Guarding Her Heart (Renegade Love Bodyguard Novel Book 1) Read online

  Before discarding my laptop, I open my Internet browser and Google, “Daphni Monroe concert tour dates.”

  I groan as I scroll through my sister’s website. Beside giant stills from her latest music video is the full list of her thirty-city national tour. The last tour date listed is August 30th—exactly two months and twenty-eight days from today, and exactly sixteen days before my LSAT exam. Fantastic.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my laptop and let my head fall back onto my pillow. Squeezing my eyes closed, I force myself to take a series of deep breaths in a pathetic attempt to quell the overwhelming sea of anxiety washing over me. More than angry, I feel resigned. Locking away my frustration, I take one final, deep breath and repeat, “I can do this. I can do this,” until everything slowly begins to fade to black and I drift off to sleep.

  2

  Gabby

  I am awake, showered, and dressed, with coffee in hand from the well-loved cafe down the street before my seven o’clock alarm chimes. My intensive class schedule over the past four years usually had me up by six o’clock most mornings anyway, and my internal clock never lets me sleep in. Still, don’t confuse me for one of those peppy morning people who do ten asanas and jog for six miles before blending up a kale smoothie. I am not a morning person, and until I have my coffee, I am a completely neurotic bitch. It’s not something I’m too terribly proud of.

  And truthfully, I had spent most of the night thinking about my mother. There were two versions of her life: the story of the small-town choir girl who’d made it big, and then the true story.

  Through fragmented stories and quiet investigations, I was able to piece together the truth about the woman behind the pleasant and carefully manicured façade she’d always shown the rest of the world. The life I had managed to deduce was nothing like the one she presented to the magazines—one of a young woman born and raised in a good Christian home outside Nashville, who’d been discovered in a local talent show and brought to Hollywood to be the star she was born to be.

  My version started when my sixteen-year-old mother escaped her Oklahoma trailer park by following an abusive boyfriend to Nashville, where he was convinced he would become the next Johnny Cash. After too many failures and far too many bruises, my mother fled, and supported herself by singing and dancing in an Arizona strip club called “The Thorny Cactus.” There, she captured the attention of a talent agent on vacation. He worked for a large record label in Los Angeles, and when he saw my mother’s long, blonde hair, gleaming emerald eyes, and other ample assets, he brought her back with him. Luckily for him, she could also carry a tune.

  Even though he was a married man, my mother and the talent agent carried on an affair for a few years. Under his tutelage, she transformed from Jessie Lee Danforth to Jessica Banks. Though he helped give her a career that had her touring a bit throughout the country, he was primarily fascinated by her “off-stage” charisma.

  In fact, it was her looks that first captured my father’s attention. Back before he was a focused businessman with a secretary who scheduled forty-five minutes of “recreational” time with his children weekly, he had been a spoiled, carefree playboy with a new woman on his arm each week. That was, however, until he met my mother. Though she was technically still dating her agent, they began a whirlwind romance that resulted in a surprise pregnancy. My grandmother was horrified, of course, and insisted that the two marry immediately. It was obvious they weren’t in love, but my grandmother wanted my father to settle down, and my mother wanted stability. Thus, a marriage—and a business arrangement—was born.

  Though they were legally bound in holy matrimony, my father had a terrible wandering eye. I would never say it out loud, but deep down I believe knowing this had broken my mother’s heart. I’d be lying if I said my father’s enormous assets didn’t play a significant role in her love for him, but a part of her always remained that hopeless little girl, stuck in a trailer somewhere in Oklahoma, waiting for her prince to come.

  My mother, however, was far too proud to ever leave, so she kept up the charade of a happy marriage. Witnessing my parents’ misery had only helped convince me to completely forgo the whole institution of marriage. Our family history was riddled with failed marriages, poisoned by simmering resentment and animosity that slowly and painfully ate away at once-happy unions. I used to be in denial myself, convinced that the mistakes of my parents, and theirs before them, would never impact me. But then I saw how Lawrence’s failed love life had left him a single parent to an incredible girl whose mother never visited, and Daphni sabotaged the one relationship that actually made her happy in favor of dating idiots who treated her terribly. It turns out we weren’t immune after all, and if there was one lesson I had learned above all, it was that falling in love was never worth the risk of heartbreak.

  And with that depressing thought, I quickly run a brush through my thick, damp waves and gather my toiletries, throwing them into my suitcase. They easily fit into my carry-on, along with the clothes I had thrown in earlier. Growing up, I had been quickly initiated into the strenuous lifestyle of constant travel and touring. I had learned the art of condensing my entire life into a carry-on and, more importantly, learned never to get too attached to anything that could get lost in the chaotic shuffle of staying in a new city every night. At first, I found the celebrity and touring life exciting and glamorous, but eventually it lost its luster. It was hard not to be turned off by all the sycophants and the backstabbing nature of the business.

  Much to my mother’s chagrin, I had chosen school and my books over the chaotic and tumultuous celebrity life. My mother’s heart truly broke when she would catch me secretly reading the latest issue of TIME, covertly nestled in between the pages of a People magazine. As I grew older, I began to more confidently assert my desire to educate myself and go to college. Rather than deter my mother, it only seemed to make her even more determined to convert me into a celebrity clone of herself. And since I couldn’t sing, was a terrible actress, and had no other discernible marketable talent, she decided to turn me into a model.

  For instance, exhibit A: When I was fifteen, my mother had falsely lured me to a modeling casting call with the promise of a trip to the National History Museum. Instead of exploring Paleolithic dinosaur bones, I had been forced to strut around in a grotesque bathing suit while a table full of walky old men made marks on their clipboards. That singular experience scarred me, and I hadn’t spoken to my mother for a whole week, which of course, she had not even noticed. Only when she finally realized that I wasn’t growing past five foot five did she finally concede defeat and focus all her energy on Daphni, ascending to her rightful place as Daphni’s full-time momager.

  Though Daphni would ferociously deny it, her catapult to fame was thanks, in large part, to our family name. The Monroe name carried a lot of clout, and many were only too eager to have the Monroes owe them a favor. Despite the power of our family name, I still can’t deny that Daphni is incredibly talented. Though she records the most ridiculous, overproduced pop tracks, if you strip down her music, you realize that her voice is melodic, layered, and hauntingly beautiful. It’s the same voice that lulled me to sleep each night, and performed sold-out performances for our Beanie Baby audience. Her voice feels like home to me.

  It also obviously helps that Daphni has always been the more outgoing and sociable of us. That, and the fact that she is absolutely gorgeous. With her beautiful blonde hair (that she always dyes these intense, bright colors—I believe she is currently rocking Barney purple), stunning, clear, pale skin with an adorable sprinkle of freckles that she always insists on covering, and a gorgeous figure carved by years of dancing, she’s easily landed on every top-ten-sexiest list for the past six years. The only feature that hints at our shared DNA is our emerald-green eyes. Lawrence has them, too; they’re one of the few things we all have that tie us together.

  Even with all her millions of albums sold and worldwide popularity, Daphni is in a tough spot. Latel
y, her luck has not been so great. All of us know that this is more than just a tour for Daphni. This is her last chance to salvage her reputation after a slew of nasty online rumors and embarrassing paparazzi pictures led her to having a very humiliating drunken meltdown outside of a Los Angeles club one night. Even now, as I remember it, I can’t help but cringe. The pictures had been terrible: Daphni stumbling out of the club and vomiting on a photographer’s shoes before grabbing a golf club and shattering a glass table, then passing out in a nearby bush.

  After that incident, Daphni’s PR team had gone into overdrive. They had shipped her off to a private villa in Bora Bora with a recording team, giving her three months to record her new album while they worked on repairing her image stateside. The tour is the launch of a carefully constructed rebrand of Daphni as the iconic American pop princess. The last thing anyone wants is for her to go completely postal and irreparably tarnish both the Monroe name and her entire brand.

  I had worked very hard to make sure I avoided any of the fallout. I kept my head down at school, making sure to avoid social media and keep myself out of trouble. I also always made a point to befriend the international exchange students, knowing that those friendships always had an expiration date and they were far less likely to recognize me. Truthfully, it often led to lonely nights and weekend binges of Lifetime movies, but it was a small sacrifice to make to protect my privacy. I saw how that lifestyle had destroyed my mother, then my sister. I wanted a different life for myself. Which is why I need to play the role of the dutiful daughter, keep Daphni out of trouble, and collect my tuition check for law school so I can finally start working and no longer have to depend on my family.

  I shoot a quick glance over at the clock on my nightstand. It’s only eight in the morning and I am already feeling restless. There is no way I can loiter around here for another two hours without going mental. Reaching for my laptop, I look up the Amtrak times for trains heading into New York. I make a quick decision to take an earlier train that will have me in the city by one o’clock. Once I get into the city, I can check into the hotel, dump my things, and try and catch Daphni at her sound check. Though I’m not planning on breaking the news to her right before the first concert of her tour, I know I need to tell her at some point tonight. I am racing against the 24-hour paparazzi news cycle, and I know time is not exactly on my side here.

  I also want to try and arrive early so I can get a better idea of where my sister is, emotionally. Unlike Lawrence and myself, Daphni didn’t inherit the family gene of tactfully locking away painful emotions and hiding behind carefully plastered smiles. As she would always say, she was an “artist” and as such, prone to dramatics and meltdowns.

  With a few quick clicks, I reserve a new ticket then toss my laptop into my shoulder bag before grabbing my suitcase and walking to the front door. As I stand in the doorway, I can’t help but take one final look at the microscopic studio apartment that had been my home these past four years. I’d hidden myself away in the self-imposed bubble of these four walls. And though I hated to play the “poor, little rich girl” card, the burden of my family had forced me to retreat into a small shell of a world. My family’s wealth and access undeniably opened so many doors for me, but it also forced me to forge barricades around my life that made it incredibly lonely.

  And even though I am caught in a long moment of melancholy, I can’t help but chuckle at the irony of me lamenting my four years of self-imposed exile when I am going to be spending the next three months on tour with arguably the biggest celebrity on the planet, with nonstop cameras, trailing assistants, and hordes of groupies. From hermit to glorified groupie in five minutes flat.

  3

  Gabby

  A soft push abruptly wakes me up. Blinking my eyes as I come to, I turn to see the train attendant patiently standing at my side.

  “Miss, we are at Penn Station. Last stop.”

  I nod and mumble a quick thank you before picking up my bag and pulling my suitcase out from the seat beneath me. How I had fallen asleep, I have absolutely no idea. My plan had been to spend the three-hour train ride devising the perfect way to break the news to Daphni, but somehow, I had passed out instead. Very productive, Gabby.

  I push my way through the thick crowd until I reach the bright light of the outdoors. Hailing a cab at the curb, I direct the driver to the Gramercy Park Hotel, where Melissa has reserved a last-minute room for me.

  Once I arrive, I check in under the name Lawrence had given me in his email. I was now an official member of the Olivia Benson party. I rolled my eyes when I read that, though I shouldn’t have been too surprised. Daphni is obsessed with crime dramas, above all every one of the Law and Order franchises. She is still the only person I know who was disappointed when Law and Order: Los Angeles was canceled after only one season.

  Once I reach my suite, I collapse onto the plush, king-sized bed and pop the chocolate resting on the pillow in my mouth. A note on the nightstand catches my eye and a smile springs to my lips as I immediately recognize the neat, cursive handwriting. Melissa, my sister’s unflaggingly loyal assistant for the past eight years, has also been the faithful scribe behind all my birthday and holiday cards (though she always makes Daphni sign them).

  Gabby,

  Welcome to NYC! I am so excited to have you join us on the tour. I have missed our late-night chats over craft service.

  Please relax once you get in, I am sure you must be exhausted!

  We will all be at sound check and the concert starts at 7 p.m. Your sister goes on at 8 p.m. I left you a backstage pass. Please try and make it tonight—it will mean so much to your sister. She has no idea you will be joining us on tour!

  Xoxo,

  Melissa

  I can’t help but feel a comforting warmth as I read through the note, sensing Melissa’s sincere excitement. It’s only two o’clock, so I have a few hours to kill before the show tonight. Knowing my sister’s schedule, she is likely clocking in one last sound check before her show. If I head over now, I might be able to grab a few minutes alone with Daphni and assess how she’s doing before I have to break the news tonight. It would be helpful to see how she’s feeling, so I can try to anticipate how to best prepare myself, and everyone around her, for the inevitable fallout.

  I unzip my suitcase and dig through, looking for something lighter to wear. I had forgotten how hot New York City gets in the summer. I eagerly kick off my jeans and pull on a pair of dark denim shorts. I keep my trusty high-top Chuck Taylors on, but trade my chambray blouse for a loose, off-the-shoulder black lace shirt. It’s casual enough for today, and should be appropriate enough for the show tonight. It is also an outfit guaranteed to keep me out of any of the VIP clubs Daphni likes to frequent, giving me a convenient excuse to avoid tagging along with the rest of Daphni’s entourage tonight after the show.

  Throwing my hair into a high ponytail, I pop into the bathroom and splash some water on my face. I catch my reflection as I pat my skin dry and pull at the corners of my eyes. I can still see the outlines of the dark circles under my eyes—battle scars from the hell week of finals. Though I admittedly look exhausted, my eyes are still my favorite feature. I like how they tie me to my siblings and how, when there’s just the right amount of light, you can find the tiniest specks of gold.

  I blow out a huff of air as I tug at the end of my ponytail again. A sudden wave of queasiness overcomes me, and I realize I am really nervous about seeing Daphni again. Being around my older sister always seems to bring back every insecurity I have. Daphni is a magnet, a star who always had center stage. She thrived under the limelight. Me? I was happier in the background, painting the sets. After all, life was safer tucked away in the shadows: the less anyone knew about you, the less they could hurt you.

  4

  Gabby

  The weather outside is far too tempting, and I make a snap decision to walk the short distance to the arena. Also far too tempting is the Shake Shack a few feet away, so I order a b
urger and fries with a milkshake that I inhale as I continue to walk through the park. I know I’m nervous, and with each step I take, I can feel the knot in my stomach tighten. At least eating my bodyweight in French fries helps to replace that knot with mere general nausea.

  I make my way over to the side entrance on 31st Street, managing to avoid the throngs of fans already collecting outside. They are Daphni’s most hardcore fanbase: teenage girls. Dressed up in halter tops and teetering like newborn gazelles in six-inch stiletto heels, they look so hopeful that they might catch even a glimpse of Daphni. Poor girls. I wonder if they would still be as dedicated to her if they knew she once drank an entire bottle of Ex-Lax on a dare and spent the next three days crying her eyes out, clutching the toilet and begging for God to “just take her now.” I’m pretty sure Lawrence still has a photo of that somewhere. I should ask him to dig that up for me. Early Christmas present.

  I flash my backstage pass and dart inside. Once inside, a feeling of overwhelming nostalgia hits me. Most of my childhood was spent amidst the chaos of life on the road, traveling from one arena to the next. Some of my best memories are of the times I would perch myself high up on speaker sets and luggage carts and watch the chaos unfold around me. The feeling of invisibility as I was swallowed by the commotion around me had been oddly comforting. And as I meander down the long corridor, dodging moving carts and personal assistants who can’t be bothered to look up from their cellphones, a part of me wants to be that little girl again, to find a place to hide amongst the chaos. But, I’m not a little girl anymore. I am 21 years old, and I need to put on my big-girl pants and go find my sister.