Protection: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance

I
’m
in the midst of a mad crush in Times Square, and there’s no escape in sight.

“Elly! Elly! Sign my copy of your album!”

“Elly, can I get a selfie with you? Elly!”

“Elly, what do you have to say about the rumors that you and fellow pop star Derek Lively have a sex tape together?”

“Elly, over here! Elly, touch my hand!”

To tell the truth, I’m starting to get a little warm, with this many people so close, hands reaching out to touch my shoulders, my hair.

I’ve been getting claustrophobic lately, but I refuse to freak out right now. There are a hell of a lot of people watching, and I will be fine once I’m in the car.

This is my job, after all. Elly Parsons, Pop Star.

Flashes are going off like mad, taking in every single detail of my person: dark, glossy hair, bright red lips, artfully made-up violet eyes.

The fans press in around me, heedless of the fact that I’m just one tiny five-foot-tall girl in heels, that their teeming mass is much, much bigger than I am.

They don’t care, they just want something I’ve touched or signed, something they can show to friends or sell on eBay.

To them, I’m not a person. I’m a
brand
now, as my PR team keeps reminding me.

Just before I get to the limo, a tall, dark-haired man scuttles in front of me, waving one of my posters from a few tours back, when I was first starting out. His face has an oddly pinched quality to it, like someone dangled him by the nose for a long time.

He also looks very determined, and I’m already resigned to giving him whatever he wants before I even reach where he’s standing.

“Elly, will you sign my poster?” he says in a sharp nasal voice, his words definitely more demand than question. He thrusts a sharpie in my face and I take it, giving him a smile.

“Sure, of course,” I say.

I slow down, forcing my entourage to stop and gather near the limo. Most of them get in the car, leaving Brad to wait for me with his arms crossed, an impatient expression etched into his face. The other fans have followed us over to the limo, and they’re pressing in around me again.

One more autograph, then I’m out of here
. And,
Damn, maybe I can even eat a real meal since most of the press events are over.

All of this is running through my head in the background, and I try to focus for just a few more minutes so I can get out of here.

“Who should I make this out to?” I ask the fan in front of me, trying to ignore the chaos all around.

“You can make it out to Gregor,” he says, stabbing the poster with a long, thin finger. “I’m your biggest fan, Elly. I have all your albums, I’ve been to ten of your concerts.”

“Oh, wow! I really appreciate that,” I say, glancing up at the crowd. It might be my imagination, but it feels like they’re getting closer and closer, like the crowd is going to swallow me up any second now. Damn, I hate feeling like this. This never used to happen.

What’s changed?

“You don’t seem very thankful,” the man snapped, grabbing the sharpie from me as soon as I’m done signing the poster.

“Oh… no, I am. I just… I’m a little tired, if I can be honest with you,” I say, pulling a face.

“Well, that’s quite disappointing,” he says, baring his teeth oddly as he enunciates the last word. “I really expected you to be less of a bitch in person, Miss Parsons.”

“Ummm…” I look over to my assistant Brad, but he’s texting and not paying attention to what this creep is saying to me. “Sorry about that? I should go, but it was nice to meet you…”

“It’s Gregor,” he snarls. “It’s not that hard to remember.”

He shoves his hand into the pocket of his ripped jeans, and something in my chest lurches. Everything seems to happen in this weird slow motion: he raises his hand and I see silver glinting in the camera flashes.

A younger girl screams and Brad finally looks up, his eyes going wide.

The crazy guy grabs me by the ends of my hair and yanks really hard. Pain bursts through my skull and he tugs my head down, easily controlling my movements.

My heart pounds wildly. It’s all happening so fast.

I start to really struggle, trying not to touch him. I don’t want to get anywhere near the blade in his free hand.

A scream catches in my throat as I imagine him slashing my face, my own blood dripping on my hands.

In reality, people are shouting and pulling away from us, abandoning me to this crazy guy. Tears threaten to pour down my face as he grips my hair with a nasty snarl.

Why is this happening?
A panicked sob claws at my throat.
Why isn’t anyone helping me?

I hear Brad shout for security, but no one can reach me. The guy turns my head, thrusting his face close to mine. His b.o. and bad breath choke me and I can see the broken blood vessels in his eyes. I feel bile rise in the back of my throat as I take in his expression of maniacal glee.

I see the blade in his hand now, a silver box cutter I think. Then he’s bringing the blade down toward my shoulder and I’m squeezing my eyes shut, thinking that I’m about to fucking
die
.

One, two, three
seconds pass as I wait with my eyes clenched tight.

Then I’m suddenly free, springing backward and falling against another strange man. Every second is painfully slow, but it’s all happened so fast, tears are just now breaking free and rolling down my face, smudging my beautiful makeup. Cameras are clicking and flashing, tightening the tension in my chest.

I look up into the face of the big, muscular guy who’s got me wrapped in his arms. He’s crazy gorgeous, looking down at me with all the worry in the world, like I’m something precious.

A weird outside-myself voice tells me,
duh, a famous starlet just got attacked, people are going to react to that
.

The man picks me up and carries me toward the SUV that’s waiting for me. I see Brad on the other side of him, shouting something into the guy’s ear.

When I look down again, I see the guy holding me is wearing a shirt that says AMBROSE SECURITY. I want to look at him again, to see if he’s really as good-looking as I imagined, but he’s pinned me against his chest as he pushes through the crowd.

I look wildly around for the crazed fan, but all I see is people closing in with their camera phones, recording. My hands come up to clutch at my chest, and I briefly consider that I might be having a real live heart attack in front of all of these people.

When Brad grabs me, dragging me away from the security guard, I let out a little shriek of fear. He pulls me into the car, ignoring my struggles.

“Sit down. Put your head between your knees,” Brad tells me.

The car door slams, shutting the shouting crowd and flashing cameras outside.

My head feels light, dizzy but also… less heavy than normal? I reach up to touch my hair, and realize that a big chunk of it is just… gone. The attacker didn’t cut my skin, he took… my hair?

I look out the window, on the other side of the limo. There, running away from the SUV, I catch a glimpse of the crazy guy booking it. No one will catch him, he’s too far away.

He’s running, his arms pumping up and down. Each time his right hand comes up, I see a flash of black; he’s still clutching that fistful of shiny sable hair.

My
hair.

I feel sick. Sick and numb. What the hell just happened?

“Get your fucking head down, Elly, for god’s sake! There are cameras everywhere!” Brad screeches in my ear.

I let him push me down, pressing my face against the leather seats and they drive me away. Sarah presses a bottle of water into my hand, a few pills in the other. I take them, and things start to get fuzzy.

I let my people take me back to the hotel. I let them file the police report, let them speak for me during the whole thing. I’m glassy, my mouth dry. The whole thing seems ridiculous to me; surely it was captured on camera from a hundred different angles, so there can’t be any question of what happened.

Have you seen that man before, Elly?

No.

You’re sure you don’t know him?

No. I mean… yes. I’m sure.

Can you think of any enemies you have, people who would want to hurt you?

No.

No one?

No one.

Finally, mercifully, I’m released from questioning. The police pack up and leave me to my entourage, who are all full of jittery energy that’s putting me even more on edge.

I’m worn out and shaky. By the time my personal trainer arrives with my pre-portioned non-fat, gluten-free, high-protein meal tray and a handful of melatonin, I just take the pills and push the meal to the side.

I strip off all my clothes, throw my raggedly severed hair into a high bun, and scrub away all my makeup. It takes ages, but eventually I get all the concerned employees out of my hotel room and crawl into bed.

Alone, finally.

Someone knocks on the door, but I don’t answer.

I’m way beyond caring at this point, just totally overwhelmed and freaked out and unable to absorb any more of anyone else’s crap right now.

Because
fuck
today. Fuck that guy. Fuck having my
hair
stolen, getting
attacked
on the
street
.

This isn’t what I signed up for, no matter how much money I make.

The Elly Parsons that people think they know is barely a real person, but even
she
doesn’t deserve this kind of crap. No one deserves that.

I shut my eyes, closing out everything that’s just happened.
Tomorrow will be a new day
, I promise myself.

Before all the stressful thoughts about just what tomorrow will hold can creep in, I’m asleep, dead to the world.