Because of You

With my hands wrapped firmly around a mug of coffee, I take a sip, close my eyes, and lean my back against the counter in my kitchen. Trying to block out the events of last night is useless, especially on only four hours of sleep. And if I’m being honest with myself, I didn’t even sleep that long. The majority of that time was spent tossing and turning, thinking about Brady and his parting words to me before the cops showed up.

I’ve never been around someone who could read me so well, aside from Finn. But Finn doesn’t really count. He's just a friend, never a potential lover. We spent a few awkward weeks in high school testing out the dating thing by clumsily holding hands and trying to have a romantic dinner with just the two of us, but we couldn’t stop laughing at how weird it was.

The boyfriends I’ve had didn’t care much about knowing who I was on the inside, and I didn’t bother trying to change that. Sam…well, Sam was just an a*shole who cared more about the bottom line than trying to figure me out. Looking back, I’m glad I kept him at a distance and he didn’t have any ammunition to use against me.

I’ve known Brady for a few short weeks, and he already has me tied up in knots. He already knows about the hatred that flows through my mother, and he can take one look at my face and know what I’m thinking.

“Don’t think for one minute I can’t read you like a book and see exactly what you’re trying to do: push me away first so you don’t get hurt.”

He was right. Of course he was right. As soon as his body moved away from mine and I realized what I’d done, on the floor of my bedroom no less, I felt more exposed than I ever have. I’d let him in, I’d shown him how vulnerable I was, and that scared the hell out of me. I threw out a flippant remark to push him away before I got burned. Of course I didn’t mean a word of what I said. I was with him because I wanted to be. I wanted him. I wanted to feel alive and desired, and I needed him to be the one to do it. Only Brady, with his piercing eyes that could see everything and his killer body that made my mouth water, could turn me to jelly with just one touch of his hand against my skin.

I don’t trust easily—a product of my upbringing and shitty life experiences. So why in the hell am I so ready to just hand everything over to this man? I want to confide in him. I want him to comfort me and tell me everything will be okay. I’ve never wanted or needed anyone to do that for me. I’ve learned to take care of myself and not lean on anyone. One mind blowing orgasm from him and I’m suddenly ready to throw all of that out the window.

“Morning, Lay,” Finn says with a smile as he walks through the backdoor in the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. “You get any sleep last night after the cops left?”

I sigh and shake my head, taking another soothing sip of hot coffee.

“Well, I talked to them this morning and so far they don’t have any leads on the brick. They figure it was just some crazy kids out for a few laughs or something.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal and goes back to adding cream and sugar to his mug. “You have a fan meet-and-greet at Capitol Records this afternoon, right?”

I set my coffee down and turn to face him, wrapping my arms around my waist to ward off the chill that comes over me when I think about standing in my bedroom the previous night scared to death when Brady had me lock myself in my room. I had my ear pressed up against the door, listening for any sound of a scuffle when the brick came crashing through my window and sprayed shards of glass all over the place. I had been petrified. As soon as he’d heard the alarm from his cabin, Finn threw on some clothes and raced between our two yards. He saw how shaken up I was and sat with me through the entire police interview. Now he was thinking it was no big deal?

“Do you honestly think it was just a few kids playing pranks?” I ask, my voice raising an octave or two along with my shock at his disregard.

“Well, yeah. Honestly, what else could it be?” he asks nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders again and pulling out his cell phone to flip through his messages.

“Oh, I don’t know, how about the crazy stalker who’s been sending me creepy letters and attacked me yesterday.”

I stare at him angrily, my fingernails piercing the skin of my palms as I clench my hands into fists.

“One does not necessarily have to do with the other, Layla. That guy at the club could have been some lowlife bum that was standing around just waiting for a woman to walk by alone and you happened to be the one who did it,” Finn argues with a roll of his eyes, talking to me like I’m a child who just doesn’t get it.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you don’t think this is all connected?” I fire back.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you suddenly believe all of that bullshit Mr. Navy SEAL has been feeding you?” Finn shouts as he slams his mug down, coffee sloshing over the top and pooling in a puddle on the counter. “I thought you were smarter than that, Layla. I thought we decided that he was just another pawn your mother was using to piss you off. He’s a drunk with a shady past that you know nothing about. He sticks his hand down your pants and now everything he says is gospel. Jesus, if I would have known that was the way to make you listen to me I would have tried a little harder to f*ck you ten years ago.”

The smack echoes through the room before I even realize what I’ve done. The sting in my hand tells me I’ve just slapped my best friend across the face, and the redness on his cheek is further proof that we’ve both just crossed a very thin line in our friendship.

I’m too furious to be sorry for my actions. I told Finn what had transpired between Brady and I after the police left the night before because I needed my friend to tell me I hadn’t made a huge mistake. I needed someone who knew the real me to listen with an open mind and tell me I wasn’t just jumping into bed with the first guy that showed me some affection after the clusterf*ck that was Sam. He listened and he understood, and he told me to do whatever I felt was right, whatever I needed to be happy.

And now, here he was, throwing all of that back in my face and making me feel like an idiot.

“I’m trying really hard right now to avoid saying something I’m going to regret. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you in the past few weeks, and I’m sorry if you feel like I’m taking someone’s side over yours, but you have no f*cking right to talk to me that way.”

Finn cocks his jaw from side to side and runs his hand once down the cheek that I smacked as if rubbing away the sting.

His eyes are cold and there’s an ugly twist to his mouth as he turns his head and stares me down. I’ve never seen him look this angry, and for a second, I want to retreat in fear.

Finn takes a menacing step towards me, and I force myself to stand my ground and not move. He leans his head down towards me and speaks in a low voice.

“I’ve done nothing but support you, and I’ve been at your beck and call for most of my life. All I wanted was for you to be careful and to not trust some loser you know nothing about.”

I hold my breath as he takes a step back, glancing away from me and at something behind me, over my shoulder.

“I guess the guy with the bigger dick wins. Or is it the guy who is the bigger dick? I always get those two mixed up,” Finn says sarcastically before turning and walking back out the kitchen door, slamming it roughly behind him as he goes.

I close my eyes and let out the breath I’d been holding as I feel Brady come up behind me and smooth a hand down the back of my head.

“Wow, and I thought I had anger management issues,” he says with a small laugh as I turn around to face him.

The half-smile from his attempt at humor dies on my face when I see what he’s holding in his hand by his side: a well-worn, brown leather journal. A book that goes everywhere with me but is only brought out when no one is around. A book that stays hidden in an extra flap sewed behind one of the curtains in my room when I'm home in case my mother decides to go snooping through my things.

“What are you doing with that?” I ask in a horrified whisper as I stare at the book. A book that was a gift from my father on the last birthday I spent with him.

His head turns to what I’m looking at, obviously forgetting that he had it in his hand during the commotion with Finn. He holds the book up between us and raises his eyebrows at me.

“This? The window company came to replace the broken window this morning while you were in the shower. I had to take the curtains down so they weren’t in the way and it fell out when I moved them.”

He opens the book like he has every right to do so and begins flipping through the pages. I’ve never let anyone read the things written in that book, even Finn. I’m in such a state of shock that this man is here in front of me, scrutinizing my heart and soul like it’s perfectly fine. All I can do is stand with my mouth open and my whole body shaking.

He stops on one page, holding the book wide open, and I know what he’s about to do. I can see it on his face and in the way he clears his throat and swallows.

I write things down in that book as a way to escape, a way to get the thoughts and feelings out of my head so I never have to think about them ever again. I don’t go back and read what I’ve written; I don’t analyze the words or make changes to anything. I write and I move on. I don’t want to go down those roads again. I don’t want to relive the things I felt when I wrote them.

Every single page is filled with lyrics to songs. Songs I’ll never have the courage to sing in front of anyone because they are too personal. Songs that my mother will never let me sing because then everyone would know the truth. I don’t want them on display; I don’t want him to read them and judge me for the choices I’ve made.

“Please…don’t,” I whisper, my voice choked with tears I don’t even realize are pooling in my eyes.

He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care. His need to get inside my soul is too great. His deep, resonating voice fills the room with the words that have filled my heart with so much darkness for such a long time.



“Every day is another step closer,

to where I don’t want to be.

Another smile, another laugh, another moment

of this fake reality.



Because of you

I see clearer than I ever have.

Because of you

I can’t let anyone inside.

Because of you

I learned how to be alone.

Because of you

I am ashamed.



Just for a moment, I was back in time,

to a place where I belong.

Where dreams could lead you everywhere

and wishes could make you strong.

But then I wake up and my eyes are open wide.



Because of you

I see clearer than I ever have.

Because of you

I can’t let anyone inside.

Because of you

I learned how to be alone.

Because of you

I am ashamed.



Every day I lose

more of who I am.

Afraid to cry, afraid to hurt because

you taught me it was wrong.

Someday there’ll be nothing left,

just a shadow of who I was.



Because of you

I see clearer than I ever have.

Because of you

I can’t let anyone inside.

Because of you

I learned how to be alone.

Because of you

I am ashamed.”



The silence in the room is deafening as Brady finishes up the last line of the song and slowly closes the leather book. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can't do anything except stare in horror at my feet.

I wrote that song when I was in rehab for trying to overdose on sleeping pills. It was my twenty-first birthday and I had just found out that even though I was legal in the eyes of the law, everything I had and everything I was, belonged to my mother.

It was childish and immature, and I regretted my actions as soon as the last pill made its way down my throat. I immediately forced myself to throw up. By the time I had managed to purge some of the pills back up, the rest had already started to do their thing, and I could feel my body shutting down as I sunk to the floor of the bathroom.

Before I passed out, I managed a slurred, confusing call to Finn. After having my stomach pumped and my name splashed across the tabloids, courtesy of my mother (“All publicity is good publicity”), I woke up two days later in an exclusive rehab center in southern California where all of the stars go for some “rest and relaxation.”

I wrote those words in the quiet of my room, alone. Words that I knew would never see the light of day because my mother most likely slept her way through the Hummingbird legal team to make sure my contracts were ironclad. I would never have a say in the songs I sang and I would never get to choose the lyrics I produced.

As much as I initially hated the idea that Brady was just here as my mother’s lapdog hired to do her bidding, I am painfully reminded by the words of that song that I am the quintessential puppet for my mother. I do what she says when she says it, and I do it with a smile on my face. I take her criticisms and her threats and I let them mold me into the person I am today.

It doesn’t matter if I really have a stalker or if his threats against me are real or just contrived by my mother for publicity. It doesn’t matter if Brady really wants me or he just wants to protect me because that’s the type of person he is.

As long as my mother has a say in it, I’ll always be the poor, little rich girl who had it all and tried to throw it away. I'm scared to death that Brady will read those words and finally see the real me and realize I'm entirely too damaged for him. But those words aren’t really me. They can’t be. My mother won’t let them be.

“Layla, this is amazing. Did you write all of these?” Brady asks in awe as he flips through a few more pages. I don’t even care about stopping him at this point. I know what he’s going to say next, probably even before he does.

“I don’t understand. Why the hell aren’t you singing this shit? This is YOU. This is what people want to hear. They don’t care about partying on the weekend or random hook-ups; they want real life. They want the real you.”

A cynical laugh bubbles past my lips, and I turn away from him, taking my coffee cup to the sink to rinse it out.

“You’re right. You don’t understand so don’t bother trying.”

He comes up behind me, and I see him set the book down on the counter next to the sink out of the corner of my eye.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he tells me softly.

“Don’t do what?” I ask angrily as I shut off the water and whirl around to face him. “Don’t be honest?”

“Don’t push me away!” he shouts back. “I just found a book filled with songs that make me want to rip out my own heart. Words that are real and deep and f*cking amazing and yet here you are, week after week, singing shit songs that have no meaning. I just want to know why?”

He’s so close to me that I’m pinned against the counter and it’s too much. I need space and I need to breathe. I put my palms on his chest and push him away from me so I can move out from around him to the other side of the kitchen table across the room.

“You don’t want to know why. You just want to fix what’s broken. You can’t fix me, Brady. What you see is what you get. I sing what I have to. End of story.”

He advances on me and for the first time ever, I’m glad to hear my front door open and my mother snapping at me from across the room.

“Why aren’t you dressed? The meet-and-greet starts in two hours and hair and make-up will be here any minute.”

Brady gives me one last burning look, pleading with his eyes for me to tell my mother where to go or to just prove to him that the woman who wrote those songs is real.

I turn my back on him and head upstairs to my room to put on the outfit my mother has chosen for me and have my hair and make-up artfully constructed the way my mother insists.

The woman who wrote those songs may have been real at one point, but she doesn’t exist anymore. It was foolish of me to think that with Brady’s help I could find her again.





When Layla comes back downstairs after getting ready, all traces of the woman I'm slowly getting to know and truly like are gone. Her hair is perfectly styled, her make-up overdone and sparkly, and her clothes are practically painted on, showing enough skin that she might as well be going to this thing bare ass naked. What the hell happened to the fresh-faced, jeans and T-shirt wearing woman who smiles easily and wants to be a fighter? The pop star robot has taken over and that woman is long gone. I’m not even sure she really exists.

The surprised look on Eve’s face when she finds out I'm tagging along to the signing is quickly erased, and she graciously asks if I’d like to ride in the car with them. The way she fawns all over me and kisses my ass only proves she is just trying to make sure I won’t out her to the world and tell everyone what a raging bitch she really is. Instead, I follow Layla in my own car. I can see Eve turn around in the passenger seat every so often, no doubt lecturing Layla about something. Finn keeps his eyes on the road and continues to drive. As soon as we are a block away from Capitol Records, I can hear the screams through the closed car window. Aside from Layla’s concert a few weeks ago, I’ve never seen so many screaming people in one place.

The tension between Layla and Finn is still so thick, like a wall of tungsten steel that nothing can penetrate. I'm used to seeing them talk and joke with one another, and frankly, it makes me want to punch a wall because all I can think about is the two of them naked in bed, laughing and joking with one another. Right now, I don’t know which is worse. The two of them ignoring each other is almost as awkward and uncomfortable as imagining them screwing. Gwen had said there were rumors about the two of them hooking up for years, but in the time I’ve spent with them, I haven’t seen anything indicative of that relationship―unless you count Finn acting like a jealous a*shole this morning. I’ll definitely be talking to Layla about that later. When she starts sharing my bed, I won’t be sharing her. Period.

I hadn't wanted to make it worse for Layla by adding to the tension and riding in the car with them, but now I'm regretting that decision as I finagle my car into a parking spot and look around at the mob scene. Safety in numbers might have been the right way to go. People are lined up on the sidewalk as far as the eye can see. They hold signs that claim they love Layla, a few have marriage proposals on them, and one even asks if they can father her babies. As soon as they see Finn’s black SUV pull up to the curb, the shouts and crying that ensues could have broken the sound barrier.

Local police are there to help keep people behind the barricade so Layla can walk through the crowd and inside the store, but it still makes me f*cking nervous to see her out in the open like that, where anyone can take a shot at her. Finn and a few of the officers who aren’t busy holding fans back usher her quickly inside, but I watch as she graciously pauses a few times to shake hands and smile and laugh with a few people before being rushed through the doors.

It's sheer and utter madness, and I have no idea how she does it. Especially now that I know what’s really in her heart and mind after reading through that song journal. I know it was wrong to pry into her life like that, but I couldn’t help it. After a short time, I feel like I know her so well, but after reading those words and seeing her reaction, I obviously don’t know her at all. She gets up on the stage week after week, shaking her ass, wearing skimpy clothes, and singing about teenage woes when she should be sharing what’s in that journal instead. It’s like being around two completely different people. The one today with perfect hair and make-up, wearing tight, black leather pants, black f*ck-me shoes that are a mile high, and baggy, layered tank tops that show off a lot of sun-kissed skin, that’s the Layla designed by Eve―the one the public knows, and the one I know she hides behind.

The real Layla, if she actually exists, wears jeans with holes in the knee, old concert T-shirts, and no make-up to cover her beautiful features. She smiles effortlessly, laughs regularly, and she let's go of the diva pretense just long enough to suck me in, making me never want to let her go. That’s the Layla who kissed me last night, the one who wrapped her legs around my hips and begged for me to make her come. That’s the Layla I thought I would find in the kitchen this morning, but as soon as she saw that I held her journal in my hand, I could almost physically see the wall she put up in her eyes. Her laugh turned cynical and her smile was forced. She hasn’t said two words to me since her mother walked in the door and began making her demands. Like a puppy, she hangs her head, puts her tail between her legs, and does as she's told without an argument. I don’t understand any of it. I don’t understand how a person with so much fire and passion could just let someone walk all over them.

“Hey, Brady!”

A shout over the roar of the crowd breaks me from my thoughts, and I turn to see Adam Koonz, one of the guys from the force I used to work with. We shared a few words earlier the previous night when he came to Layla’s house to take her statement about the attack.

I meet him right by the entrance to the record store, and we walk in together, the quiet of the lobby a much-needed relief from the madness going on outside.

“I just wanted to let you know, we ran some preliminary tests on the brick that came through Layla’s window last night,” Adam tells me as we stand just inside the door.

I glance over to the table set up on the other side of the room where Layla is already seated and speaking to a few people from Capitol Records while someone primps her hair and freshens her make-up.

“Yeah, I heard. Nothing solid to go on, and you guys are just going with it being a prank from a few teenagers out for a laugh,” I reply, turning back around to face him.

Adam furrows his brow and looks at me in confusion.

“No, where did you hear that? We had a handwriting analyst take a look at the writing on the brick and compared it to those letters Layla’s been receiving from that Ray guy. They were a match. The DNA test from the scrapings under her fingernails is still at the lab, but I’m going to give them a call later today and see if I can get a rush on it. I have a feeling the scratches she said she gave him might pull up a hit. I guarantee this guy is already in the system. Also, they found some faint traces of blood on the brick. Going by what Layla told us in her statement, she bit that guy pretty hard on the hand when he grabbed her. It’s looking good that this all the same guy.”

It's my turn to stare at Adam in confusion after he finishes with his explanation. My gaze slides over to Finn, where he stands a few feet from Layla with his arms crossed in front of him, feet spread apart, and a pair of dark sunglasses on so no one can see his eyes.

Why in the hell would he lie to Layla about something like that? Something that could easily be verified.

I thank Adam and shake his hand, giving him my card so he can call me immediately when the results from the DNA test come in. There is no f*cking way I want them calling Finn so he can lie about it again.

Walking across the room, I stop right next to Finn and take up the same pose as him, scanning the room and keeping an eye on Layla at the same time.

“So, I just had an interesting conversation with my buddy, Adam, from the police department,” I say quietly so no one else can hear me. “You remember Adam, right? He was the one that took Layla’s statement after the attack yesterday and the one in charge of running the tests on the brick.”

Finn makes no outward sign that he’s heard me, but I can see a muscle tick in his jaw, and I know I’m getting to him.

“Funny thing about having friends on the force. They actually tell you the truth.”

Finn’s nostrils flare and if he didn’t have sunglasses on, I’m guessing he would be rolling his eyes at me.

“Is there a point to this? I’m kind of busy here,” Finn states, the irritation clearly evident in his voice.

“I’m just curious why you would lie to Layla. The tests prove the guy who’s been writing her those notes is the same one who threw that brick through her window. Do you make it a habit of lying to your so-called best friend?” I question him, my eyes still scanning the room like the conversation we’re having is no big deal.

“My relationship with Layla is none of your f*cking business,” Finn seethes. “I do what I think is right to protect her. You’ve known her all of a few weeks, so don’t come in here acting like you know jack shit.”

He turns and walks away from me without another word. The buzzing of my cell phone in my pocket momentarily distracts me from keeping an eye on him.

“Brady,” I answer curtly as I stare at Layla.

After a few seconds, her eyes meet mine across the room. There are people talking on both sides of her and someone is speaking in my ear, but I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s smiling and nodding to whatever they are saying to her, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I want to walk over to the table, scoop her up in my arms, and carry her out of here. I want to strip her out of those stupid clothes, wash the shit off of her face, and just be with the person underneath it all―the person who can write lyrics to a song that breaks my heart and puts it back together all at the same time.

“HELLO! EARTH TO BRADY! Did you hang up on me?”

Gwen’s voice bellowing through the phone causes me to blink out of my trance, and I reluctantly look away from Layla before I can’t stop myself from following through with the idea of carrying her out of here.

“I’m here. Christ, stop shouting.” I sigh into the phone.

“I see someone hasn’t had their five cups of coffee yet today,” she replies sweetly, and I can almost see the sarcastic smile on her face through the phone.

“Did you call for a reason or just to bust my balls?”

She tsks me a few times and calls me an ungrateful a*shole before finally getting to the point of her phone call.

“Well, I sprayed myself down with Lysol and took a preemptive dose of penicillin and called Austin for a favor. When you said that there weren’t any hits on the brick that came through Layla’s window, I figured we should have our own people do some testing just in case,” Gwen explains.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I already confirmed with the police department. Finn is a lying sack of shit, and the handwriting was a match to the same guy sending her the letters. We’re just waiting for the DNA results.”

“Yes, well, when you have a sister as awesome as me, you don’t need to wait. Austin hacked into the lab’s computer system and got the DNA results,” she states.

“Do I even want to know what you had to promise him so he’d do this favor for you?” I ask reluctantly.

“No, you probably don’t want to know. He lives like three thousand miles away, so it’s not like I’ll ever have to make good on that promise. And thank God for that because I don’t even know where one purchases pomegranate flavored edible underwear.”

Seriously going to kick Austin’s ass the next time I see him.

“Get to the point before I throw up in my mouth. What did the DNA results show?”

I can hear the rustling of papers through the phone as Gwen sorts through the pages looking for what she needs.

“Well, the DNA under Layla’s fingernails was inconclusive, so we didn’t get any hits in CODIS. There just wasn’t enough of a sample there. But there WAS a small trace of blood on the brick. They ran it against both you and Layla since you two were the only ones to handle it after it came through the window. Are you sitting down for this?” Gwen asks mysteriously.

“Get to the point, Gwen. In about two minutes, there are going to be hundreds of screaming fans in this room.” I watch three security guards head for the doors and prepare to unlock them.

“It turns out the total number of shared DNA segments between this person and Layla is high and there are quite a few banding patterns.”

“In English, please.”

Gwen sighs through the phone.

“This means, big brother, that whoever threw that brick through Layla’s window is related to her. They share DNA.”

My eyes immediately shoot to Eve, standing behind Layla and whispering frantically in her ear. Layla is staring straight ahead at nothing while her mother most likely berates her for something stupid like not smiling big enough or not waving properly.

“It’s her mother. It has to be her mother,” I tell Gwen angrily as I clench my jaw and force myself not to walk over there and hit a woman. That wouldn’t look good in front of all of these people no matter how much she deserves it.

“You’re probably right, but even with Austin’s hacking abilities, we’re still going to have to wait for the conclusive results to come in that will show with one hundred percent certainty who the match is. But going by what you’ve shared with me, I’m willing to put money on the fact that the bitch is crazy and wants to scare the shit out of her own daughter for some reason. And here I thought our mother had issues.”

I thank Gwen and disconnect the call, shoving my phone in my back pocket while trying to come up with a subtle way to tell Eve I’m on to her. What in the hell would she possibly have to gain by doing this to Layla? Publicity? Layla is already a huge star, and her name is in the news if she so much as sneezes.

Just to be a bitch? While that idea has some merit, it still doesn’t add up. Why would Eve ever want to risk her reputation if someone found out? Which begs the question, why the f*ck did she hire me? She has to know I’m going to eventually put two-and-two together.

Finn’s angry words to Layla this morning scream at me. “He’s a drunk with a shady past that you know nothing about.”

He's done his homework. Of course he has. I guess I expected that, considering I was hired to be in the same company of the biggest singing star in the world. They would have to know everything about me to let me within six miles of her. And it’s not too hard to Google my name and see it connected to the shooting and plenty of drunken bar fights over the past year.

The security guards unlock the door, and I inch my way closer to Layla’s table as hordes of fans come into the lobby screaming and making a beeline for her table, attempting to get in some sort of line without killing each other.

Obviously, I don’t have the best reputation around town. I’ve done what I can to clean up my act, but stories and rumors still follow you around no matter what you do. Out of all of the private investigators in this town, let alone the whole world, why in the hell would they hire me? I know for a fact I am damn good at my job, and I don’t stop until I get to the bottom of something, but they don’t know that. Going by what you read online, and depending on who you ask, I’m still a drunk with anger management problems that likes to pick fights and leave my brothers in the Navy high and dry because I only care about where I’m going to be drinking another bottle of Jack or what stripper is going to be riding my cock next. I know all of that is a thing of my past now that I have Gwen and Emma in my life, but Eve wouldn’t know that.

Why would she ever hire someone as shady as me unless she only did it for show? Maybe there really was an initial threat to Layla, and she couldn’t just ignore it or she'd look like an uncaring bitch. She probably thinks that by hiring me, I'll be completely oblivious to what's happening, and she can get away with doing whatever the hell she wants, including keeping up the stalker farce. Hell, maybe she orchestrated this whole thing with the letters and the attack. Is she really low enough to throw a brick through her own daughter’s bedroom window though?

I think back to the way Eve berated Layla during her sound check and how she cared more about a photo shoot than her own daughter’s well-being, and I know I already have my answer.

I watch with a careful eye as fan after fan steps up to Layla’s table. I see a small hint of a spark in her eyes that I’ve only seen a few times, and it’s an amazing thing to witness. She is gracious and friendly to each and every person in line, and she talks to them like they’re old friends. She makes eye contact, happily agrees to take as many pictures as the person likes, and signs whatever they hand her without hesitating. She asks them about babies and family members and shares smiles and hugs with each and every one of them.

As I stare in awe at the public figure side of Layla Carlysle, I realize that I’m witnessing something I haven’t seen much of the past few weeks: happy Layla. She is genuinely enjoying herself and her fans, and she's grateful to each and every one of them for coming out and supporting her. She doesn’t care if she’s going to be here for hours; she will spend the same amount of time and give the same amount of attention to each and every person.

The fans adore her. Of course they do. She isn’t fake with them. She isn’t a diva that never makes eye contact or barely says two words to them before scribbling her name on a CD or poster and shoving it back in their hands. She’s real and she’s vivacious, and I suddenly want more than anything to make sure she always looks this way: happy and content.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

I turn to the side when I hear a soft, feminine voice with a thick southern twang speaking close to me. It’s a woman in her mid-fifties with long, straight red hair and sparkling green eyes. The freckles that spread over her nose and cheeks makes her look much younger than I’m sure she is; the crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes are what gives her away. I recognize this woman. I saw her a few minutes ago at the front of Layla’s table. They both screamed in happiness and threw their arms around one another like they were long lost friends. The woman cupped Layla’s face in her hands and scrutinized her with her head tilted to the side like a mother would do when checking to see if her child is getting enough sleep or eating well.

“She is,” I answer the woman, turning my eyes back to Layla as she signs yet another poster and takes three more pictures. “How do you know her?”

The woman’s smile lights up her entire face when she looks over at Layla and answers my question.

“I’ve pretty much known her all of her life. Her father and I were…good friends. My name is June, by the way.”

She turns and holds out her hand to me and I shake it, studying her face while she continues to glance over at Layla every few seconds. I’m trying to gauge how genuine this woman really is since Layla seems to be surrounded by selfish a*sholes. The way she lovingly stares after Layla while she watches her work makes me quickly realize she is one of the good ones.

“It’s nice to meet you, June. I’m―”

“Brady Marshall, ex-Navy SEAL and Nashville police officer, currently hired to keep an eye on our girl over there,” June finishes for me.

I looked at her quizzically with raised eyebrows.

“Sorry. The few minutes I had with Layla at her table, I grilled her about the broody hunk standing over here staring at her every few minutes like he wanted to do naughty things to her in front of all these people.” June winks at me and smiles.

If I was a chick, I would be blushing like a f*cking teenager right now. As it is, I have to look away from June and at a spot on the wall, making sure not to look at Layla or I’ll never hear the end of it.

“Anyway, I’m glad she’s got someone watching her back. That girl has had too much piled on her shoulders over the years, and she needs someone trustworthy looking out for her,” June tells me with a sigh.

“What makes you think I can be trusted?” My eyes instinctively wander over to Layla.

June lets out a small laugh, and I see her shake her head out of the corner of my eye.

“I’m good at reading people, Mr. Marshall. I’ve owned a bar for almost thirty years, and I see all sorts of people come through that door every single night. I’ve heard stories that would make your hair turn gray and your toes curl. You look like you might have a few of those stories stored up in that handsome head of yours. And you look at our girl over there like she’s the sunshine in the dark, not like she’s a meal ticket to a better life.”

I don’t reply to June’s assumptions or her assessment of me. There’s no point. Like she said, she’s good at reading people.

“Well, I need to head out and get the bar stocked for tonight. If you’re not doing anything later, you should make it a point to stop by. I’ve watched you staring after her since I got here, like you’re trying to figure out a puzzle. It’s probably not my place to say this, but I love that girl like she’s my own daughter, and I want what’s best for her. If you want to find another piece to the puzzle, it will be at the Red Door Saloon at nine tonight.”

June turns and starts walking away from me before pausing and glancing back over her shoulder at me.

“But if she sees you there and gets her britches all in a bunch, you don’t know me and we never spoke.”

She winks at me again and then saunters out the door.

I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I know one thing for sure. There is no way I’m staying away from the Red Door Saloon tonight.