola

Ransom Gutierrez

([email protected])

April 26 2:48 AM

Dear Lola,

I wonder how you’ve been. A week already, and I haven’t heard from you. I hope that means you’re busy doing creative and fulfilling things. Las Vegas is fun. Bright and loud, but we all knew that.

Drop me a note sometime if you have a minute. Just hit reply.

Ransom

*

Ransom Gutierrez

([email protected])

May 3 12:30 AM

Dear Lola,

It’s been too long, kid. Would love to hear from you.

I know you were unhappy about the way we parted, and I understand why. I’ve said it already but I’ll say it again: I’m sorry. I made a mess of things, which is exactly what I wasn’t hired to do. I shouldn’t have become involved with you in the first place, so everything that happened between us was my fault.

I should stop bothering you, for all the reasons stated above, but I worry about you and how you’re doing post-tour. Hope you’re well.

Ransom

*

Ransom Gutierrez

([email protected])

May 7 1:12 AM

Dear Lola,

Sorry for my last email. It was lame and whiny. I’m not sorry we became involved, because you brought a great deal of happiness to my life. I’m only sorry that I haven’t heard from you, and that you’re (presumably) still angry about our parting. I hate that I hurt you. All of that’s the bitter truth, the facts. My other excuses are just whining so I won’t subject you to them anymore.

But I’d still love to hear from you. Written any good songs lately? The incessant drumbeat kind, or the twanging guitar kind? Have you done any more gigs? My current client performs almost every night, but much tamer shows. Less neon, more feather boas.